“Is GE concerned?”
“Are you kidding? GE couldn’t be happier. Immelt’s attitude is if GE can’t whip a person or a business into shape, then no place can. He’s not a screamer like Welch, but he’s more determined to make changes than most people realize.”
Before Throckmorton could continue, Anne opened the door and stuck her head in to remind Wilson, as he had requested, about his 6:30 p.m. dinner reservation.
“Good to have you on board,” Throckmorton said, as he stood up from the black wing chair and extended his hand.
Throckmorton could have gone on for another hour about his project with General Electric, Wilson thought, but his focus had already turned to anticipating an evening with Emily.
David Quinn stepped to the front of the cavernous living room overlooking the water at Musselman’s secluded mansion on Lake Michigan. More than sixty senior executives, middle managers, staff from corporate headquarters, and advertising executives from Boggs & Saggett were rejoicing euphorically. It was the first Musselman celebration party in almost two years. Quinn raised his glass of champagne above his head.
“This has been a glorious week for the J. B. Musselman Company. Our stock price has finally reached thirty dollars,” he said to whoops and hollers and rowdy applause. “And the best is yet to come. Next weekend we roll out America’s Warehouse.” The room erupted with more shouts, noise-makers, and applause.
The stately thirty-six room Lake House—traditional English brick and stucco with half timbers, cedar shake shingles, abundant ivy, beautiful heated gardens, antique furniture, and layers of nineteenth-century craftsmanship—was the perfect place for a party. The house was designed by well-known Chicago architect Arthur Heun in 1896 for the son of John V. Farwell, the dry goods magnate who launched Marshal Field’s and was a founding member of the controversial Commercial Club of Chicago. It stood on several acres of secluded lakefront property in Lake Forest, Illinois, about forty minutes north of downtown Chicago via Lake Shore Drive and Sheridan Road. The house was maintained by a discreet property management firm that employed the latest security surveillance systems and guaranteed absolute privacy.
Quinn had purchased the Lake House property several years earlier for the purpose of entertaining preferred customers and suppliers. No one gained entrance without his personal authorization, and the property management firm reported only to him. But even with such exclusive control, Quinn had rarely used the Lake House for personal pleasure. Tonight, however, would be an exception, he thought to himself. All week long, while fretting about newspaper articles, takeover bids, and stock positions, he’d secretly fantasized about being with Andrea Vargas. Then, when his ninety-five million shares of Musselman stock were cashed out at half a billion dollars in profit, his fantasies turned into a call for celebration.
As the increasingly raucous crowd quieted down momentarily, Quinn thanked them for their tireless efforts in preparation for next week’s grand opening of America’s Warehouse and challenged them to keep the momentum building in the weeks ahead. There was another burst of applause and catcalls as Quinn raised his arms to quiet them down.
“I want all of you to know that none of this would be possible without each and every one of you. So enjoy yourselves tonight and stay as long as you like.” The crowd noisily expressed its pleasure while Quinn waved gleefully and then removed himself to the soundproof library where he called his wife Margaret. When she answered, Quinn asked, “Did you see where the stock closed?”
“Yes, Jenny and Bob came over. Everyone’s been calling,” Margaret said enthusiastically, referring to the Quinn’s’ oldest daughter and son-in-law who also lived in Hinsdale.
“Next week’s grand opening will take it even higher. It’s all coming together, Maggie.”
“No one deserves it more than you, David.”
The comment brought pangs of guilt, but only for a moment, as he looked up to see Vargas opening the door to the library. He knew she’d sensed his craving for her. “Hang on a minute Maggie,” Quinn said before pushing the hold button.
Vargas sashayed up to him in her tight-fitting black evening dress, placed her hand on his neck, and began kissing his ear. “I’ll be in the hot tub in the master suite, if you’d like to join me.”
Quinn was melting inside as he watched Vargas’ body swaying back and forth before she disappeared through the door. Raw ecstasy, he thought. “Hey, I’m back,” Quinn said into the phone. “We still have miles to go before the grand opening, but we’re almost there.”
