Free The LeBaron Secret by Stephen; Birmingham Page A

hard at the surface of his desk. “Yeah, well, one of the things I’d like to do right now is my alleged job as marketing director of Baronet.”
    â€œBut she won’t let—”
    â€œShe does happen to be the president of the company, M’lou.”
    â€œIt’s just that I can’t stand seeing her use you as her—whipping boy!”
    â€œAre you calling me a pantywaist?”
    â€œNo! You’re one of the brightest, most talented men I’ve ever known. But that woman—”
    â€œThat woman also happens to be my mother.”
    â€œOf course! And of course you love her. But any mother who loved her son wouldn’t treat him this way.” The ice beneath her feet grows ever thinner, but she plunges on. “It’s just—it’s just that I wish you’d let me take you to my Assertiveness class, Eric. We’re into some consciousness-raising stuff now. We meet every—”
    â€œYeah, well, I don’t think I need your Assertiveness class, M’lou. Thanks, anyway.”
    â€œI’ve made you angry, haven’t I? Oh, Eric, I’m sorry! But it’s just—it’s just that I thought you were asking for my opinion.”
    â€œYeah, well, I’ll handle things. Don’t worry about me, M’lou.”
    She laughs unhappily. “It’s my Assertiveness class, I guess. It’s made me too assertive. I’m sorry.”
    â€œI just don’t want you getting any gray hairs over this. Leave things to me, okay?”
    â€œOf course, Eric.”
    They sit in silence for a while. Miserably, she thinks: I have made him even more upset.
    He thinks: This is all my fault for bellyaching to her in the first place.
    â€œWell—” she says, and with the fingers of her right hand she flicks an imaginary ash from the skirt of her blue silk suit. Then she uncrosses her long legs and stands up. “Well, I’m skipping lunch today, so I’ll be right outside if you need me for anything.”
    â€œThanks, M’lou.”
    â€œCan I order a sandwich for you?”
    â€œUh—no, thanks.”
    She hesitates. “Will I—be seeing you tonight?” she asks him.
    Still frowning, he shakes his head. “I think—not,” he says. “I’ve been getting some grief on the home front, too. So I think I’d better say not.”
    â€œPoor Eric.”
    He looks up at her.
    â€œTomorrow, maybe?”
    â€œWe’ll see,” he says.
    â€œI’m sorry if I made you angry. Really sorry.”
    â€œNo, not angry.” He smiles at her faintly. “Skip to M’lou,” he says. “Skip to M’lou, my darling. Skip to M’lou, my dear.”
    She tries to return the smile. Then, slowly, she turns away from him and moves across the room on her slender high heels. At the door she hesitates again. “Shall I leave your door open or closed?”
    â€œClosed, I think.”
    She opens the door, lets herself out, and then very quietly closes the door behind her.
    Alone in the office, Eric thinks: Skip to M’lou. And then thinks: In this direction lie only frustration, confusion, and despair. He has just decided to give her up. For the third time this week.
    He sits for a long time in the empty office, staring at the hunting prints (pink-coated hunters pursuing the fox) without seeing them, avoiding with his eyes the low table against one wall, where, in three matching silver frames inscribed with his initials, the photographs of a blonde wife and two pretty daughters smile at him with expressions of remarkable self-assurance and confidence, none of them in need of an Assertiveness class.
    Finally, he reaches for the telephone on his desk, lifts the receiver, and presses a short series of musical numbers. When a woman’s voice answers, he says, “Gloria, may I speak to my mother, please?”
    â€œI’m sorry, Mr. LeBaron, but Mrs. LeBaron has