Behr Facts

The minute I stepped into the office, my calendar warned me of a very long, very bad day. First stop, the accountant everyone recommended. Next up, Cousin Gary and my brother Ben, with brother Connor probably bringing up the rear. Then the abyss of paperwork—or rather, these days, computer catch-up. But first, the damn finances. “Where’s the money going?” I grumbled to myself as I sat and clicked through the worksheets for the last six months. Why didn’t they balance? As the head of Behr Construction, located east of Sacramento in the Sierra Foothills, I should know where every penny, nickel, dime, quarter, and, more importantly, every dollar was. If it had been spent, I should know what we got in exchange. The sheets for the last six months, from January through June, made no sense. On paper, we seemed to be spending twice what we needed to complete our projects. Given that the rate of inflation was down from its record highs, this didn’t compute. Shouldn’t our building costs be going down also? Instead, as far as I could tell, costs were still going up. What was I missing here? With an average of four to six hours of sleep a night, I was in the dark without a firm mattress, warm blanket, fluffy pillow, or a clue. When someone knocked at my office door, I hoped it was the help I’d recruited and not another problem. I was running out of patience, which wasn’t good for a six foot six, built-like-a-bear Behr. I tend to growl a lot when I’m overprodded. For the last few months, more often than not, I’ve been gruff with everyone. “C’mon in. It ain’t broke!” I yelled. What walked into my office wasn’t the nerdy pencil-pusher wearing glasses and a pocket protector I expected at all. Instead, he was tall, swimmer-thin, tanned, with striking blond hair and incredibly piercing sea-green eyes. Me? I’m all shades of brown. When I’m not working with my brothers or one of the construction crews, I tend to stand around and supervise. Everybody calls me the stoic Behr, but lately my stoicism was cracking at the seams. “I’m Abraham Behr,” I said as he walked up to my desk. “Ah, Mr. Behr,” the escapee from the sea said. His eyes twinkled. Twinkled. Nobody twinkles at me. “I’m Jeffrey Mason, CPA. Nice to meet you. This company built my parents’ and grandparents’ homes. It’s an honor.” A low noise came from my throat as I tried to banish his Pollyanna charm. I had to admit, however, he was a refreshing bit of beauty and pep, even if he was every Behr’s sworn enemy. I stood and reached across my desk to shake his hand and blinked in surprise. His grip was firm, and his eyes glinted in determination. Huh. Definitely not what I expected. “Call me Abe. Everyone does. Have a seat.” I pointed at what my younger brothers Ben and Connor called the hot seat. “You got a résumé?” He smiled happily, nodded, and dug into his—I don’t know what to call it—his purse? He handed me a couple of sheets of paper stapled together. I knew his references personally since I’d called them for a recommendation. I told them I wanted someone who not only was a good accountant, but also was discreet. I couldn’t let the community know Behr Construction was in trouble. Jimmy Patterson, owner of Penny’s Coffee Stop, said to talk to his business partner Felicity Long. Felicity hadn’t even hesitated before throwing the name Jeff Mason my way, with an e-mail address. Architect and interior designer Fredi Zimmer agreed with her. Both of them vouched for his numbers handling. Max Greene, Fredi’s husband, told me about Jeff Mason’s discretion. Before Max met the flamboyant Fredi, Jeff had somehow found out Max was gay, but he didn’t make this fact public. We were all surprised when Max, who’d once been engaged to a local girl, married Fredi instead. Just goes to show how little we knew those we’d gone to school with for years. I looked up from the résumé in my hand. The guy sitting across from me, for all his stunning looks and lean body, wasn’t a complete lightweight. He nearly looked me in the eye when I shook hands with him, not up like most people do, and his shoulders might even be wider than mine. He was older than I’d expected, not a recent college grad. “Don’t remember seeing you around town. Where you been?” I wasn’t trying to insult him, but was curious. From his résumé, I knew he was five years younger than me, so maybe that was why I hadn’t known him in school. Not to mention Behrs didn’t ever hang around with Masons. “Oh, I’ve been gone for a while. I was in Eugene to help my grandparents during high school. Went to U of Oregon so I could stay close and help,” he told me with a smile. “My mom’s dad had a stroke, and my grandma had never worked outside the house or taken care of the bills or anything. So I went. Family’s family, right?” His smile grew even bigger. I could feel a rumble building in my gut. “My father’s family has always lived around here. You know the house. Big stone one in the valley.” Right. The one my dad loved more than his own family. The one he kept trying to buy. Dad had built the house for Mason’s father and had fallen in love with