My Man Pendleton(6)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

“Thank you.”

She dipped her head forward in silent acknowledgment, and Pendleton stiffened a bit, uncomfortable with her display of deference. He wasn’t much one for being deferred to, mainly because he wasn’t much one for deferring. Unless, of course, his paycheck depended on it, but even then, it stuck in his craw. He gazed toward the door the housekeeper had indicated, but paused before taking a step.

He hadn’t bothered with the Kevlar that Chang suggested, but he had opted for his Brioni pin-stripe. Now he ran a hand quickly over the finely woven, charcoal-colored wool, nudged a little tighter the Valentino necktie knotted expertly at his throat, and made his way toward the room Mrs. Mason indicated. The sweet aroma of old books and cigars met him first. Then he entered a room furnished in Early Rich Guy, occupied by four of the more contemporary versions.

The library was small when compared to the brief sample he’d seen of the rest of the house, but it was still bigger than the studio apartment Pendleton had occupied while he was in college. Nevertheless, intimacy prevailed here. The ceiling was low and decorated with ornate molding, and the walls on three sides were covered with shelves—most of them crammed full of books in every color and texture available. Interspersed with the books were more knickknacks, more family photographs, more antiques. Another massive Oriental rug, this one spattered with rich jewel tones of emerald, ruby, sapphire, and topaz, spanned much of the floor, while illumination came from twin torchieres of brass and milk glass that stood sentry on opposite sides of the room.

“Pendleton!” McClellan, Sr. greeted him the moment he rounded the entry. “There you are, at last.”

“Am I late, sir?”

McClellan, Sr. waved a cigar gregariously through the air. “Not at all. You’re right on time. Cigar?”

Pendleton had actually always preferred Marlboros, but he quit smoking almost five years ago. So naturally, he now nodded enthusiastically at his employer’s offer. “Thank you, sir.”

“They’re Cohibas,” his host stated, as if Pendleton should know what that meant. “Would you prefer a Churchill or a robusto?”

“Uh…”

This was going to be tricky. The Cult of the Cigar was an aspect of corporate life that Pendleton had never embraced, even when he was a part of corporate culture. Although he recalled that Churchill was a prominent figure from twentieth-century British history, he couldn’t imagine smoking the man. And, of course, he had no idea what a robusto was.

Finally, he replied, “Why don’t you choose for me, sir?”

McClellan, Sr. nodded his approval as he headed for a small wooden box that sat alone on a table near an oxblood leather chair. “All right. You seem like the robusto type to me. And these are very mild. You’ll love them,” he added as he deftly snipped the end off the cigar with a tiny pair of strangely shaped scissors.

“Thank you, sir,” Pendleton said as he took the proffered cigar.

He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger as McClellan, Sr. had done upon removing it from the box, then, because he’d seen James Bond perform the gesture in movies, he lifted it to his nose for an idle sniff. What exactly he was sniffing for, he couldn’t have said. But the cigar did have a pleasant, bittersweet aroma.

Holt McClellan, Jr. stepped in with a flick of what appeared to be—and doubtless was—a solid gold lighter, and Pendleton puffed robustly on his robusto with what he hoped was acceptable relish.

McClellan, Jr. was the oldest of four sons, Pendleton knew, and, judging by the little scene with his father earlier in the day, the younger McClellan seemed to be agreeable enough. Probably in his mid-thirties, the junior was clearly planning to take over the reins of Hensley’s upon the senior’s retirement. Likewise, it was clear that the senior McClellan was grooming his namesake for just such a scenario.

“What do you think?” McClellan, Jr. asked after Pendleton enjoyed a good half-dozen puffs.

As fluent as Pendleton was in Corporate-speak, he’d received no education at all in Cigarese, so had no idea how to reply. Finally, he expelled a stream of fragrant white smoke and replied, “That, McClellan, is one fine cigar.”

“Pendleton, I’d like you to meet my other sons,” McClellan, Sr. interrupted. “Holt, as you probably know, is the oldest. Mick, my second, is currently unavailable.”

“Unavailable sir?”

“Last we heard, he was hugging the side of some mountain in Tibet. That was a good month ago. God only knows where he is now. Transylvania maybe.”

“Transylvania, sir?”

“He’s working his way around the world in alphabetical order,” McClellan, Sr. said.

Pendleton arched his brows in surprise. “Wouldn’t it be more prudent to go around the world in a more, ah, geographical manner? East to west? North to south? That kind of thing?”

“Well, Mick never did like doing things the easy way,” his employer stated negligently. “Says it’s not manly.”

“Ah.”

McClellan, Sr. moved toward a sandy-haired son who appeared to be about Pendleton’s age. But instead of the corporate uniform of suit and tie, this younger McClellan was dressed in a pair of baggy, cognac-colored corduroys and an even baggier, burgundy-colored sweater. Chic tortoiseshell glasses were perched on his nose, and his dark blond hair was bound fashionably—or perhaps rebelliously, if one was a McClellan—in a shoulder-length ponytail. Like his father and brothers, he was armed with a cigar, and he was clearly not afraid to use it.

“Dirk, here,” McClellan, Sr. continued as he clapped a hand over his son’s shoulder, “is a professor of men’s studies at U of L.”

“Men’s studies, sir?”

Belatedly, Pendleton realized he had asked the question of his host, and not of the man who could more accurately answer it, thereby dismissing young Dirk in a manner that showed Very Bad Form. After voicing the question, Pendleton sensed instinctively that he had committed a grave faux pas. He also sensed it by the way Dirk stiffened and clutched his drink with enough force to whiten his knuckles.

And also by the snippy tone in the other man’s voice when he assured Pendleton, “Men’s studies is an extremely important part of the liberal arts curriculum at U of L. It’s an area of scholarship that’s been sadly neglected for far too long, on campuses across the country.”

In comment, all Pendleton could manage was, “Ah.” In no way did he mean for the remark to be encouraging.