Company Man by Joseph Finder Page B

Scott’s house once. He admired the fact that Scott, who was loaded from his McKinsey days, didn’t try to show it off like so many financial types. Money to Scott wasn’t something you spent. It was like frequent-flyer miles you never use. Still, Nick couldn’t put his finger on what felt funny about Scott’s house until Laura pointed out that it looked somehow temporary, like those short-term furnished corporate apartments.
    As soon as they arrived, the kids dispersed, Julia to the bedroom of one of Scott’s twin twelve-year-old daughters, and Lucas to the rec room to sit by himself and watch TV. Scott was manning the immense, stainless-steel charcoal grill, the only remotely expensive thing he seemed to own. He was wearing a black barbecue apron with a yellow hazard sign on the front of it that said DANGER MEN COOKING , and a matching DANGER MEN COOKING baseball cap.
    â€œHow’s it going?” Nick said as they stood in the smoke.
    â€œCan’t complain,” Scott said. “Who’d listen?”
    â€œThink that grill’s big enough?”
    â€œA cooking surface of eight hundred and eighty square inches, big enough to burn sixty-four burgers at once. Because you just never know.” He shook his head. “That’s the last time I let Eden go shopping at Home Depot.”
    â€œHow is Eden these days?”
    â€œThe same, only more so. She’s become a real fitness nut. If it were up to her, we’d be feasting on texturized tofu, spirulina, and barley green juice. Her latest obsession is this Advanced Pilates course she’s taking. I don’t quite get how that works. Does it keep getting more advanced? Can you do graduate work in Pilates, end up with a doctorate?”
    â€œWell, she looks great.”
    â€œJust don’t call her arm candy. She’d rather be thought of as arm tempeh.” Scott checked that all the knobs were set to high. “You know, I’m always kind of embarrassed when you come over. It’s like the feudal lord leaving his castle to go visit the peasants in their hovels. We should be roasting a boar, really. Maybe a stag.” He looked at Nick. “What would you like to drink? A flagon of mead, my liege?”
    â€œA beer would do it.”
    Scott turned and began shouting to his portly nine-year-old son, who was sitting by himself on the back porch making immense bubbles using a strange gadget, a long pole with a cloth strap dangling off it. “Spencer! Spencer, will you get over here, please?”
    â€œAww!” Spencer whined.
    â€œRight now!” Scott shouted. Lowering his voice a bit, he said, “Eden can’t wait until he’s old enough to send to Andover.”
    â€œNot you, though.”
    â€œI barely notice the kid,” he said with a shrug. If Nick didn’t know Scott better, he wouldn’t realize Scott was kidding, doing his usual shtick. When his son was within speaking range, he said, “Spencer, could you please get Mr. Conover one of those brown bottles of beer?” To Nick he said, “You’ll love this beer. It’s a Belgian Abbey ale that’s brewed in upstate New York.”
    â€œGot any Miller?”
    â€œAh, the Champagne of Beers. What I’d like to find is the beer of champagnes. I think Eden bought some Grolsch, if that’ll work.”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œSpencer, look for the green bottles that have the funny metal tops with the rubber stoppers on them, got it?”
    â€œDad, it’s not supposed to be good for you to eat barbecued meats.” Spencer folded his arms across his chest. “Do you know that barbecuing at high heat can create polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons, which are known to be mutagens?”
    Nick stared at the kid. How the hell do you learn to pronounce that stuff?
    â€œNow, that’s where you’re wrong, son,” said Scott. “They used to think that aromatic hydrocarbons were