both the building and the setting. It was the house my dad was convinced would save our family. When all was said and done, however, the house was Mason’s and my dad gradually lost interest in owning it. Love of the bottle will do that for a guy. The history of my dad and the house was legend to me and my brothers. After my mother left with a carpenter, my dad said she would have stayed if he’d owned the house. When my brother Dominic died at age ten in a skiing accident at Tahoe, my dad said Dom would have lived if we were in the house. The house gradually became heaven to my dad, and as far as he was concerned, he wasn’t worthy of angels. So here was one of them, one of the chosen, who grew up in the house where my life would have been better if only my dad had been able to buy the place. Jeff looked like an angel too. While I was just an old bear. Ah, well, couldn’t change our pasts now. Better to move on with the future. I looked at my work-rough hands. Then at Jeff’s accountant hands. The scars on mine reflected the dark patches in my life. I wondered if his long fingers and almost delicate-looking wrists hid any of his. “I don’t know how much Guy or Felicity or Fredi told you…” I paused to gather my words. He broke in. “Not much. Just that you needed help.” I don’t like to be interrupted. I know I speak slow and deliberate, and those who are quicker and more nimble-minded are often irritated by my unhurried pace. Could I work with someone who wouldn’t even let me finish a sentence? “Sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I thought it was a question.” Oh. I got it. I’d paused and he’d answered. Okay. Fair enough. “I don’t know how much they told you,” I started again. “There’s a leak somewhere in the company, and I want to find it and stop it.” I handed him a printout of the simplified quarterly finance report. He quickly scanned it and tapped the paper with one of his delicate fingers. “Yeah,” he said softly, as if speaking to himself. “You have a problem. What do you want me to do? How do you plan to find the leak?” I’d been giving the question a lot of thought, but hadn’t come up with anything yet. I was hoping he could just look at all the numbers and figure out what was going on. I said as much. He studied me for a few moments, long enough to make me uneasy. Nobody looked at me as if he were trying to see beyond my close-cropped dark brown hair and scruffy face, beyond my brown eyes, beyond my scarred and chapped hands, and into my heart and soul. Most people stopped at my heavy brows, at the bulging muscles that made dress shirts and suit coats look as if they’re painted on, and at my fire-hydrant neck, at the permanent scowl and large nose. Most people look down, away from me, and flee the first chance they get. When I gaze at them, they usually frown back. He didn’t bat an eyelash, but kept staring steadily, a slight smile on his lips. “How hands-on are you?” he asked finally. “Do you work around the office most of the time? Or are you out at the various sites?” I could understand how he might be confused. I was in a light blue button-down shirt this morning, not my usual white tee. But my hands told the true story. I held them up to show their work-worn and deeply lined state. One finger was wrapped in a bandage, covering where I’d pulled out a splinter after moving wood from a kitchen tear-out. My hands were nearly nut brown from their exposure to the sun. “Usually out on sites putting out fires or supervising, often working. This is the first time I’ve been in the office for any extended period since”—I couldn’t remember—”for weeks.” I usually did all the bookwork at home after hours. “Okay. Here’s how I think we should proceed.” He gave me what I’m sure he thought was a confident, reassuring smile. Since I don’t trust beautiful smiles—or beautiful people for that matter—it wasn’t working with me. Not to mention I don’t take direction well. I’m the boss. I nodded anyway. At this point I was open to suggestions. “You give me access to the books and I study them. Then I’ll go into the field and work with you on some sites. This way I can assess who does what. I’ll know how the company works theoretically from the books and how it works practically from the field. Then we can talk about your leak and your options.” I bristled. I hadn’t hired the man yet, so why was he telling me what I should do? On the other hand, why else would I hire him? He seemed to have a solid idea. I nodded. “Let me think about it.” I stood and he did too. “I’ll get back to you.” I stuck out my hand, and he gave me another firm handshake. He was still smiling the same beautiful, trust-me smile. It was a smile I’d seen countless guys give their girlfriends and wives, and knew to be as trustworthy as a flat-out lie. But damn if I didn’t want to trust him. I needed help, not more lies. Speaking of liars, Cousin Gary walked in a few minutes after Jeff left. My younger brother Ben was right behind him, almost like a tail. Cousin Gary is my Uncle Jack’s kid and six months younger than me. The story goes that when Gary and I