Kestrel Read online

  It’s almost three-thirty when I get to the office. My secretary, Shayla Drummond, greets me as I enter.

  “Welcome, Mr. Hart.”

  “Shayla. Nice to see you.”

  The office was set up during my previous visits. Currently, we are running on a staff of four employees. The rest will be hired as new business starts coming in. Jack, Kolson’s right-hand man, has been sending his team out after Kolson has vetted prospective clients. We’re looking at bringing on the Atlanta Falcons, Carolina Panthers, Atlanta Braves, and some smaller businesses. There are some Charleston companies I’ll start researching, but my main goal is to get this office operating as a fully functional business entity.

  “Shayla, when does the new receptionist start?”

  “Monday, sir.”

  “Good. Can you bring me up to speed on everything?”

  She follows me into my office. Shayla is in her late forties, married, and has two kids in college. She’s been an executive assistant for over fifteen years and knows the ropes. I hired her because she won’t mind working long hours and wants the money. I’ll compensate her well for it, too. Looking around my office, I see that she has set everything up to my specifications. The last time we spoke I gave her explicit instructions for where I wanted everything placed. I’m particular about these things, so I’m pleased with the results.

  “Coffee, water, anything to drink, sir?”

  “Coffee, please, and dispense with the sir. Let’s drop the formalities. Call me Kestrel since we’re going to be working together every day.”

  She peruses me for a moment, then gives me a brief nod.

  “Cream, sir?”

  “Black.”

  She hands me the coffee and I take a sip. It’s disgusting.

  “Don’t be offended, but this is shit coffee.”

  Her eyes widen a bit.

  Standing, I ask, “Where’s the brew station?” My intentions are to make a better cup of java than this crap she handed me.

  “Brew station?”

  “You know, the coffee station.”

  “Um, we don’t have one.”

  “Then how did you make this?”

  “It’s instant, sir.”

  “Kestrel.”

  “Kestrel. Sir.”

  I scratch my forehead and extend my arm toward the chair. “Please sit.”

  Shayla takes a seat.

  “So, we don’t have a coffee pot, huh?” I ask as I lean on my desk. I don’t stay there but a second because the bruises on my ass sting. My hand automatically reaches behind me to rub them but I stop when I see Shayla curiously watching me.

  “No, sir.”

  “Kestrel.”

  “Kestrel, sir.”

  “Shayla, do you have an issue calling me Kestrel?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then why do you keep saying, ‘sir’?”

  A huge grin spreads across her plump face and in her lovely Southern accent she says, “Why, it’s the way I was raised, sir. It’s a southern thing.”

  “So, it’s not something you’re saying because you’re uncomfortable?”

  “Why, no, sir!” she says so emphatically, I fear I may have insulted the poor woman.

  “Shayla, are you more comfortable saying sir than you are saying Kestrel?”

  “Well, I’m comfortable with both, sir.”

  “All right then. Now, we’re going to have to do something about that shit coffee though.”

  And Shayla lets out a belly laugh.

  After we review the most important items on the agenda, she tells me where I can find a Target.

  “Shayla, I’ve never set foot in a Target. Will they deliver?”

  Her brows pop up to her hairline. Then she laughs and laughs some more.

  “Are all you New Yorkers like this?”

  I rub my chin. “Probably not. I’m a little odd.”

  “Hmm. Tell you what. I’ll pick up a coffee pot on the way home. What kind should I get?”

  “The best kind they have. I’m particular about my coffee. And can you pick up some good coffee too? I like to grind my own beans.”

  She shakes her head and mumbles, “Well I’ll be.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  It’s going to take a little bit for me to get used to this “sir” thing. It makes me feel like my asshole of a father. He always insisted everyone call him sir. My cell rings, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Kolson. I was getting ready to call you.”

  “How is everything?”

  “Other than Shayla tried to poison me, I’m fine.”

  “Poison you?”

  “She fed me instant coffee.”

  My brother breaks out in a roar of laughter. “Oh, hell. Wait until I tell Gabriella.”

  “No! Don’t tell Gabby. She’ll get your pilot to fly her down here to try and save me. And don’t tell her my ass is killing me. The damn thing is purple from where she knocked me over the other day. Your wife is a menace.”

  “Shall I hire you a nurse?”

  “Only if she’s a black-haired beauty with huge …”

  “Hey!” he protests.

  “You asked.”

  “I suppose I deserve that. So how’s the office?”

  “Good. Shayla is well organized and if I can get her to stop calling me sir, we’ll do fine together.”

  “Sir, huh?”

  “Yeah, and I hate it. Reminds me of Langston, that fucker.”

  “Truth. So, there’s this huge software company you need to get on. And Jack will be down next week to move on some things,” Kolson says.

  “Right, but I need to get the staff up and running. I need at least three more people to get this place functional.”

  “Whatever you need, Kestrel. I’ll be down to hopefully close out the land deal in the next month. If all goes as planned, the rest of the building will be opened up and will have over a hundred on staff by the end of next year.”

