George looked toward the empty chair at the opposite end of the table. "David Brooks."
He explained that David had returned his call after years of silence and agreed to review the company's financial position. Other investors wanted valuable pieces: patents, real estate, supply contracts, and the chance to resell profitable divisions after a bankruptcy. David asked a different question, one George had not been prepared to answer: how many people would lose their jobs, and how much of their retirement money could be protected?
"He had enough money to buy the parts he wanted after a collapse," George said. "I asked him not to. We spent six weeks working through an investment that preserved the Charlotte operation and protected the employees instead of maximizing what he could extract."
Clare swallowed. "He saved the company."
"He helped save the people whose work made it worth saving. That's a more important way to remember it."
A soft knock came at the door. The assistant returned, her expression carefully professional.
"Mr. Bennett, Mr. Brooks has arrived. He and Ms. Mitchell are coming up now."
Clare pushed back her chair. "I need a minute."
"No," George said. His tone was gentle but final. "You've had days to decide who that man is without knowing anything about him. Now you can stay and learn."
The elevator indicator outside the glass wall moved from twenty-three to twenty-four. Clare watched the numbers change, remembering David's open hands, the calm way he offered the registration, and the small sadness in his eyes when she accused him of stealing the compass. The doors opened, and Sarah Mitchell stepped out carrying a leather portfolio.
David followed her in a simple charcoal suit and white shirt without a tie. His hair was neatly trimmed, but his expression was the same composed expression Clare had seen in the driveway. The brass compass hung from his keys, its worn metal bright against the dark leather of his portfolio.
George stood to meet him. For a moment, both men looked at each other without speaking, as if acknowledging years of conversation and silence in a single glance. Then George noticed the compass and smiled faintly.
"You kept it," he said.
"Nineteen years," David answered.
"So did I."
George opened his hand, revealing compass number one. Clare stared at the two small objects, at the scratches that marked different journeys, and at the way her father greeted David as an equal rather than a visitor. She had wanted to investigate the man because she could not explain his money. Now she was about to learn that her own position in the company depended on a history she had never troubled herself to understand.
Thomas Bennett stood when David entered, followed by Rachel. Sarah took a seat at the end of the table and placed her portfolio beside her chair, while David chose the empty seat nearest the windows instead of the prominent chair at the head. Clare noticed the choice. It was the sort of detail she might once have interpreted as a calculated display of modesty, but after hearing George's account she was no longer certain what the man intended to communicate by doing nothing at all.
David greeted each person by name. When he reached Clare, he paused just long enough to acknowledge her presence. "Good morning," he said, without accusation or satisfaction.
Clare felt a flush rise into her cheeks. He had been this polite in the driveway, too. She wondered for a moment whether politeness was a weapon he used to make other people look unreasonable, then recognized how quickly she had returned to inventing motives for behavior she did not understand.