were infants, we were placed in a playpen on our backs to sleep. Gary woke screaming and flailing and gave me a solid fist in the nose. Our rivalry began there. The only damn thing my father ever did right was go to a lawyer who wasn’t recommended by Uncle Jack for his will. In fact, he used a high-powered Sacramento lawyer who wrote unbreakable last testaments. My dad’s final wish was that I inherit the company, everything down to the last nail, even though I wasn’t legally of age when he died. Not only that, but a provision said no one in the family could start a business called Behr Construction or anything with the Behr name in it, within a two-hundred-fifty-mile radius of our family business. So when Uncle Jack couldn’t break the will, nobody in the family could start a new business and use the family name. They worked for me or they left the area. Consequently, Cousin Gary, with his shiny new engineer’s degree and contractor’s license, either worked for my company or adios. He first assumed he would get an executive positon and walked in like he owned the place. When I had him hauled into my office and explained the facts—he would be an employee only if I hired him, and he had to submit an application just like everyone else except my brothers—our love-hate relationship ramped up a couple a steps. Maybe a few floors. “So what do you need, Gary?” I greeted him. We didn’t shake hands. He just nodded and tossed a thick manila envelope on my desk, scattering the papers I had there. “Ben says you want to see the paperwork and sign off on it from now on.” He turned and eyed Ben. My brother was looking down at his feet and not at either one of us, a studious, considering expression on his face. “Ben says he can’t just sign off like he’s done before.” Belligerence rolled off Gary. “Yeah, I’m taking a more proactive role these days.” Mildness killed Gary, so I shot him with an overdose of placid. The redness in his face became brighter and his smile grimmer. I gestured to the packet. “The contracts signed and bills paid in there?” A quick nod was my answer. Gary’s eyes bored into me. His look screamed “I’m competent, dammit!” “Okay, then. That’s all.” My coolness should have warned him how angry I was. But no, not Gary, who rivals a six-by-eight in thickness. “That’s it? That’s all? You had me come all the way down here to hand you a bunch of paperwork?” I nodded, dropped my chin, and narrowed my eyes. Guess maybe my frown grew to Biblical proportions too. Gary got a clue and backed down. “Yeah, okay, right.” He glared at Ben, then turned and stomped out. I turned to Ben. “So what was that all about? What’s going on?” Ben sighed and sat in the hot seat. “f**k if I know. Gary’s just been acting weird lately.” He shrugged. “Could be he’s planning a company takeover?” Again, a shrug. We both knew Gary would never win unless I agreed to sell to him. Before I could comment, Connor walked into my office and sat next to Ben. Ben, who’s two years younger than me, is the quintessential good old boy. Connor, two years younger than Ben, is an old maid. Okay, not precisely an old maid, but a picky, long-suffering perfectionist, whose idea of the world and the people in it is shattered over and over again. Me? I’m the glue who keeps us together. I’ve been the head of the family since our dad decided what he could find in a bottle was better than what he had in his sons or his business. What he found was liver failure. I was in high school when I took over the company full-time. I managed to graduate, then went to California State University in Sacramento part-time, learning as much as I could about business. Around the office, I put up a facade of always knowing exactly what I was doing and what the company needed. I was big, tall, silent, and solid. I exuded leadership and confidence. I worked construction jobs with my brothers, and while they got their college degrees—which the company paid for—I added to my responsibilities. “So what’d the other guy want?” Ben slouched in his chair and put a heel on the edge of my desk. Five years ago I would have told him to get his f*****g feet off my desk. Today I knew it was a ploy to annoy me. I let it slide like I usually did now. “His name’s Jeffrey Mason. He grew up in the house.” Ben’s foot slammed to the floor as he sat up. “You’re shitting me. What’d he want?” he asked. “He’s an accountant. Max, Felicity, and Fredi highly recommend him. I’m bringing him on board to look into our finances. Maybe come up with another financial plan.” “What the f**k?” Ben nearly shouted. “You’re going to let an outsider—a Mason!