Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Terry Isaacson is a twenty-seven-year veteran of the United States Air Force who also served fifteen years as an administrator at Arizona State University, retiring as a Vice Provost in 2007. He is the author of A Flight Through Life and The Coronado Illusions and lives with his wife, Nancy, in Tempe, Arizona.

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Closure

A NovelBy Terry Isaacson

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 Terry Isaacson
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-1899-3

Chapter One

Lance Carpenter stood at the window of his office on the thirty-seventh floor of the Prudential Tower in the Back Bay neighborhood of Boston. Mid-morning traffic still bustled around Copley Square while pedestrians casually strolled along the sidewalks with their shopping bags already filled.

About a mile to the west near a sweeping bend of the Charles River, he saw Fenway Park, and he savored the second Red Sox championship in the past four World Series. It had been eighty-six years between their triumphs in 1918 and 2004, but the Babe Ruth curse had finally been lifted, and Boston overflowed with believers and loyal Red Sox fans.

He turned from the window and paced deliberatively around his office, surveying the collection of personal items and memorabilia. A gallery of photographs adorned one wall. Each picture had been neatly arranged around an acrylic painting of a fan-filled stadium in Tokyo, Japan. The scoreboard showed 0:00 time remaining, and the final score: Temple - 28; Boston College - 24. That game represented the low point in BC's storied football history, a winless 0-11 season, and the unfortunate, unceremonious end to Lance Carpenter's playing days-December 10, 1978.

From a library table centered below the painting, he picked up a silver-framed photograph of Kimberly and their two daughters taken during a summer visit to his wife's hometown of Camden, Maine. He smiled, placed it back on the table, and walked over to his massive executive desk with a single stack of papers arranged neatly in the center.

Lance picked up the top sheet, studied a colorful graphic for a few seconds, and tossed it back on the desk. With a deeply furrowed brow, he smoothed the slightly-graying hair along his temples with both hands. Then he turned to face the window and stared at the distant horizon that was pleasantly visible on this crisp, fall day. He did not hear the door open.

"Mr. Carpenter?"

Lance bristled, wheeled around and barked, "Arlene, I said no calls this morning."

"I know, sir, but there's someone who insists on talking with you now."

Except for slightly tousled hair and the displeasure of being interrupted clearly showing on his face, Lance Carpenter was a picture of perfection. At just over six feet tall and 185 pounds, he had maintained his playing weight during the years since his graduation from Boston College in 1982. His crisp white shirt was smooth from belt to collar, and the knot of his trademark maroon and gold tie fit snuggly around his athletic, seventeen-inch neck. From all outward appearances, Lance Carpenter looked as if he could still play football for the Eagles. Many alumni and long-time Boston College supporters were still disappointed that he never had that chance.

"All I need is fifteen minutes of quiet time before the board meeting. You know that."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carpenter, but he says you'll want to talk with him."

"Well he's wrong, whoever he is. I don't want to talk with anyone now. Take a number and I'll return the call later today ... maybe." Lance reached for the chart in the middle of the desk, studied it for a few seconds and then tossed it back onto the desk. He planted both hands on his hips to signal that the conversation was over.

"I already asked for his number, and he said he didn't want a return call. He said he wants to talk with you now. He said he's one of your high school classmates."

"For crying out loud, Arlene, am I supposed to drop everything and talk with someone I haven't spoken to for three decades? Who is this person who's screwing up my morning?"

Arlene glanced at her notepad and replied, "It's a Mr. Evans. Dexter Evans. He said you'd know him as Dee."

"Dee Evans?" he asked rhetorically, his eyes softening when he heard the familiar name from the past.

Lance Carpenter walked around the corner of his desk to within a few feet of his executive assistant, a matronly veteran administrator at Diversified Global Investment Bank who had been with him since his promotion to vice president two years ago. He spoke quietly, the irritation and tension in his voice replaced by a calm, confident tone. "Is my presentation all set in the board room, Arlene?"

"Yes, sir, eighteen slides. They're all ready to go. I checked them myself a few minutes ago."

Lance reached out and gently wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "Thanks, Arlene. I know I can always count on you." Together they walked to the door, and with a final pat on the back, he continued, "Mr. Evans and I were best friends in high school. You can tell him I'd be pleased to speak with him for a few minutes."

Arlene smiled and turned to leave, closing the door behind her.

Lance raised the cuff of his shirt and noted the time on his wristwatch. He briskly returned to his desk and sat down. With less than ten minutes to the start of the most important board meeting of his professional career, Lance Carpenter stared at the telephone and waited for Arlene to transfer the call from a high school buddy he had not seen for more than thirty years. "Lance Carpenter," he said after one ring.

"You sure run a tight front office, Mr. Carpenter."

"Well I'll be damned. A voice from the distant past, and I could recognize it anywhere, anytime. It's good to hear from you, Dee. How long's it been?"

"The last time I saw you was during the summer of 1978, the day you left Boulder for Boston. By the way, Arlene was very nice. I badgered her but she stayed calm, very professional. You've got a winner there."

"You got that right. She knows the ropes around here. Keeps me squared away, and that's tough to do these days."

Dexter Eugene Evans propped his well-worn loafers on the coffee table that sat in front of a crumpled sofa and his comfortable leather chair. An empty coffee cup rested on yesterday's edition of the San Jose Times. Wearing loose fitting jeans and a long-sleeved polo shirt, he settled his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes while he spoke. "My sources tell me things are going very well for you on the East Coast. You must like New England."

"So far, so good. There are no mountains out here, but life's been good to me. Are you still in Palo Alto?"

"No more. I moved my business to San Jose in 1991. We still have the home in Boulder." Dee leaned forward and plopped an elbow on his knee while continuing to talk on the cell phone. "My sources tell me you married a gal from New England."

"You must have a lot of sources."

"Is that true? You married?"

Lance stood up and said, "Yes, that's true. I've been married for twenty-four years now. We have two daughters-one is twenty-one and the other eighteen. But you know, Dee, I've got a board meeting in a few minutes, so I have to ..."

"You have to what? You have to hang up on your old buddy? Don't you even want to know why I called out of the blue?"

"Of course I do, but I really have to get moving to the board room. They always start precisely on time and I don't want to be late. Can I call you back later today?"

"Oh, you'll be okay. Just walk in and tell them you've been talking with a friend from high school you haven't heard from in thirty years. I'm sure they'll understand."

"To be honest, Dee, there's a lot riding on this board meeting. There are only two major agenda items, and I'm making one of the presentations. If it...