The Music Box by T. Davis Bunn

by the day that Angie did not struggle when Emma invited her for a Thanksgiving Sunday dinner. Her ability to remain carefully aloof and isolated had been stripped away.
    Angie allowed her friend to pull her toward where Luke and their two sons waited in the parking lot and again was struck by the power and warmth of the sun. She felt as though she had walked around for years with shades on, unable to grasp just how beautiful the world was.
    As she stepped toward the car, Angie felt she was being given a message, one spoken to her heart, so forceful it could not be denied merely because the words were silent.
    The message was four simple, powerful words:
    Share Yourself. Share Me .

6
    Restlessness came easily to Carson Nealey these days. Especially when he felt trapped in a situation going nowhere fast. Carson tried not to fidget, but this head office executive was dragging things out to an impossible degree.
    â€œGot everything you need?” Carson worked at keeping any impatience from his voice.
    â€œI can’t figure this out, Carson.” The man was a friend, or had been, back before his wife’s illness. One of those who had urged Carson to stay in the city, work through his difficulties, and not lose his position on the corporate ladder. “You’ve increased production by twenty percent in four months! What did you do, stick a gun to their heads?”
    â€œNothing but a little applied psychology,” Carson replied, wishing he could just get up and walk out.
    â€œThat won’t wash.” The executive flipped the file closed and put his reading glasses down on the pile of papers. “I want something solid I can take back to the board. They’re going to demand specifics. You’ve already bought one new machine—why should they authorize any more?”
    Carson sighed and settled back. He was the one doing the asking, and this man had to sign off on his capital requests. “This used to be a good company with good employees,” he began. “Loyal people. Some of them are third-generation employees. When the original owner died, that New York outfit bought this factory cheap and proceeded to milk it, pure and simple. Machinery was used until it fell apart. You’ve seen the production line.”
    â€œLike something from the stone age,” the executive agreed.
    â€œThen the war ended and demand for their cheap boots disappeared,” Carson went on. “So the New York group got rid of it quick. They tied the sale to another company we wanted, forcing us to pay more than it’s worth.”
    â€œI understand headquarters wants to go ahead and close it down.”
    â€œThat would be a mistake, and the figures prove I’m right. Even with the dilapidated machinery, and despite the fact that their product line is fifteen years out of date, we’re already managing to turn a profit. Now I want enough assets to build a new, high-quality line. Our costs are low enough to compete with these new imports, and our standards are higher.”
    â€œListen to you,” the executive marveled. “You’re acting like this backwater outfit really matters.”
    â€œIt does to them,” Carson shot back. “And maybe it does to me. This is the town’s only manufacturer. Let things go on like they are, the firm will go bust, and unemployment around here will triple.”
    â€œNo, I mean, here you are, worried over three hundred jobs, when before you used to manage something like ten times that.”
    The personal observation brought Carson out of his seat. “I’ve got to get downstairs. We’re expecting delivery of the new stamper this morning. Tell me you’re going to sign off on the capital injection.”
    â€œSure, sure.” The executive picked up his glasses, flipped them back and forth. “No problem. But I’ve got to tell you, Carson, this has got people talking.”
    â€œLet