Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [123]
“You don’t have to do that,” he said and reached across the table so I could hand him his plate. His voice wasn’t at all boorish; in fact, it sounded like he buried a “thank you” in his words.
We both sat, I nodded “grace” at God, and Carl adjusted his napkin.
I plunged into the ocean of confusion. “So, you said there was something we needed to talk about.”
He set his fork on his plate. I realized at that moment that he hadn’t cleaned his fork before he ate.
“I wanted to wait until after dinner—”
Maybe I should’ve worn a life jacket before I jumped. “I’m sorry. I—”
He raised his hand. “No, don’t apologize. I didn’t expect to get home so late. We can talk now.”
“Can we eat and talk?”
He almost smiled. “Sure. But I need you to just listen. As in try not to ask questions right away.”
Fried rice occupied most of the space in my mouth. I nodded. Whatever this was, it wasn’t about us. I sensed a weariness in him unconnected to me.
“My parents, specifically my father, informed me that they’ve been in discussion with a major industrial supply chain for several months. About selling their business. Last week, the corporation made my parents an offer they said they couldn’t refuse, and they didn’t. They sold the business.”
I swallowed my dumbfoundedness. But I could almost feel my eyelids leap to my eyebrows. My eyes felt like flashbulbs.
“Apparently, they were about to sign an agreement to purchase, and that's when my parents invited me into the business.” He paused and looked at me. “Here's the killer part. My parents knew that even if I stayed at Morgan Management, because it's privately owned, Morgan would never offer me a percentage of their business. So Mom and Dad figured forty-nine percent of the family business was better than zero percent working somewhere else. If my parents had me on board before they made the sale, then I went as part of the agreement.”
“Wait, I know I’m not supposed to talk, but I’m really confused.”
He pushed his plate away. A plate he didn’t have to cover because most of his food was still on it. “Go ahead. I know it's confusing. It gets worse, so ask now.”
Dread just tapped on my shoulder. “They pulled you away from Morgan to do this? Why didn’t they talk to you first? They’ve told you since before college that the business was yours to inherit.”
“My father said he figured I’d never leave Morgan unless another company gave me an over-the-top offer or unless they offered me part of their business. Well, they couldn’t control an over-the-top offer, but they could lure me away with their percentage. I couldn’t buy-in, my father said, if I stayed at Morgan. So, they gave me forty-nine percent.”
He slumped in the chair and stared at the table. “All those years my father joked that he buys and sells and doesn’t even need merchandise. And now I’m the merchandise.”
Not once had rage crept into his voice. But quiet resignation and defeat crawled all over him.
“They said they didn’t include me in the buy-out discussion because they didn’t want my hesitation ruining the deal for them.”
“But that doesn’t make sense. They could’ve sold a hundred percent without you.”
“Yes, but in their minds, that meant I might never own a business. He pushed his palms into the table. “Do you mind if we sit outside? I’m not hungry, and …”
I carried my plate and glass outside to the patio table. Carl lit citronella candles to discourage the mosquitoes. He pulled out a chair for me, then sat in the one next to mine. The thick night air closed in around us.
He unbuttoned his shirt sleeves and folded the cuffs up— equal widths of course. “I devoted my life to them, to being the son they wanted.” Carl sounded broken. “I went to the college they wanted me to attend. I wasn’t given a chance in their business when I graduated. I didn’t question