  “Good. I honestly don’t see anything stopping us. We won’t be stepping on anyone’s toes. The smaller companies don’t want what we want—they can’t handle it. And the large corporations have to outsource it all anyway. There isn’t another company down here that offers the complete package like we do.”

  “That’s why I needed you so badly, bro.”

  “One other thing. The proposal I made to the governor should be back in the next week. That should help our land deal.”

  Kolson hummed. “We can certainly promise the state some higher paying jobs if they can give us a few tax breaks. That’s a given.”

  “Oh, do you know when my vehicles are supposed to arrive?”

  “Hang on. Let me check.”

  I can hear him clicking on his keyboard.

  “Yep. They should be pulling in tomorrow.”

  “Great. And let me know if you get a line on any good properties down here. I’m going to get off here so I can head to my executive apartment, which I’m sure is more like a hole in the wall.”

  My brother chuckles. “No doubt. I’ve stayed in some that are worse than youth hostels.”

  “Shut the fuck up. With my luck, the toilet won’t flush or something.”

  “Kestrel, did you even have anyone check it out for you?”

  “Your agent, remember?”

  “Oh, it’ll be fine. Gaston never sends me anywhere that’s not up to standard.”

  “I hope you’re right. Catch you later.”

  The driver is waiting for me as I exit the building. My apartment is downtown, in the old section of Charleston where all the historical buildings are. In fact, the studio is in what used to be an old carriage house. It’s quaint and beautiful, with wide planked heart pine floors and gorgeous antique furniture. I’m quite dumbfounded. This far exceeds anything I expected.

  Much to my surprise, the owner has a wonderful binder of menus from all the restaurants in the vicinity. They are divided into sections accordi
ng to whether they deliver or not. There is another small binder of local grocery stores, highlighting ones that deliver. I quickly make a couple of phone calls, placing orders for food, wine, and dinner.

  While I wait for my things to arrive, I unpack my clothes. My thought is that I’ll be here for at least a month or two, maybe more. After a brief tour of this place, I decide I want to buy something similar to it, but much larger than this. The apartment is spacious—a one-bedroom with a huge bathroom, living area, and nice sized kitchen combination dining area. In the back is a moss-covered stone terrace that is walled off and very private. I’m not sure if the owner lives in the main house that’s adjacent to this, but if so, I envy him or her.

  The carriage house is equipped with a top of the line sound bar, so I sync my blue tooth and put some tunes on. It’s not that I mind being alone; it’s the quiet that gets to me. That’s when the memories rush in. Music keeps them at bay, so I usually have something playing all the time, even if I have to wear headphones.

  Not much later there’s a knock on the door, and my food arrives. Shortly after that, my groceries follow. And then my phone rings.

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s all that noise?” It’s my sister-in-law.

  “I’m putting away groceries that were just delivered, listening to music, and trying to eat dinner.”

  “Hmm. Busy much?”

  “No. Only tonight. And you called right in the middle of it.”

  “You’re always busy, Kestrel.”

  “Not too busy for you.”

  “So?”

  “It’s great. The office is great. My admin is awesome, except she makes shit coffee.”

  Gabby breaks out into a fit of giggles. She knows I’m a coffee addict.

  “Oh, God. What did she give you? Some generic ground up brand?”

  “Worse. Instant.”

  “She didn’t!”

  “Oh, yes, she did. And her eyes bugged out when I told her it was shit. I wish you could’ve seen her.”

  “Oh my God! Poor woman.”

  “But here’s something better. I told her not to call me ‘sir,’ only ‘Kestrel’. And she kept saying, ‘Kestrel, sir’. I’m talking constantly, you know?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Well, apparently it’s a Southern thing, but I thought she was afraid of me.”

  “No! What did you say?”

  “I asked her. And she finally cleared it all up.”

  “Oh, shit. How funny.”

  “But, here’s the best. There wasn’t a brew station in the office.”

  I hear her spit out her drink and then cough.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  “Yeah. Give me a sec.”

  Then she howls and I can hear her hand slapping the counter. “Holy shit, Kes, what are you gonna do?”

  “That’s just it. She told me to go to Target.”

  “You? Target? My pretentious asshole of a brother-in-law setting foot in a Target?” She starts snorting now.

  “I know, right? Am I that bad Gabby?”

  “Uh, yeah. Well, mostly.”

  “Hmm. I’m working on it, I swear. Anyway, I told her I’d never set foot in a Target and now she thinks all New Yorkers are like me.”

  I hear this loud bang, and then a crash, and nothing but snorting and laughing on the other end. This is going to take a while. Finally she gets back on the phone.

  “Jesus, I’m dying here. I wish I could’ve been a fly on the wall.”

  “Oh, you would’ve loved it. After she realized I wasn’t an alien or something, she finally volunteered to get me the coffee maker. But now I’m worried she’s going to get one of those pieces of shit. You know—like the one you and Kol have.” Then it’s my turn to laugh.

  “Yeah, you coffee snob. It would serve you right.”

  “Seriously though, if she does, I’m screwed. I’ll have to buy one and sneak it in there and hide it somewhere so her feelings don’t get hurt.”

