Chapter 14

“Drusilla! Finally we meet.” The voice, commanding and yet personal, preceded Cyrus St Loreto into the Board Room. The owner of the Bernebau Company spoke as he crossed the distance between an un-marked, (and otherwise, unremarkable), door at the far corner of the Board Room. Taking up half of the 36th floor, three sides of the room were ceiling-to-floor glass. The one interior wall was punctuated by a set of double doors that led out to the reception area and a plain, single wooden door. The CEO of the Bernebau Company made his decidedly non-formal entrance from the second door. There was no formal announcement, no, ‘Mr St Loreto will be joining you in a moment’ from speakers built into the business-opulent conference room. Just the un-assuming sound of an ordinary door opening and closing followed by the man’s voice.

Drusilla Renaude stood between the conference table and the broad expanse of glass, her runner’s legs showed in silhouette through the light fabric of her dress; the corporate castles that lined Brickell Avenue reflected more than enough light to provide a contrast between the woman and the dress. Her clothing, chosen for comfort during the two hour flight to a near-tropical city, was not meant to be worn to a business meeting. Despite the surprise announcement at the airport that she and Arlen were expected in the penthouse boardroom immediately upon landing, Drusilla gave no outward sign of being intimidated by the change in plans. She leaned slightly against one of the few non-glass sections of wall. She might have been an exchange student standing on the far shore of the Nervión River, trying to make sense of the soaring shapes of the Bilbao Guggenheim Museum. There was a energy about her, even standing in thoughtful contemplation. Her eyes appear to focus beyond the glass wall. She had a look of satisfaction, a person at the start of a journey recognizing landmarks that up until this moment were entries in travel guides and maps, mere words of description.

Arlen Mayhew smiled as Drusilla paused before responding to the client’s voice. His tone was at once charming and insistent, like the dog that repeatedly drops the ball at his human’s feet and crouches in play posture. Her eyes locked with Cyrus St Loreto’s, quite in advance her turning to face him. She smiled in a way that, somehow, added a sense of italics to her greeting. An amused curiosity crept into her face, as if she were at home when a friend let themselves into the house and were calling out a greeting from the kitchen. By the time she’d turned completely towards the interior of the room, Cyrus had covered three-quarters of the distance to the table.

Despite the fact that three of the four walls were glass, there was a surprising amount of darkness in the vast room. By virtue of inspired design and special properties of the engineered glass, the incursion of over-powering daylight was limited to where the conference table stood, in parallel to the window wall. From the center of the room all the way to the double entrance doors, the ambient light was weak enough to allow recessed lighting to create perfect circles at intervals across the floor.

“I realize the conventional approach to a meeting like this is to allow one’s guest to freshen up after their trip, maybe spend some time enjoying the amenities, sit by the poolside or even walk into the blue sea. But I’m kinda different.” Cyrus paused as he walked out of the final pool of artificial illumination and into the last of the relatively dark zones. “Well, it’s just that, ‘Thats the Way It’s Done’, has never set right with me. I’ll tell you, conventional wisdom makes my skin crawl. Someone tries to advise me how everyone else approaches a problem? I stop, turn around, no matter how close to my goal I might actually be,” he interrupted himself with a short outburst of laughter, “and I start running the other way. Jesus Christ! How I managed to get as rich as I am, it’s a miracle!” Laughter grew as the man stepped into the slanted trapezoid of bright June sunlight that fell across the exotic wood of the conference table and breaking on the far edge, somehow did not make it to the floor beyond.

“Cyrus St Loreto, at your service.”

Arlen’s left eyebrow began a barely noticeable move upwards as the man held out his hand, palm up. Drusilla, for her part, smiled and extended her own, fingers bent downwards. Cyrus brought her hand to his lips, never taking his eyes off hers. Still slightly bent at the waist, the two cast a shadow across the surface of the table behind them. By a trick of light, the taller of the two figures appeared to bend to the throat of the thinner, more graceful silhouette. Feeling oddly self-consciousness, Arlen took a step backwards, towards the windows. The change in his position made the shadow figures seem to twist, elongate and meld into one sinuous shape.

