My Man Pendleton(3)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

Things would be different this time. Holt McClellan, Sr., the CEO of Hensley’s, and the head of the family that had run the distillery for more than a century, was crazy about him. Although he had been a bit surprised to find himself seated across from the Big Guy himself when he interviewed for the position, he was fully confident he won the old man’s approval. And although he didn’t kid himself that someday he’d take over as CEO himself—Hensley’s was, after all, a family-run business, and McClellan had five kids, one of whom was a VP himself—he knew he could be happy there for some time. Or, at least, until he had proved his point.

His new home was the land of Bourbon, tobacco, and thoroughbred horses, the greatest trio to come along since wine, women, and song. What wasn’t there to like here?

Pushing away from the kitchen doorjamb, he sauntered slowly back toward his living room. His boot heels scuffed softly over the hardwood floors, and his nose filled with the combined fragrances of old dust and neglected fireplace. He absorbed the quiet, the solitude, the darkness. And he felt very, very good inside.

A new life in a new place for a new man. Nothing but blue skies and smooth sailing ahead, he promised himself. He decided to overlook the fact that the sky had been gray since his arrival and that he’d never sailed anywhere in his life. Because hey, what could possibly go wrong?

Something was very, very wrong.

As he folded himself into one of thirteen chairs that surrounded the long, mahogany table bisecting the boardroom of Hensley’s Distilleries, Inc., the hair on his nape leaped to attention. And it had nothing to do with the haircut on which he’d spent more than he normally paid for a good lube job. There was definitely something strange about the entire collection of Hensley’s executives, something that bothered him significantly. He just couldn’t quite say what it was.

He watched as Holt McClellan, Sr., CEO, seated himself at the head of the table beside his son, Holt McClellan, Jr. “Gentlemen,” the elder McClellan said, clearly unconcerned that his greeting excluded the solitary female who sat at the other end. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, sir,” the executives replied with all the precision of a Broadway chorus line.

McClellan, Sr. sifted through a small stack of papers before him as he announced, “I assume you’ve all heard by now that we’ve filled Riordan’s position. Pendleton is our new VP in charge of finances. I hope you’ll all make him feel welcome.”

Pendleton, he repeated to himself. Corporate America, he recalled now, had an Ellis Island-like habit of changing the names of its citizens. Simply put, no one had a first name in this particular country. Only a last name, a career label, a personnel number, and a tee time. Pendleton, he supposed, he would be from now on.

“Thank you, sir,” he said to his new employer. McClellan, Sr., who most closely resembled a white-haired Burt Lancaster playing his most eccentric role to the hilt, bowed his head in silent acknowledgment of Pendleton’s gratitude. Pendleton did his best to not throw up.

The other executives nodded and welcomed him quietly, but somehow their greetings seemed a bit strained. Pendleton shrugged off his odd feeling to new-kid nerves, greeted them quietly as a group, then turned his attention back to his employer.

“We have a lot to cover today,” McClellan, Sr. continued. “We’re launching our new ad campaign next month, and with this new FCC ruling, we may very well be returning to television. Carmichael is handling that and will give us her report shortly.”

He nodded toward his sole female executive, who nodded back in silence, each of their expressions somber and intent. Suddenly, Pendleton wondered if there was some kind of secret handshake or something that he should have learned in training.

“Also,” the CEO went on, “as much as I hate to give in to the annoying little buggers, I honestly don’t think we can ignore the Louisville Temperance League any longer. Though what those people think they’re going to accomplish in this day and age, I can’t begin to imagine.”

Beside him, McClellan, Jr. grunted something that Pendleton assumed was an agreement. He himself couldn’t recall hearing the word temperance uttered by anyone anywhere in oh, say…his entire lifetime.

“For now, though, I’ve decided to let Holt, Jr. handle them,” McClellan, Sr. continued.

Much, evidently, to his son’s surprise. Because McClellan, Jr. turned to face his father as the other man was making the announcement, his face etched in obvious surprise and consternation. In profile, Pendleton noted, the two men looked almost exactly alike, save the evidence of the twenty-five or thirty years separating them that McClellan, Sr. clearly wore with honor. McClellan, Jr., even sitting, was as tall as his father, as good-looking, as blond as the senior had probably been in his youth. He also appeared to be every bit as capable, as self-assured, and as intimidating as his old man was.

“Hold on,” he said to his father without a trace of deference, something that went a long way toward putting him on Pendleton’s list of people to be admired, a list that was none too lengthy. “Just when were you planning on telling me about this?”

The elder McClellan eyed his son with much impatience. “I’m telling you now.”

“Oh, well, thank you so much for the warning,” the younger man said sarcastically.

“I had to tell you sooner or later, Holt,” his father retorted with equal sarcasm. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t know what the hell you’re doing.”

McClellan, Jr. ignored the jab. “And do you think it’s wise to put me in charge of something like that?”

McClellan, Sr. shot his gaze abruptly—anxiously—around the table before pinning it back on his son. “And why the hell wouldn’t it be wise, son?”

McClellan, Jr. narrowed his eyes at his father, and a single muscle twitched in his jaw as he clenched his teeth. Hard. This, Pendleton thought, was getting interesting. He’d never worked in a family-run corporation before, though he’d heard tales from colleagues in like positions. He’d always wondered how true to life TV shows Dynasty and Dallas had been. Not very, evidently, he thought now. Because the weighted responses of the two McClellans were proving to be far more entertaining than the reruns of either of those TV shows were.

McClellan, Jr. was the one to break the standoff, though when he did, his words were in no way successful in cooling the antipathy burning up the air between the two men. “In light of the, uh…" He suddenly seemed to remember that the room was full of people—people who were focused very carefully on the byplay—because he quickly arced his gaze around the table, in much the same way his father had before. Then he glanced back at the elder McClellan and lowered his voice a bit. “In light of the…situation,” he said meaningfully. At least, Pendleton assumed it was meaningful to somebody. “Don’t you think it might be more appropriate for someone else to handle this?”