It Takes a Rebel Read Free Page B

appointment."
    Tuesday uncovered the mouthpiece. "It was Mr. Stillman's understanding that the appointment was canceled. No? Hold,
    please, while I see if his schedule will still allow him to attend."
    She covered the phone. "It's back on—are you in?"
    He nodded, his shoulders sagging in relief.
    Tuesday uncovered the mouthpiece. "Yes, ma'am, please tell Ms. Tremont that Mr. Stillman is looking forward to a
    productive meeting. Thank you for calling." She hung up the phone and returned to her sorting task. "Guess you still have a
    chance to impress the Tremonts."
    "Guess so," he said, his mind racing.
    "Well, get moving." She snapped her fingers twice. "We both have a heap of work to do."
    Jack hesitated. "An IRS agent is supposed to come by."
    "You already told me, remember?" She flung a water sports equipment catalogue into the trash.
    His hand shot out in a futile attempt to retrieve the catalogue—he could use a new water ski vest. But at the challenging
    expression on Tuesday's face, he emitted a resigned sigh. The crazy woman couldn't do more damage to their business or
    reputation than he had. They had no money to steal, no trade secrets to pilfer, no client list to filch. And at least he wouldn't
    have to answer the damn phone. "Knock yourself out," he said, splaying his hands. "But I can't pay you."
    He stepped into the hall and closed the front door behind him to tackle the lopsided sign first. Within a few moments he'd
    rehung the smooth plaque of walnut upon which their father had painstakingly lettered and gilded the words "Stillman & Sons
    Advertising Agency" nearly twenty-five years ago. Without warning, grief billowed in his chest as his father's easy grin rose in
    his mind.
    At his wife's encouragement, Paul Stillman had abandoned his modest home studio to become an entrepreneur when the boys
    were preteens. Jack had viewed the move as an act of treason against his father's natural calling. He'd admired his father's
    independence, his ability to adequately, if not luxuriously, provide for the family with the lively paintings he sold to local
    designers and businesses. He hadn't wanted to see his father saddled with overhead and commuting and sixty-hour work weeks,
    but his father said the earning potential was better, and he owed their mother a retirement fund.
    Indeed, his father had set aside a nice nest egg doing graphic artwork and ad plans for small-to medium-size businesses in
    Lexington, and later, mail order catalogs. Stillman & Sons had been a true family business—their mother ran the office, Derek
    had cut his accounting teeth on the books. Even Jack had pitched in on occasion, brainstorming with his father on the more
    creative projects, although the business itself had held—and still held—an unpleasant association for him. He banged down the
    hammer, connecting with his thumb instead of the nail head, then cursed and sucked away some of the pain.
    He'd watched the stress of the agency take its toll on his otherwise carefree father. His hair had seemed to gray overnight,
    and worry lines had plowed deep into his forehead. His paintbrush and easel had languished, and little by little, Paul Stillman's
    zest for root beer and whistling and people-watching had drained away.
    Oh, his father had remained easygoing enough, but his good cheer seemed forced, and he'd stopped visiting the local art
    galleries, once a favorite getaway for him and his younger, more creative son. Jack missed those outings and he blamed the
    family business for taking his father away from him. At thirty-four, he recognized those feelings as childish, but he stubbornly
    clung to them nonetheless. From his perspective, responsibility sucked the life out of a man and left him with less to offer the
    very people he was trying to provide for.
    Jack pulled a bandanna handkerchief from his back pocket and slowly wiped dust from the plaque. Frowning wryly, he
    scrubbed especially hard on the ending s in "Sons," half hoping the