BRILLIANT    Chapter Two I suppose I was in shock, but I felt surprisingly calm. And happy. No, not happy. Relieved. I leaned against the headboard and lit another cigarette and had another chocolate and just looked around, knowing that for the first time in my life, I was in control of my life. The lightness was amazing. I was floating. It's just me. When the merger had been completed and Owen Brace had taken over, it took less than seventy-two hours to see how completely unworkable the arrangement was between him and Benjamin. The two men could scarcely bear the sight of one another. While not terribly far apart in age, when it came to vision and energy, Owen was waxing at fifty-four and Benjamin waning at sixty-five. The men were polar opposites. Owen Brace, a self-made man, Irish-American, one of the most successful international take-over artists in the history of business, was a high-speed adrenaline addict and a notorious slash-and-burn specialist. The energy and power he exuded were so tangible, he seemed to suck all the oxygen from the air around him. Regardless of Benjamin's jealous accusations that Brace was cheesy and common, both of which applied to a significant degree, he was also dashing and debonair. And dangerous. If he were a sportsman, I think he would have been a fencing master, but as far as I could tell, the only sport he loved was business. Oh, and sex. If he wasn't on the phone or in a meeting, he was in a bed. Well-born Sir Benjamin Ballantine, on the other hand, an Englishman through-and-through, was polite, patrician, a gentleman, duty-bound by his mother's archaic Victorian upbringing. His low-key, amicable style that lured clients to Ballantine and Company, his self-deprecating sense of humor, and workmanlike talent on the auction floor had not withstood the test of time. They belonged to another world, dust was piled on their shoulders. He was unable to make the leap to accommodate what twenty-first century customers required. His stubborn refusal to grow or adapt pushed him deeper and deeper into depression and dragged the company and its demoralized staff down with him. The only thing that kept Owen and Benjamin from coming to blows was me: their senior executive assistant, caught literally in the middle of the ancien and noveau regimes. Fortunately for all of us, I'm more stable than most people. I can carry a lot on my broad shoulders. Because I'd been with the firm for what was now decades, and become a mother-figure to Benjamin (although I was significantly younger), it was justifiable to see why my loyalties had lain with him But finally, my battle standard flagged. He robbed me of my sleep every night. I was exhausted. My tiredness grew in direct proportion to his tiresomeness. He'd become excruciating and infuriating, making me regret my pledge to his father - my late, beloved, deus ex machina, Sir Cramner Ballantine - that I would keep an eye on his aging, ineffectual son, not let him stray off into troubled waters. Even more importantly, I'd sworn not let him run Ballantine & Company into the ground which, in spite of my efforts, he had. I was sick of the whole arrangement, unfulfilled by my obstinate loyalty. I was still angry at Sir Cramner for dying, even if he had been ninety-two by the time he left. I missed him so deeply, I couldn't seem to get the light turned back on in my life. He'd been gone for almost three years, but not a single day passed that I didn't think about him, and how much I still loved him. I wanted him to come back to me, even if it was just long enough to kiss his sweet, laughing lips one more time. But, as the days and months and years passed, and I didn't seem to be getting any closer to my own demise, I knew I needed to get back on course. I was tired of being alone. There was no one to talk to. I wanted to go to my little farm in Provence and lie in the sun, smell the lavender, listen to the bees. Have lunch with my friends. To spend the second half of my life with people who enjoyed the same things I did. But the problem is, with my past, it's just not that simple. © Marne Davis Kellogg