—look at our books? What the hell’s wrong with you?” I ran a hand over my scraggly short hair, knowing it was probably standing straight up now. “I’m getting too old and too tired to do everything anymore. I can’t be in the field all day and look over the books every night.” As they both sat up and leaned forward, I added, “And I can’t put more on either of your plates. We got a lot of jobs to work on, so we’ve got to be on our best game.” I pointed to the scheduling board, where ten names were listed. Beside each name was a status square—the list going from contract to wrap-up, with stages like teardown, electrical, mechanical, inspections, and others in between. “I need you, Ben, to keep up with ordering and storage of supplies. Connor, I rely on you for scheduling. I know you guys are feeling the pinch too.” I sighed. The long days in the sun and the nights with spreadsheets weighed on me. “We got to work together as a team or this company folds.” They were both staring at me, their mouths open. “Damn,” Ben whispered, “I didn’t know you felt like this. I’m younger than you, old man. I could probably keep the books for the inventory.” Here was the hard part. I needed him to do more than pencil work. Besides, what if he knew who was skimming? Could I trust anyone these days? “No, what I need you to do is get us better teams. It’ll mean firing some of the cousins, guys we’ve been working with for years. We need teams who show up on time, work a full day, and don’t spend most of it waiting for the first beer, texting, or calling their friends. We need workers.” Now Ben was really staring. His chin was nearly on his chest. “Damn,” he drawled. “What happened to family? Loyalty? You want to just fire guys with wives and kids? What kind of employers do we look like then? Where do they go? I think it’s a hell of a bad idea.” “So you’re saying we should keep paying them for eight hours when they work six at most on a really good day?” I ran my hand over my head. “When we close the company for good because we’re bankrupt, they’re going to have to find jobs then. You want all of us going down with the ship together?” “We’re not that bad off!” Ben shouted. “How do you know?” I shouted back. We were getting riled up—two Behrs going at each other. Connor was sitting back, taking it all in as usual. He was the thoughtful one when he wasn’t directly involved in a fight, but the Mason name had even stirred him up. “Wait a second,” he broke in. “You want this Mason to come in and sniff around our operation? You’re going to have a Mason tell a Behr how to run this business?” Now Connor’s hackles were raised as much as Ben’s and mine. In a minute we’d be slugging it out if I didn’t do something to stop us. I pulled back in my chair, rolling it slightly toward the wall behind me. “One of you wants to take over, it’s all yours,” I growled. “I’m tired of juggling to make this company work. I’m thirty-two. I need to get a life.” My words stopped them cold. They stared at me as if I’d said something unbelievable. “You can’t quit.” They spoke as one. “Hell I can’t. We either let Mason help us organize, or one of you takes over and I’m out. What’s it going to be?” Did one of them want to take the blame for the company’s slow death? They stared at me and then each other. “Okay,” Ben said, “we’ll give him a try. But so help me, if he f***s up, I’ll pulverize him.” Connor nodded. “Good enough,” I said, wondering how all of this would play out. * * * * Only one cure for today’s tension. I closed up the office and walked to my truck. The office is located above a gift shop in Old Town, down the street from Stonewall Saloon and Penny’s Too coffee shop. Strong coffee sounded appealing as I strode to the truck, but I longed for something more potent than caffeine to smooth out my day. Fortunately, everything I needed was already in the truck. All I had to do was make a quick stop at my place, change clothes, and I was on my way. When I bought my house, it was a rundown clapboard structure with a really nice yard. Towering redwoods shaded the back, and a small stream ran along the edge of the property. I’d fixed up the house and built a gazebo on the banks of the stream. Most times sitting in the gazebo and listening to the music of the water flowing by might have been enough. But I couldn’t rely on its soothing help today. Fortunately, it was Friday, and this weekend wasn’t my weekend on call. I had two full days to prepare myself for a Mason to burrow into my life and take stock. Ben, Connor, and Cousin Gary thought they were the only ones upset, but they weren’t. I hated outside scrutiny too, no matter how handsome Jeffrey Mason was. If I knew my brothers, and of course I did, Ben would be in Dave’s Bar & Grill right now, bitching and moaning to one of his good buddies about his stupid big brother and lamenting that he was on call for the next two days. Connor would be hanging around the bakery, trying to get a date with whoever the new baker was, and then he’d head over to Charlie’s Corner to get the weekend started with a couple or three glasses of wine. I never could understand why either of them drank and got drunk. Hadn’t they been around our old man enough to know how f****d up drinking is? Hadn’t Ben had to pick up our dad and walk him home, clean him up, and put him to bed? Or had it just been me? I honestly couldn’t remember. All I knew was I wasn’t spending my weekend brewed up and upchucking on my bed and my house only to have a thick head on Monday morning. Got enough troubles without adding to them. I had better things to do.