Page 10 of Dante (Members From Money Season 2. #153)

Courtney wasn't having the very best day. It had started early this morning right after she had the great idea of treating herself to some grits and shrimp. She could not tell if it was the grits or the shrimp that had gone against her.

She was almost three months pregnant and was just starting to feel it.

The queasy stomach, the dizzy spells, the lethargy and the tender nipples were symptoms she had read about in the books she had bought.

It was taking her an enormous amount of effort just to get going and in her estimation, she knew it was going to get worse.

She was going to have to reveal her condition to her boss and risked losing her job. She could not bear to think about it. She enjoyed her job: the challenge of it, the variation each day brought and the fact that it kept her on her toes, literally.

She was just drinking her second cup of tea when he walked in.

Placing the cup carefully in the saucer, she rose automatically as he wandered in.

"They sent me straight up." His old weather-beaten face had a defeated look about it and the light green eyes were a bit dazed.

"My name is Ian McLean." He had a hat in his hands; the rim crumpled from his fingers.

"I don't have an appointment, but I need to speak to Mr. Livingston. It's about my store on Penn Street."

"Mr.--"

"They're planning on tearing down all the shops and making way for a mall." He swayed and had her rushing around to take his arm.

Guiding him to a chair, she pressed him down and went to pour some tea and brought it to him.

His hands trembled as he accepted the cup, the hat now resting forgotten in his lap.

Courtney noticed his nails, rough and rimmed with the dust of long hours, decades, spent tending shelves and sweeping his own floors.

She sat across from him, folding her hands in her lap, trying to steady her own nerves for his sake.

"Thank you, miss," Ian said quietly, gazing into the tea as if it held answers.

Courtney nodded, offering a reassuring smile. "You're welcome. Mr. Livingston's on a call just now, but I can let him know you're here. Can you tell me a bit more about what's happening on Penn Street?"

He exhaled deeply, his shoulders slumping further. "It's the city council. All the old shops: mine, the bakery, even Mrs. Brown's laundry. They say it's progress, but it feels like the end of something." His voice wavered, thickened by worry, nostalgia, and a trace of bitterness.

Courtney glanced toward the window, the city's hum muffled by the office walls. She wondered how many stories like his threaded through the blocks and avenues, quietly threatened by blueprints and bulldozers.

"I'll make sure Mr. Livingston hears your concerns," she said, voice gentle. "You shouldn't have had to come alone. Is there anyone with you? Anyone else fighting this?"

He managed a half-smile. "Just some of the other shopkeepers. Most are tired, some resigned. But I had to try. My father started that store the year after the war. It's all I know."

Courtney felt a curious kinship with him, a sense of something precious at risk. She reached for a notepad. "If you'd like, I can take down the details for Mr. Livingston. And if you need anything else: more tea, a moment's rest, please say so."

Ian nodded, the fog in his eyes clearing just a little. "Thank you. I'm grateful someone's listening."

The phone rang, sharp and sudden, slicing through the haze of worry. Courtney rose to answer it, already feeling the day shifting beneath her feet.

"Go ahead, please. I'm keeping you from your work." He waved a hand and managed to smile.

She went to answer the phone, jotting down details and noticed that her boss was off the phone.

He had a meeting in ten minutes and usually she would never intervene or interrupt his schedule, but this called for a change.

The man seated across from her desk had the look of someone who had lost something vital in his eyes.

"Give me a minute," she advised. "And please drink your tea. It was made special." She did not add that it had served to quiet her stomach for the time being.

Knocking briefly, she opened the doors and shut them at her back. He was standing at the window, a cup of coffee in his hand and turned from his contemplation of the view when he heard the door.

It irritated him completely when he felt the familiar jolt at the sight of her.

She was wearing peach today. A dress that molded the slender curves of her body and suited her perfectly.

Her short blonde tinted brown hair was styled in some sort of windswept do that suited her small face.

Her lipstick matched the tone of the dress.