“Everyone wants to know when you’re coming home to celebrate,” Margaret said.
“I know,” Quinn said as a pang of conscience returned momentarily. “We’ve got a long weekend of warehouse visits, making sure everything’s ready for the grand opening. I should be back by the middle of next week. Tell the kids we can celebrate then.”
“Don’t push yourself too hard, dear. You’re not the young buck you used to be, but I love you more than ever.”
This time the pang lingered. “I love you, too, Maggie. I’ll call you over the weekend.”
“Travel safely. We’ll have everything prepared when you get back.”
Quinn put down the phone, feeling guilty. He wouldn’t be getting on an airplane tonight or tomorrow or the next day for any warehouse visits, all of that was being covered by his executive staff. He questioned himself one more time about joining Vargas in the master suite. As he left the library, the sound of music and revelry helped him answer the question.
He found Vargas in the mosaic-tiled private spa, soaking in the sunken whirlpool bath and covered in bubbles. She looked so unbelievably alluring. There would be no turning back now. Quinn revealed the red roses from behind his back. Vargas rose slowly from the churning water and sensuously ascended the tiled steps one at a time, her smoky eyes focused on Quinn. “Thank you for the flowers. Come join me,” she said seductively as she took the flowers and descended back into the bubbles.
Quinn’s entire body quivered with excitement as he dismissed all thoughts of anyone or anything except Andrea Vargas. He began removing his clothes, pleased that he’d lost ten pounds for the occasion—especially when Vargas noticed.
After a restless weekend of treading water, Wilson met with Fielder & Company’s vice presidents first thing Monday morning to go over a few more basics concerning the firm’s business activities. The company was currently working on 476 consulting engagements in 412 client companies with average revenue-per-engagement of approximately $2.4 million. It employed 684 consultants and 243 staff, 927 employees in total, located in six offices—Boston, Chicago, Dallas, San Francisco, London, and Hong Kong. Projected revenues for the year stood at $1.2 billion with anticipated pre-tax profits of $310 million. The firm’s share of large multinational corporations as clients was stronger than ever. Almost every client had inquired about Charles Fielder’s condition and how it might impact the future of the firm, but according to the vice presidents, only a handful of clients had expressed serious concerns or reservations about continuing to do business with Fielder & Company.
Next, they reviewed the content of an internal memorandum and press release prepared by the firm’s PR staff, informing employees and clients that Fielder & Company and KaneWeller would not be merging and that Wilson would be assuming his father’s position as Chairman and CEO. When they reached agreement on the content, Wilson made a courtesy call to CEO Marshall Winthorpe of KaneWeller, who suggested a few minor changes to the memo to reflect KaneWeller’s reasons for backing out of the deal. Wilson then persuaded Winthorpe to limit his firm’s discussions with the press regarding Fielder & Company.
Just before noon, Fielder & Company released, by fax and email, the following statement to 927 consultants and staff, 1852 past and present clients, and 128 business press contacts:
In the interest of fortifying the company’s current focus on investment banking and brokerage-related businesses, the Board of Directors of KaneWeller has decided not to proceed with the acquisition of Boston-based management consulting firm Fielder & Company. For the near term, KaneWeller has chosen to defer its entry into the management consulting business.
Fielder & Company’s new Chairman and CEO Wilson Fielder, majority shareholder and son of founder Charles Fielder, plans to continue the philosophies and policies set forth by his father during the firm’s twenty-two-year history and expects to expand the firm’s impressive record of assisting major multinational corporations improve bottom-line results and increase shareholder value.
Prior to assuming leadership of Fielder & Company, Wilson Fielder spent seven years with the management consulting firm of Kresge & Company as an associate consultant, engagement manager, and partner. He co-directed the firm’s corporate transformation practice for the past four years. He earned degrees from Princeton University and the Harvard Business School.
No further changes in Fielder & Company’s management structure or personnel are currently anticipated. Any requests for additional information should be forwarded to
www.fielder.com
or 100 Beacon St., Boston, MA 02140, 1-888-303-2121.
