8. Duncan #2
Nick took a long drink from his own bottle before responding. "Then you find work that does mean something. You don't have to abandon everything you've built. You could shift focus, take on different kinds of projects, use your resources to tackle problems that actually matter to you."
The suggestion had merit, but it still felt inadequate.
I had spent four years rebuilding Walsh Strategic into something stable and profitable, four years proving that I could succeed despite Meranda's betrayal.
The idea of maintaining that success while gradually transitioning into something more meaningful made practical sense.
But I didn't want practical anymore. I wanted to feel the kind of electricity I had experienced in the elevator with Ivy on Friday morning—that sudden surge of awareness, that reminder that I was capable of feeling something beyond professional satisfaction.
I wanted to chase that sensation, to see where it might lead, to remember what it felt like to take risks for reasons that had nothing to do with quarterly profits.
Of course, I couldn't tell Nick any of that.
The situation with Ivy was too complicated, too fraught with potential consequences, too reminiscent of the mistakes I had made with Meranda.
Admitting that I was considering upending my entire life because of a five-minute conversation in an elevator would make me sound unstable at best, delusional at worst.
"Maybe," I said instead, draining the rest of my water.
Nick studied my face, clearly recognizing that I was holding something back. His expression carried the same careful assessment he used during board meetings when he sensed that important information was being withheld.
"There's something else," he said. "Something you're not telling me."
Before I could respond, movement across the plaza caught my attention.
An older couple was making their way slowly along one of the paved walkways, the woman seated in a wheelchair while the man pushed her forward with obvious care.
Even at a distance, I recognized Bill Whitmore's distinctive profile—the rigid posture, the expensive casual clothes, the way he carried himself even when engaged in something as simple as an afternoon outing.
The woman in the wheelchair had to be Barbara, though she looked far more fragile than I remembered.
Her blonde hair was covered by a soft scarf, and even from fifty yards away I could see that she had lost weight.
The realization was shocking—Barbara Whitmore was seriously ill, more so than I knew.
"I'll be right back," I told Nick, standing and walking toward them before he could ask questions.
Bill saw me approaching when I was still twenty feet away.
His expression shifted from mild curiosity to something darker, a tightening around his eyes that suggested my presence was unwelcome.
He stopped pushing the wheelchair and waited for me to reach them, his body language defensive and closed.
"Duncan," he said, his voice carrying none of the warmth that had characterized our interactions over the past fifteen years.
"Bill. Barbara." I leaned down to kiss Barbara's cheek, noting how thin her face had become. "How are you feeling?"
Barbara smiled up at me with the grace that had always defined her, though I could see the exhaustion in her eyes. "Some days are better than others. The doctors are optimistic, and that's what matters."
"I'm glad to hear that." I straightened and looked at Bill, whose expression had grown even more hostile. "I hope you know that if there's anything I can do to help?—"
"We're managing fine," Bill cut me off, his tone sharp enough to slice glass.
The rudeness was so unlike him that I found myself momentarily speechless.
Bill Whitmore was many things—demanding, controlling, occasionally arrogant—but he was never openly hostile without cause.
Our business relationship had been built on mutual respect and shared goals, our personal friendship on fifteen years of shared experiences and trust.
"I didn't mean to intrude," I said carefully. "I was concerned when I heard about the family emergency."
Bill's jaw tightened. "Family emergency?"
"Ivy mentioned that she needed to take time off for a family situation. I assumed?—"
"Isn't cancer enough of an emergency?" The words came out loaded with venom, each syllable pronounced with precision. "Or did you need something more dramatic to satisfy your curiosity?"
The attack was so unexpected, so disproportionate to anything I had said or done, that I took a step backward. Barbara reached up to place a restraining hand on her husband's arm, her expression mortified by his behavior.
"Bill," she said quietly. "Duncan is trying to be kind."
But Bill shook off her touch, his glare never leaving my face. The anger radiating from him was palpable, dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with business disagreements or professional competition. This was personal, though I couldn't begin to understand why.
"I should let you get back to your afternoon," I said, recognizing that any attempt at conversation would only make the situation worse. "Barbara, please know that you're in my thoughts and prayers. If you need anything—anything at all—please don't hesitate to call."
I leaned down to kiss her cheek again, then walked away before Bill could unleash whatever was building behind his furious expression. As I rejoined Nick at the fountain, I could feel Bill's eyes boring into my back, tracking my movement with an intensity that made my skin crawl.
Whatever had gotten into him I was entirely unaware of it.
My heart sank as I realized maybe he was just upset with me for not reaching out sooner.
I was distracted and busy with work, just the sort of reason why I knew retirement was the only option.
I let my personal life slip when people needed me most and it was time I changed that.
It might even have a positive effect on other situations, like Ivy and this strange new dynamic between us.