"Yes?" His tone was deliberately cool and impersonal.

"There's someone here to see you."

"I don't recall--"

"He doesn't have an appointment." She came forward and wrapped him around in her perfume.

Damn her! He had to force himself not to retreat when she came closer.

"His name is Ian McLean, a nice gentleman who's very confused about the upheaval on Penn Street.

" She folded her hands at her waist. "He owns one of the stores. "

"What the hell do you want me to say?"

"That it's for progress. That this man is not going to be uprooted just because of profit." Ignoring the flare of anger in his eyes, she rushed on. "That he can be convinced to give up his livelihood, one that has been his father's before him, for a very good reason."

"Be careful," he warned softly.

"Of what? All I'm asking is that you hear him out."

"The deal is all but sealed."

"He needs to hear that from you. Shall I ask him in?"

Their eyes did battle and to his amusement, he noticed she was staring right back and not in the least intimidated. She had guts. And he admired that in anyone.

"Show him in," he waved a hand and walked over to his desk. He remained standing when she brought the old man in. His amusement increased when she closed the door behind them and inadvertently became the man's protector.

"Mr. McLean, what can I do for you?"

"Would you like some more tea?" Courtney ushered him gently into one of the chairs and remained standing.

"No, thank you." The man took her hand in his and smiled at her. "You're very kind."

"So is Mr. Livingston," she lied as she sat next to him. "Please hear him out. And tell him of your concerns."

Dante sat and proceeded to outline the plan for the area with the man, something he wouldn't normally do.

The move to put a mall on that particular street had been well researched and studied in detail.

He had a healthy respect for business owners and would never take over a company or an entire section without doing his homework.

The place was crumbling, the shops dilapidated and outdated. It needed uplifting and had tremendous potential. There was a museum a few blocks away that was going to be redone as well and several galleries that were going to go through renovations, a project taken over personally by Jackson Colby.

The history would be restored and maintained, he would personally see to it. And that was what he explained to the man.

"My shop means the world to me."

"I understand--"

"Mr. McLean, you said yourself that you have family in Ireland. That you're the only one still living in the states."

Dante frowned at the interruption but said nothing.

"That's right. My Ida died ten years ago, and we ran that store together."

"Your children and grandchildren all live in Ireland.

I bet that's a lovely place to spend the rest of your life.

And I'm sure they would love to have you with them.

" She took his hands in hers. "I have a brother and he's my only family, but I could not bear to be apart from him.

" She squeezed his hands. "Why don't you think of letting go of the past and looking forward to the future with family.

I'm sure your Ida would say the same thing. "

His light green eyes brightened for a moment as he stared at her. "You remind me of my daughter. Her name is Irene and she's beautiful and kind, just like you." He squeezed her hands. "You've made an old man feel comfortable in these surroundings."

Lifting his head, he looked around the elegant office, before bringing his gaze back to her. "Thank you."

He looked over at Dante who was watching the interplay expressionlessly. "I'll talk to the others, Mr. Livingston." He rose a little unsteadily. "Thanks for taking the time to see me. I know you're a very busy man."

"Not a problem."

"Let me see you out." Tucking her arm through his, Courtney guided him out, starting a conversation with him about Ireland.

Dante stared at the closed door and felt the mix of emotions that he could not control raging through his body.

She cared about people. She also took the trouble to read up on the project and had succeeded in putting the man at ease, enough to have him leaning towards the selling of his store.

He paced behind his desk, restless, the memory of Courtney's gentle, persuasive words lingering in the air.

The scent of her perfume still hovered faintly, as if she had left a trace of herself behind, not just in the room but in his thoughts.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, not with her, nor with McLean, but with the ache of unease threading beneath his skin.

She saw through the wall he tried to keep around himself, and that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

He prided himself on reason, on facts, on the clean lines of a spreadsheet or the orderly columns of a ledger, but people were never orderly.

They spilled out of boundaries, carrying histories, loyalties, and dreams that could not be measured.