  “Kestrel, I’m sure you’ll figure that out.”

  “Hey, I’m a sensitive guy.”

  “Uh huh. I’ve seen that sensitive side of you.”

  “What?”

  “You know what I’m referring to.”

  “So I’m an ass sometimes.” I can only imagine the face she’s making. I’m an ass a lot of the time. “But Shayla is a super admin and I don’t want to fuck anything up with her. She’s going to be the queen of the office so I cannot be hurting her feelings.”

  “If you say so. How’s the apartment?”

  “Sweet.”

  “You got a suite? I thought it was a one-bedroom?”

  I groan. “No, it’s sweet—like sugar.”

  “Awesome.”

  “You need to get your ass down here. This town is the cutest place. You’ll love it, Gabby. You and Kol need to buy a place down here.”

  “Maybe so.”

  “Think beach. Or maybe even yacht.”

  “You sound well.” She seems satisfied.

  “I’m fine. Now quit worrying.”

  “Right. I’ll let you go. Talk later.”

  That was easier than expected. I do a little work on my computer and then go to bed. Tomorrow will be a busy one for me.

  Chapter Three

  Carter

  I stand in the cemetery and blankly stare at the three headstones. They are only markers with no bodies beneath them. But I had to have something to honor their memories.

  Ellsworth Carter Simon Drayton

  Loving daughter of Carter Ellsworth Drayton

  August 14, 2007—October 2, 2010

  Mary Ellsworth Drayton

  April 11, 1958—October 2, 2010

  Daniel Carter Drayton

  February 15, 1958—October 2, 2010

  Loving parents of Carter Ellsworth Drayton

  and

  Loving grandparents of Ellsworth Carter Simon Drayton

  Four years have passed and it’s still difficult for me to process. Their absence has left a gaping hole in my life, a wound that will never heal. I pull out the pictures I carry with me everywhere. One is of Ells and me. Another is of Ells by herself and one is of Ells with my parents. Her blond curls shine in the sun. She is playing in the sand at the beach house. She loved the beach and the water. Irony is a killer. The very thing she loved the most was the thing that took life away from her. She would be seven now. I should be buying her ice cream and presents. Instead, I’m sitting at her damn headstone.

  An arm reaches around me and hugs me. “You were lucky to have had her, if only for those three short years.”

  It’s my friend Harper. She always comes. On the anniversary and Ells’ birthday because she’ll know this is where I’ll be.

  “Yeah, I know. But it was way too short, Harper.”

  “It was. But she was the greatest gift of all.”

  “That she was.”

  Harper takes the pictures and holds them for a second. “She was also the most precious.”

  “I know. Thanks for being here.” My hand covers my mouth. Telling myself I’m not going to cry is pointless. It never works. Harper pats my back and tells me it’s going to be okay. It’s not. Four years later, and I’m still as raw as I was the day it happened.

  My hand reaches out to steady myself on the headstone, and I cram the pictures back in my pocket as we head to our respective cars. The morning dew leaves my toes and sandals wet, but I don’t care. They’ll be dry by the time I get to work. Besides, no one sees me anyway. Being stuck in a lab all day, looking through a microscope, has its advantages sometimes. And why should I care if my stupid feet are wet anyway? And for that matter, why should I care if anyone else sees them?

  My phone disturbs my depressing thoughts as I close the car door.

  “Drayton.”

  “Carter. It’s Uncle Foster.”

  Uncle Foster was my father’s partner in his law practice. They grew up together and were more like brothers than friends, and then w
ent on to practice law together. Foster has gone beyond what any true uncle would do for a niece, financially.

  “Hey.”

  “How’s my girl today?”

  “Do you really have to ask?”

  “No. It’s a shitty day for all. Um, I hated to make this call, but honey, I can’t put this off any longer.”

  “I know. The house.” I moan but I realize if I don’t sell the house on Murray Boulevard, I’ll be bankrupt soon. The house is in the wealthiest area of downtown Charleston. Its upkeep is astronomical and the taxes are more than any burden I can handle. I’ve taken out a second mortgage to cover expenses, and Uncle Foster has helped me as much as he can, but it hasn’t been nearly enough to keep things running. Now I have no choice but to sell. I can’t ask Foster to keep bailing me out. I’ve gone through all the money from the firm that came to me as part of the death benefit, the hundred thousand in the safe, and unfortunately for me, my dad was ridiculously underinsured.

  “I’ve listed it.”

  “I know. The agent called me last week.”

  I can hear Uncle Foster sigh. “You don’t hate me?”

  “No. I could never hate you. I know I have to sell. There’s no other option. I’m just sad. But what else is new?”

  “I wish I could take your sadness away.”

  “Me too.”

  “Anne said she’d call us both when she had someone interested,” he says.

  “Anne?” I ask.

  “The realtor.”

  “Oh, right.” Duh. I need to get my head out of my butt.

  “Ok, sweetheart, I’ll talk to you later.”

  He ends the call and my heart pounds. The thought of even showing the house freaks me. No one knows about the room. And if someone looks at the house, they’ll have to see it.