They wouldn’t lose their scholarships to Elmwood Academy, not unless they did something to get kicked out of the school entirely. Celia had given them their scholarships anonymously, through a charity that assisted the children of firefighters who’d been killed in the line of duty, as Analise’s husband had been.
“They’ll be fine,” Celia said. “They’re good kids.” Because that was what you said to your best friend about her offspring.
Analise shook the thought away. “Whatever’s going to happen is going to happen, whether we like it or not.”
The conversation turned to other topics, normal topics, like jobs, politics, school schedules, and the tragedy of aging.
Analise seemed happy, Celia reflected. But as she often did, her expression held a sadness. A resignation. Such mundane domesticity was not where the original trajectory of her life had aimed her. As a young woman, she’d never planned on being the widowed mother of twins.
Once again, Celia was on the verge of asking. Pushing her water glass forward, casually suggesting that Analise try to spill it with only her mind.
“You are thinking deep thoughts, my friend,” the woman said finally.
Celia smiled. “Oh, not so much. Just the usual.”
“You might think about taking a vacation,” Analise said. “We haven’t all gone to the beach house since the kids started middle school, and you’re looking tired.”
“I can’t look any more tired than I normally do.”
“Yeah, you do, actually.”
Great. Just what she needed, to start looking like crap as well as feeling like crap. “I’ll see what I can do. I keep thinking maybe once the kids are out of school.”
“That’s years away. Go on vacation and take them with you. You used to be able to manage a trip every summer.”
“I’ll think about it.”
They could all make the trip together. Sit around stewing about why their kids wouldn’t talk to them, and didn’t that sound like fun? Still, it was nice to know she wasn’t the only one who worried.
Didn’t a vacation sound lovely? Someday soon, she promised herself.
* * *
The city planning committee initiative, and her determination to make sure West Corp’s bid was the one the committee picked, was the culmination of some five years of work, of reviewing civil engineering surveys, ordering a dozen or so studies of population and community patterns, making countless projections of all possible plans and outcomes to find the one that didn’t just work, that didn’t just make money, but that made Commerce City better. This drive, this loyalty to the city, wasn’t entirely hers, Celia knew that. She worked for this plan for the same reason her parents had donned skin suits and battled villains for most of her childhood: It was in the blood. The powers written into their DNA had to be used for the protection of the city. She didn’t have powers, but ultimately she had that need. She didn’t argue with it.
The city had a process for getting things done, and she was adept at operating in its bureaucracies to make her plans work. She wasn’t worried that the West Corp proposal would lose out. But the arrival of Danton Majors was a variable she hadn’t expected. The most prominent outside participant in this dance, of unknown reach and resources, he made her nervous, and she wanted to know more.
She searched online databases and news services for every reference she could find on Danton Majors. A native of Delta, comparable to Commerce City in population and resources, but inland. Proud citizen, et cetera. The articles she found were mostly shiny puff pieces in financial publications, extolling his genius and virtues. She read between the lines, decided he’d had a couple of lucky breaks but had parlayed that luck into a substantial business. Publicly, he did what self-made men usually did with their money: attended society functions, patronized the right charities. He was married—twenty-two years, impressive—had two college-age kids, though his family stayed out of the public eye. The man was careful with his image.
She’d have to dig somewhere else to find any dirt on him, so she called a contact at the Commerce Eye. Over the years, the onetime tabloid rag had turned respectable by scooping its rival, the Banner, on a string of big stories. In the meantime, the Banner had gone stodgy and eventually folded.
“Hello, Mary? It’s Celia West. I need a favor.”
She could almost hear the reporter sputtering on the other end of the line. Celia had done her a few favors over the last couple of years—an exclusive interview, some on-the-record quotes about West Corp, and even a statement for a memorial retrospective about her father. Mary Danforth owed her big-time but probably never thought Celia would actually call her on it.
Mary managed to recover some kind of enthusiastic demeanor. “Certainly, Celia, whatever I can do to help.”
“Have you ever heard of a guy named Danton Majors? From Delta, rich real estate tycoon, he’s in town for that city planning meeting. You have anything unofficial on him?”
She hesitated. “You know, that’s funny.”
“What’s funny?”
“Well…” The reporter didn’t want to tell her.
“Out with it, Mary. It’s no big deal. If he’s going to bid on the development initiative, I just want to know more about him.”
“The thing is, I spoke with Majors a day or so ago. He was asking me for information about you.”