With the press release memorandum on its way, Wilson met again with the vice presidents in the afternoon, hammering out the details of a whirlwind office tour. Over the next four days, they would visit Fielder & Company’s six offices, personally assuring every Fielder & Company consultant and staff member of the firm’s strong financial position, as well as Wilson’s commitment to carry on his father’s philosophies and policies.
By the time they finished at three o’clock, the vice presidents had their assignments and the rest of the day to prepare. The first stop on the tour was scheduled for tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, in the large, ninth-floor conference room of the Fielder Building. After that, they would fly to Chicago, Dallas, San Francisco, Hong Kong, and London.
Later that night, after packing for his trip and their move from Brattle House, Wilson and Emily went to the hospital to visit his father. Nothing in his father’s condition had changed. Once again, they stood by his hospital bed holding his hand and talking, hoping that he might be able to hear them and one day respond.
“What would he have to say about your plan to convince the secret society to bring you inside?” Emily asked, her fear persisting, even though Hap Greene and his people had made her feel much better.
“Control or be controlled,” Wilson quoted without hesitation. “That’s the world we live in, he’d say. Then he’d remind me how depraved and enslaved our society has become for embracing such a false dogma.”
Emily put her arms around Wilson’s waist and hugged him tightly. “I do believe that everything he was doing at Fielder & Company was intended to bring about change. Profound change.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Wilson said before kissing her. “So do I.” He gazed into her eyes, their faces inches apart. “If you want to know the truth, I couldn’t do this without knowing that you feel the same way. But I couldn’t tell you that until you arrived at it on your own.”
“You think I didn’t know that?” she said, giving him a nudge.
Neither one of them liked the idea of being apart for the next five days, but they agreed that it would be better for Wilson to do this alone. It would also give Emily time to review the publisher’s initial round of edits on her manuscript. Fortunately, the anticipation of spending a whole week together in Venice had emboldened them.
When Wilson and Emily left the hospital, they took their things to the fully furnished Back Bay apartment, overlooking the Fielder & Company building. After entering, they stood at the apartment’s newly installed one-way, bulletproof windows, watching the lights come on inside the Fielder Building. Hap Greene’s people along with building security personnel had just started conducting their nightly sweep. It was a little after midnight.
“When will it end?” Emily asked.
“Soon, I hope,” Wilson said, holding her in his arms. “One way or another, we’ll get out of this alive, free to pursue our dreams. I promise.”
Beneath the ample canopy trimmed in an eighteenth-century Chinese coverlet, Quinn lay deliciously drained. The Levitra had worked miraculously during the past three days, just as his doctor promised.
“Your hands are absolutely amazing,” Vargas whispered into his ear as he gently stroked her long, slender body. “Has anyone ever told you that before?”
“Actually, no,” he said, but he was lying. His wife Margaret had told him the same thing years ago.
“You could hire them out and probably make more money than you do as CEO of the J. B. Musselman Company,” she said giggling and running her fingers through his chest hair.
Vargas had grown more carefree and silly during their three days together and so had Quinn. But her innocuous comment about hiring out his hands bothered him. Was it a Freudian slip in a lighthearted moment that had exposed her true self? His old suspicions had gradually started to return. No matter what she says about wanting to be with me, she’s still a hired hand, Quinn said to himself.
She shifted her lithe body, lying face down and snuggling her head into a pillow. Quinn gently stroked her neck and back until she was asleep. As he lay awake next to her, waiting to escape once more into sexual bliss, Quinn grew more cynical. He began admitting to himself that his passion for Vargas had been little more than a fabulous fantasy, facilitated by Wayland Tate as part of a larger strategy to manipulate him and the J. B. Musselman Company.
Musselman’s stock price had continued to climb on Monday, closing at 393/4. Tate and his partners have
got
to be raking in billions, Quinn thought.
You and I, Jules, and a group of clients committed to helping each other make a lot of money
, Tate’s words reverberated in his head. Quinn was finally admitting to himself that Tate might have orchestrated the whole thing. Was Tate really that good? Yes, Quinn told himself, and Vargas was probably getting a nice cut of the action.