Trust Me

sixty-something. She had a round helmet of iron gray curls and favored gray suits to match. The suits were power suits. They were double-breasted, a style that, on Maud’s sturdy figure, made her a force to be reckoned with at Stark Security Systems.
    Her chief hobby, so far as Stark could discern, was hanging out in greeting card stores on her lunch hour. She was forever on a quest to find just the right inspirational verse for every occasion.
    Her children, grandchildren, nephews, nieces, friends, and associates received cards from her on all major and minor holidays. Stark even got one on Boss’s Day, an annual event of which he had been blissfully unaware until he had hired Maud. The constant stream of cards were a pain because he had the nagging feeling he should reciprocate in some fashion. He ignored the uneasy impulse and tolerated his secretary’s eccentricity because Maud was incredibly well organized.
    Unfortunately her greeting card hobby had influenced her view of reality.
    “Good morning, Mr. Stark,” Maud said. “I didn’t think you would be in today. I was extremely sorry to learn about the unfortunate little incident on Saturday.”
    Only Maud would term it an unfortunate little incident, Stark thought. “Forget it, Maud.”
    “Remember, sir, as we travel along life’s highway we are bound to stumble over the occasional stone. You must pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again.”
    “Saturday was not my best day, Maud. Nevertheless I’m pleased to say that I did at least manage not to trip and fall. Therefore, there is no need for me to pick myself up or to dust myself off.”
    “I wasn’t speaking literally, sir,” Maud chided gently.
    “Weren’t you?” Stark feigned surprise.
    “Of course not. I was speaking metaphorically.”
    “I’ve never been good with metaphors.”
    “Onward, sir,” Maud said briskly. “This is the first day of the rest of your life.”
    “I’ll bear that in mind.”
    “You must turn your back on the cloudy days of the past and look toward the rainbow that promises a sunny future.”
    “Thank you for the advice.” Stark went swiftly past her desk. Escape was at hand. He was almost at the door of his inner office.
    “Tomorrow brings a new dawn and renewed hope, sir.”
    “Right.” Stark breathed a sigh of relief as he shoved open the second door. “Send McCallum in, will you?”
    “Yes, sir. And may I say, sir, that every obstacle that we successfully surmount helps us to blossom and grow.”
    “If you do say that, Maud, I will probably fire you on the spot.” Stark went into his office and closed the door. Hard.
    He tossed his briefcase down onto his desk, slung his jacket onto the brass coatrack in the corner, and stalked to the window. He stood there for a few minutes and brooded over the view from the fifteenth floor of the high-rise office building.
    From where he was standing he could see the steel blue expanse of Elliott Bay and the snow-capped Olympic Mountains in the distance. There wasn’t a cloud in sight, although, this being the Pacific Northwest, that was subject to change.
    Ferries weighted down with tourists, as well as the usual compliment of commuters, moved busily back and forth across the cold, dark waters of the Bay. They reminded Stark of so many industrious spiders spinning invisible webs. They dodged giant container ships and picked their way through the flock of sailboats that had materialized with the good weather.
    Stark thought briefly about how he ought to have been sitting on a beachfront lanai in Bora Bora. It had been Pamela’s idea to go to the South Pacific for their honeymoon. Stark had raised no objections. He had left the matter to her, just as he had intended to leave his entire social calendar to her.
    Pamela had arranged everything, hotel, airline tickets, and his schedule. He wondered if she had bothered to cancel the reservations or if he would be getting bills for an unused honeymoon.
    The door opened. Stark turned as Dane McCallum strolled into the office.
    Tall, lean, and aristocratically good-looking at thirty-five, Dane was Stark’s fashion opposite. He had a taste for expensive tailoring and the ability to wear his beautifully cut suits with the stylish flair of model. He got his blond hair styled in a salon instead of cut in a barbershop. He wore Italian leather on his feet, not scuffed running shoes, and he was never seen in jeans at the office.
    He was Stark’s