Looking at the two, their hands still in a balanced embrace, Arlen felt an amused shock. The man Forbes magazine described as, ‘the next Warren Buffet’, was dressed in jeans, Topsiders and a T-shirt. His Topsiders were worn, the jeans looked new and the T-shirt had (the) Rocky Horror Picture Show (complete with bitten lip) in red against the black. The shirt looked like it cost more than the shoes and the jeans.

Arlen liked Cyrus St Loreto from the minute the CEO turned from kissing Drusilla’s hand and offered him his hand. A glint in the other man’s eye left Arlen no doubt that he was thinking of the same, obvious joke about greetings.

Cyrus turned to Arlen with a smile that reminded him of his best friend in grade school. The friend was constantly involving Arlen in pranks that got them both sent to the principal’s office and, later, finding friends more daring than Arlen, was  constantly in and out of reform school, mostly for crimes-of-excitement. The CEO smiled and said, “Ah! The spear carrier!” Drusilla’s sharp intake of breath and the beginnings of a step in front of Cyprus basely broke the rhythm of the CEO’s introduction. “Arlen Mayhew, I’m honored to meet you.” His smile was genuine, his handshake as competitive and as friendly as pre-adolescent boys racing their bicycles through neighborhood streets.

“Dru, please, I mean you and your associate, no disrespect. Do I Arlen?” Cyrus backed towards the conference table and sat on the edge. Leaning forward, his hands at the edges of the table, he continued, “Spear carrier is not an insult, I assure you. I read every one of your associates reports and marketing analyses and they were a major, very major factor in my decision to hire Renaude and Associates. A spear carrier, or if you’d prefer the more modern analogue, caddy, is an honorable and critical profession. Both are the expert to the expert. A spear carrier is as every bit as important as a caddy, except instead of merely helping a golfer win a trophy, a spear carrier often is the only reason the hunter remains alive…un-eaten by those the two chose to hunt. Do  you understand?”

Drusilla swayed a bit towards Arlen, a look of calculation in her eyes. “I believe I agree with you, Cy. When the hunter is eye to eye with the hunted, there’s rarely time to say, ‘Hey I need that Number Two flint headed spear.” A moment passed, the motion of the traffic on the street unheard activity.

Cyrus laughed. He laughed the way that a guy hopes the girl will laugh on the first date and the way a girl hopes the guy will laugh after she jokingly says no to his proposal of marriage.

“She’s a keeper, Arlen. Hey speaking of keepers, does your family still have the house on the Vineyard? I’m thinking of getting a place, maybe you could invite me up for a weekend?”

Arlen maintained only a couple of friendships after beginning his professional life; despite attending an Ivy League school and establishing a modest, if not, respectable reputation in education, he never cared to maintain the network of contacts so common among his contemporaries. Accepting his lack of professional accomplishment as the price of his tendency to find virtually everything interesting, Arlen Mayhew was one of those people who would be described as ‘lacking discipline and drive’ by those who didn’t like him and ‘free from the compulsion to chase the Almighty dollar’ by those that did. Money was never a motivating force in his life, his family was from the class of wealth that allowed the children to pursue their dreams without the constraints of worrying about mortgages or car payments. The Mayhew children were free to follow their interests and establish their place in the world, as opposed to being assigned one.

His brother, Anthony, on the rare occasions that the Mayhew family gathered at the family homestead in Vineyard Haven, would often tease Arlen. After making certain there was a sufficient audience, he’d say, “All that time and tuition to a degree from Yale and the best you can do is teach at a private school?” At that time, a Christmas three years previous, Anthony was up for promotion to Captain. Graduating from the Naval Academy with honors, Anthony Mayhew was about to become the youngest naval officer to be responsible for the domestic operations of one of the spookier three-letter agencies. His office, reflecting a view of the world that only the truly bureaucratic mind would come up with, and operations center was housed in a building in a Beltway office park full of CPAs, attorneys and orthodontists.

Arlen glanced at his watch and saw that, somehow, their host had been talking for ten minutes.

“So are you two ready to sell my development out in record time?” Cyrus’s voice had a casual tone that accentuated the look in his eyes, which was anything but casual. He might as well have been saying, “What do you say to my holding you by the hand and you lean out over the edge of this building. I promise nothing bad will happen. Are you ready to do that?”

