No More Mr. Nice - By Renee Roszel Page 0,3

asked, “How’ve you been, Norman?” As soon as he’d uttered the question, he chuckled humorlessly. Obviously fatigue and his preoccupation with work were to blame for such an inane remark. A man in a hospital bed wasn’t likely to be in perfect health. “Sorry, I assume you’re not here for the haute cuisine.”

Norman’s laugh was more delicate than Lucas remembered, but the man was in his seventies, after all. Suddenly Lucas had an unruly craving to turn back time, for the old man’s sake. He wished Norman were stronger—and maybe a little less happy to see the boy he’d helped so long ago. As he soberly watched, Roxbury took a sip of the water Jess Glen had given him. When he moved to set it on his beside table, his gnarled hand trembled. “Afraid it’s practically a cliché, my boy. Fell and broke a hip. Then a pesky stroke complicated matters. I’m doing fine, but the doc says I have to stay laid up here for two or three more weeks to get strong enough for physical therapy.”

Lucas experienced a stab of sadness, but squelched it, murmuring the obligatory, “I’m sorry.”

Norman chuckled again, apparently unaware of Lucas’s unease. “Well, if you’ve got to be laid up, I suppose this isn’t such a rotten hole.” He smiled, seeming to take his misfortune in stride. Lucas mused again that Norman Roxbury had the kindest smile. He’d forgotten what gentleness radiated from the old man. He caught himself, and cursed silently. Blast it. That smile could make a strong man crumble and children believe in miracles. It could draw a person in to buy whatever wares he was selling. Let the buyer beware, Lucas cautioned himself.

Norman was truly kind, wholly good; but right now, Lucas couldn’t afford to be affected by his sweetness. He had to keep his wits about him, be single-minded and resolute. Besides, he wouldn’t really be refusing Norman. He’d only be postponing the favor—whatever it was. He needn’t feel defensive or guilty—not even in the face of that grandfatherly grin.

So what, if Lucas had been orphaned and left in foster care, and had been angry at the world, getting into minor skirmishes with the school and the law? So what, if Roxbury had come along with his Mr. Niceguy program, helping kids like him gain the incentive to stay in school and turn their lives around? So what, if he’d paid for Lucas’s college education, only requiring the promise of doing him “a favor” one day, in return? He wouldn’t be manipulated by that smile. Bottom line, he had people to answer to, a business to run. That smile be damned.

“My boy,” the old man said, drawing Lucas from his rationalizations. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

Lucas went tense, but didn’t interrupt. Maybe the favor wouldn’t require his immediate attention. Maybe it would be a bequest of money to some charity or other. Maybe he wouldn’t have to say no. He waited for Norman to explain.

“You remember the Thanksgiving Dinner and Retreat you attended some twenty-two years ago?”

Lucas nodded, apprehension clenching his gut. Thanksgiving was only a week away. Not now, his mind demanded, as though he could manipulate the slant of this conversation by force of will. Not now, dammit!

“Well, my boy,” Norman was explaining in his raspy voice, “as you can see, I’m not going to be able to handle my Mr. Niceguy project this year. So, I was hoping you could take over for me, with Jess as your assistant.”

Lucas’s hopes plummeted, but he didn’t speak immediately. He had to phrase his refusal as kindly as possible. While he worked it out in his mind, he flicked a glance at the woman and noticed she was again staring at him, biting down on her lower lip. Her expression was taut, and her fingers were beating out a rapid rat-a-tat on the purse in her lap. He couldn’t tell if she was worried that he would turn her boss down, or that he wouldn’t.

“Lucas?” Norman prompted. “What do you think, my boy? Can you help me out next week?”

The moment had come to gently let the old man down—at least for the time being. Pushing back another sharp twinge of guilt, he gave Norman Roxbury his most persuasive grin, positive the old guy—being a businessman himself—would understand about deadlines that involved millions of dollars in profits. “You know I’d be more than happy to help you, Norman—at any other time. Right now, I’m involved in