Maybe this would be a lesson to her. Gilbert was hopeful that her subdued response to all these developments was evidence of some introspection.
Not that he was foolish enough to get his hopes up too high.
There were times when Gilbert thought about finding a way out of this marriage. He knew, in his heart, that while he could pretend to be, he was not a happy man. He tried to love this woman, even though he was not at all certain she loved him. And besides, there was Samantha to think about. True, she was closing in on the end of her teen years. It wouldn’t be like splitting up when she was still in diapers.
But Gilbert didn’t believe he could face the trauma of a divorce. The acrimony, the ugly scenes. Selling the house, finding a new place to live. And he knew Caroline would find a way to persuade Samantha it was his fault. She’d drive a wedge between them. Samantha, desperate for her mother’s respect, was always looking for ways to please her, and if that meant shutting her father out of her life, she might just do it.
Maybe this was what marriage was, Gilbert mused. Unrelenting unhappiness, but at least you had someone to talk to.
He was thinking all these things as he and Caroline got into bed and turned out the light. She reached under the covers and gave his hand a squeeze and whispered, “I’m sorry about your brother. I truly am.”
He was nearly asleep when three words suddenly came to him.
Excel Point Enterprises.
Those invoices from a firm he wasn’t familiar with.
No, he thought. She wouldn’t.
And very quickly dismissed the thought, and drifted off.
When Caroline heard his breathing deepen and she was sure he was asleep, she quietly got up, went to his side of the bed, and picked up the phone that was charging on his nightstand.
She knew his four-digit password, and within seconds was into his photo app. She pulled up the shot of the list of names, emailed it to herself, put the phone back down, and exited the bedroom.
Caroline went down to the kitchen, where they kept a desktop and a printer on a small desk off to one side. She sat down, opened up her mail program, and printed off the picture, confident that the grinding noise of the printer would not wake her husband upstairs.
But Samantha did happen to stroll into the kitchen. She was more of a night owl, often going to bed two or more hours after her parents. She opened the refrigerator and took out a can of diet cola, and spotted her mother.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Samantha asked.
Caroline said, “Come sit.”
Fourteen
New Haven, CT
Sure, I may be dying, Miles thought, but I still have a company to run.
But his next thought was often, Yeah, but for how long?
While the progression of his disease would not disable him overnight, he needed to think about the future of Cookson Tech. There were times, since his diagnosis, when he wondered if he even wanted to run it anymore. He’d made his millions, made his mark in the tech world. Apps designed by Cookson Tech were on as many as a billion phones. What was left to prove?
If word got out that he was interested in selling, he’d have every tech company in the world, at least those with deep pockets, beating down his door in minutes.
It wasn’t something he had to make his mind up about right now, but it was worth thinking about. Maybe it was time for a change. Write a book. Get involved in the movement to find a cure for Huntington’s. Give them a whack of money, and set out to raise more.
Or, maybe, go to Hawaii and get stoned.
So many choices. And who was to say he couldn’t do all of them?
But while he considered his options, Cookson Tech had to continue to move forward, develop new and innovative products in a highly competitive market. If he didn’t sell out, there needed to be a succession plan. Who would run the joint when he handed over the reins?
In his heart, he would have liked to hand it all over to Gilbert. But as long as Caroline was in the picture, that was off the table.
At some point soon, Miles would have to assemble the board of directors and inform them of his diagnosis. His occasional uncontrolled movements were going to become more pronounced over time. People would suspect something was wrong. A whispering campaign would begin. Miles would have to bring the public relations department into the loop so they could start formulating a strategy for when his condition became public. They might recommend getting ahead of it, maybe call a news conference, arrange a 60 Minutes interview, do a spot on one of the morning shows. Tell his tale to Gayle King or Wolf Blitzer. He’d met both of them over the years.
But it was probably best to put all those things on hold until he had connected with his biological children, the Nine, as he had come to think of them. He was still trying to figure out the best way to approach them. A few days earlier he had called Dorian into his office.
“With Heather’s help, you’re going to need to pull together—”
“Profiles on the Nine, yeah. She’s already on it.”
“Okay, good,” Miles said. “But we’re going to need more than just basic information on these individuals. We’ll need—”
“Family and educational background.”
“Yes,” Miles said. “But the important thing is, these inquiries need to be—”
“Discreet. Under the radar. Figured that.”
Miles sat back in his chair and grinned. “Where would I be without you?”
“Nowhere,” Dorian said.
He nodded with bemused resignation. “Okay, well, when this information starts to actually come in—”
“We have it,” Dorian said.
Miles threw his hands in the air. “I’m gonna shut up now. Just hit me with it.”
Dorian, who had walked in carrying an iPad, raised it in her hands and started tapping and scrolling on the screen.
“Okay, so, not surprisingly, they’re scattered all over the place. One’s up in Massachusetts, we’ve got one going to college in Maine, another on an extended vacation in Paris. One’s in Fort Wayne, another in Scottsdale. Closest one is in Providence.”
Miles felt a kind of excitement surging through him.
“What... do they do?” He’d been thinking, if there was anything to inherited talent, maybe one of them was a software developer or something else in the tech world.
“We’ve got an art gallery employee, a waitress who’s an aspiring documentarian — she’s the one in Providence — a guy who works part-time in a computer store.”
Miles said, “Hmm.”
“That’s just three. I can send this to you. It’s reasonably comprehensive. It’s not all that hard to find out things about people. Like I need to tell you that. So many people putting their lives out there on social media. And Heather’s got a hundred tricks up her sleeve to go beyond the easy stuff. Oh, and this is cool. Every one of them has one or more Cookson apps on their phones.”
That prompted a chuckle from Miles, but his expression quickly turned anxious.
“Now it’s all about the approach.”
Dorian, deadpan, said, “Maybe one of those emails that says they’ve got a few million dollars coming their way and all they have to do is provide their bank details so that the transfer can be made.”
Miles smiled. “I’d have to get a fake email address.”
“We could figure that out.”
“Okay, so email is out. Maybe the old-fashioned way. A personal letter? Registered?”
Dorian quickly shook her head. “Suppose it goes to the wrong person, or gets to the right house but is opened by the wrong person? Say you think you’re some kid’s dad and this letter comes along saying it’s someone else. Your wife never told you. It’s freak-out time.”