Arlen watched Drusilla listen, and her dark eyes reminded Arlen of the professional gamblers at the  Atlantic City casinos. They smoldered with an intensity that washed out all other physical cues that might signal her interest in what the well-tailored, poorly dressed man was saying.  Arlen nodded, as much to himself as to the man, as Cyrus outlined the Bernebau Company’s role in the marketing and selling Hunting Meadows. She exhibited all the signs of self-cascading emotional investment of a young woman, sitting in an expensive restaurant as her boyfriend opened his palm to reveal the engagement ring. Drusilla would’ve been annoyed were Arlen to lean over to Cyrus and said, ‘Hey look at my principle broker, that girls in love.’

For his part Arlen Mayhew felt his initial excitement begin to cool.

“Wasn’t that a lot better than a Client meeting in a room full of accountants and lawyers filling the air with justification for their exorbitant hourly rates?” Cyrus stepped between both Drusilla and Arlen, put an arm around their shoulders and turned them to face out the window.

“I believe in the personal approach to business.” he stared through the glass and down Brickell Avenue, “You’ll find that we’re very much a family here at Bernebau, and, like any family, loyalty is everything. Blood is thicker than water. I believe I wrote that in the original company charter.” Sensing a change in Arlen, Cyrus smoothly added, “But contracts are the modern way and your attorney in Crisfield has already received everything from our legal department. By the time you two get back to Maryland, he’ll have had a chance to review them for your signatures.”

Without looking away from the corporate mountain tops beyond the glass, Drusilla said, “One of the reasons I have Arlen with me is that, while I make the deals, he has a remarkable eye for details. Like Peter Fabergé and his insanely jeweled eggs, he believes that ‘God lives in the details.”

Drusilla and Arlen both felt a surge of strength ripple through the arms bracketing them, Arlen laughed in surprise and Drusilla seemed to relax. Cyrus stepped between the two and backed towards the windows, “And you? Drusilla Renaude? What is it that you believe? For every truth there is an alternate perspective, the same thing, but different. I believe the other view would be, ‘the devil is in the details’. I suspect that your able… caddy will keep everything orderly, which is all God seems to ask. You are different. You are of the fire. The warnings about dangers in the underbrush does not even come into consideration. It’s not that you don’t care about mistakes and missteps. You are about the battle, the action. If the devil arises somewhere, in those famous details, then you will just deal with him. So, I can put you down in the column here that says, ‘Fuck the devil and the gods, lets get started’?”

Cyrus was almost toe-to-toe with Drusilla. There  was no sense of an adversarial tension between the two. What there was would be best described as simpatico. Cyrus stepped back from the two and clapped his hands. A single clap, as much the clap of command as the indication of appreciation of a performance. He was clearly pleased with the events of the morning. “You are perfect. Not that I under-estimate people, but in this case, I know that you, both of you, will be an asset to our company.”

Speaking to the air, Cyrus called out, “Genevieve! I want my table at Los Fuegos tonight! Tell Francis I’m in the mood for asador and I want only his hands on the steak. Oh, and plan on us picking you up at six. I know you prefer to go out on your own, but tonight it is to be a double date.” Cyrus looked at both Arlen and Dru and seemed to have a second thought and continued, “And tell Constantin to plan on joining us later in the evening.”


“Lady and Gentleman, this is your pilot, the guy behind the door about twenty feet in front of you. We’re on our final approach to Salisbury Airport. Should be about five minutes. Thank you for flying Bernebau Air.”

Drusilla Renaude stared out the window of the jet, she watched the the earth below grow in detail, little by little, as the plane banked to take aim at the runway, a cement-white ruler laying on the greenery of the Delmarva lowlands.

Arlen Mayhew sat across from her, having spent the last hour asleep in his fully-extended seat across the aisle. The stewardess showed him how to adjust the seat into the next best thing to his bed at home. Pressing down along the lapels of his sports coat, in a futile effort to decrease the density of the wrinkles, he smiled as Drusilla  said, “Arlen, this is the return home part of our trip. Wrinkles don’t matter.”

He replied, “Like I said, either last week or 5 years ago, ‘you set ’em up and I’ll knock ’em down.'”

Drusilla returned his smile, “This is going to be exciting.”

Arlen put his hand lightly on her wrist and said, “I agree. I do have one request. If you remember what happened last night during our night on the town with the Bernebau family, will you promise to tell me?”

With a serious look she took his hand and said, “Only the good parts.”


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