This is Iain Roberts' backstory; as such, it obviously doesn't carry forward Rob Andrews' story, or Ben and Shay's, but it does serve to flesh things out a little. I had intended it as a one-off while I'm trying to work around stuckpoints with my other protagonists, but I think he deserves better. My thanks to my quondam collaborator PhilipScrewdriver for letting me take characters and other material created for use elsewhere and reimagine them here. NB: all characters in the story engaged in any form of sexual activity whatsoever are 18 or older.
*****
I stood for a moment on the street looking up at the newest property in my portfolio, a mixed residential/commercial building known as Coventry Bay. The first two floors are an upscale mall called the Coventry Bay Centre (yes, really; that's what the original developers named it). Rising out of that great rectangle is a 16-story diamond-shaped tower (with rounded corners) officially named the Cerulean Tower at Coventry Bay; it's mostly referred to simply as the Cerulean--except by its residents, who generally call it the Blue Diamond. (A small handful call it the Almond.)
Coventry Bay was an overly-ambitious project for Clarksburg; it did eventually start turning a profit, but by that time the developers had already gone bankrupt and sold it to me for a fraction of what they had put into it. It was on the verge of profitability at that point, but they were so far in the hole, they had no other option. When market conditions shifted just after I bought the complex, it quickly became very profitable indeed.
It also provided me a significant secondary benefit, because the developers had provided themselves with a large office space in the complex which connected to both the mall and the apartment lobby. My company, RA/Coppergate Properties, Inc., was growing and needed more space; since the Coventry Bay offices were more than sufficient, I moved us in lock, stock, and barrel. My employees regretted the loss of windows, but most agreed that having all the shops and restaurants right outside made up for it.
They also appreciated having their own secured parking area within the underground garage, which came complete with a private elevator. It's quite a large parking area, in fact, with more spaces than we need--especially as (to my employees' amusement) I often don't use mine. The Regis-St. George Social Club (which, despite its name, is more of a community foundation than anything) is only a ten-minute walk from Coventry Bay, and as a longtime member who has served several times on the board of directors, I have a spot in the garage of that building as well. When the weather is good, I prefer to park there and walk the rest of the way. Maybe it's eccentric of me, but I like it; the walk gives me a few minutes of fresh air before going into the office, and it helps me feel more connected with what's going on in and around the complex.
That day, however, I had an additional reason: I didn't really want to go to work. I made myself go, but I couldn't make myself keep up my usual brisk pace. Instead, I dawdled, putting off my arrival as long as I could. Atop my to-do list was to meet face to face with several tenants to warn them they were in danger of eviction for failure to pay rent. I loathe giving that warning, but it has to be done, and it feels like my responsibility to be the one to do it. On the one hand, it seems abusive to me to dump the hardest stuff on my employees just so I can do something more pleasant. On the other, if there are any mitigating circumstances, or if there's some way for them to work their way back into the black, I have authority to make decisions on the spot which my employees don't have. Even so, too many warnings are followed by evictions--and while there have been a few tenants I've been happy to evict, there haven't been many.
As such, I was in a brown study when I walked through the Cerulean entrance into the apartment lobby. I was so wrapped up in my thoughts, I didn't realize someone was calling me until I felt a tap on my shoulder. I jumped and spun to see the quizzical face of one of my favorite tenants, Ben MacMillan (apartment 901). He put out his hand and I took it, shaking myself a little; his other arm was around his girlfriend, Shay Reeves. Shay's another favorite of mine, now that she officially lives here... and thereby, as the Bard said, hangs a tale.
I inherited Ben and his flatmate, Ted Vavros, when I bought Coventry Bay. I didn't like having Ted in the building. For one thing, he wasn't formally one of my tenants, he was subletting a room from Ben. When I took over, I added a clause to the standard agreement forbidding subletting, but it wasn't in the contract Ben had signed, so there was nothing I could do about it until the lease ran out. For another, Vavros was a louse. If I'd had to make a permanent exception to the subletting ban to keep Ben as a tenant, I would have done it, but only because I valued him even more than I despised his flatmate.
I was immensely pleased when Vavros shot himself in the balls (metaphorically speaking, more or less). He was gone, and Shay was a huge improvement. What's more, she signed the lease agreement along with Ben, so no more sublet.
While Ben was looking at me with concern, it was Shay who spoke first. "Iain," she asked, "are you okay? You look disturbed."
Ben flipped a small grin at his girlfriend. "Well put, love," he commented. "
Disturbed
is the perfect word." He looked at me and asked, "What's weighing on you? Can we help?"
Ben's a counselor of some sort--get him to tell you, I don't understand it--but I knew his motivation was mostly simple friendship. The man has a big heart. I released his hand and smiled at them in fond gratitude for their concern. "I have a round of default warnings to give," I sighed. Ben cocked an eyebrow at me; I grinned a little despite myself and explained. "I have a number of tenants who are far enough behind on their rent that they stand at risk of eviction. I have to give them formal warning, and then I'll try to work out a way for them to recover."
Ben and Shay both nodded slowly. "I understand," Ben said quietly.
"We'll be praying for you," Shay added gently. Ben gave her a thoughtful look, then looked back at me with a small nod.
"Thanks, you two," I responded, reaching out again to take one of each of their hands. "I appreciate it." I smiled, feeling my heart lift just a little. "Where are you off to?"
"Oh, just running errands," Shay told me. "But we're both free, so it's more fun to do them together."
"I agree," I said. "Well, thanks again for asking; I suppose we should all be about it. I'll see you both later." They nodded, and we went our separate ways.
When I got to my office, though, I procrastinated. Seeing Ben and Shay together reminded me of all I'd lost, sending me slipping back into melancholy. At 36, I was four years a widower, but I hadn't really moved on. I'd dated some, but never seriously; mostly I'd poured myself into the company. I just tried to keep myself so busy that exhaustion carried me to sleep without giving my soul a chance to ambush me with things I didn't want to see or think about. The days when busyness just wasn't enough... those were hard.
That spirit of nostalgia is probably why I decided to do something I hadn't done for a long time: dig into the archives of Birch Residential Development. Birch was the ancestor to Coppergate, and the company that launched my career.
I graduated from Barron State University with a degree in journalism. My long-term goal was to be the Gary Smith of the American political beat. (If you've never heard of him, just Google "Gary Smith" "Sports Illustrated"; he was amazing.) My senior year, I interned at a small publication here in Clarksburg, and the internship went well enough that I was offered and accepted a full-time job; I was scheduled to start work three days after my last final. I figured I had my feet on the first rung of the career ladder and I was on my way.
Instead, two hours after that last final, I found out the publication had folded. I was out of a job, which meant I didn't have the income to afford the apartment I'd found for myself. The resulting scramble for employment sent my life in a completely different direction from anything I had imagined, let alone planned. I felt I had to take the first job I could get, which turned out to be a position as a building manager for Birch.
As I sat in my office some fourteen years later, my half-hearted goal for cracking the Birch archives was to see if the old lady had had any ideas which might help me work with my delinquent tenants. The first thing I found, however, was something I'd forgotten even existed. The day I began the fateful job that launched my unplanned career, I started writing a running account of my life. It seemed like a way to deal with my disappointment; it quickly turned into something quite different.
*****
I look around my new apartment and remind myself to be grateful.
I am
, I think with a sigh.
It's just...
