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office and opened his case. Nowhere to hang anything. He draped his gray slacks over the back of the chair. Ah well. She’d caught his reservation about the condo and was going to ask him to elaborate. Long ago he’d learned that when someone has a new toy she likes a lot, don’t criticize its imperfections. But the living room made him uncomfortable—something inharmonious about it. He picked up the phone, pressed Redial. Still no answer.
    Kyra, arms folded, was waiting. “I don’t think you’re impressed with the place.”
    â€œI am. It’s a great space.”
    â€œI don’t hear a lot of enthusiasm.”
    â€œNo, I like it a lot. Just . . .”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI guess, the furniture. I mean—”
    â€œAll top of the line.”
    â€œI don’t mean that. I mean it feels, well, a little out of balance.”
    â€œWhat’s that mean?”
    An edge now to her voice. Nowhere to back off. “That wall? It’s too short for the sofa. And the loveseat, I think it should be across from the sofa, not at right angles. Also, your dad’s chair, if you had it by the window, it’d be sort of relaxing to sit there and stare out.”
    She squinted. “I thought this was the most natural arrangement.”
    â€œNothing’s natural except when we make it so. Right?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    They spent the next fifteen minutes rearranging furniture, Noel’s mood forced light, Kyra’s from irked to neutral. Okay, the new layout didn’t look bad. And he was right about the chair.
    At five-thirty Noel tried Garth Schultz again. A woman’s voice came on, raised over a baby’s wail. “Garth Schultz, please.”
    The woman yelled, “Garth, phone!”
    â€œSounds like a madhouse,” Noel whispered to Kyra.
    Yes, Garth agreed, seven-thirty, supper would be over by then.
    â‰ˆÂ Â â‰ˆÂ Â â‰ˆ
    Andrei Vasiliadis stared out the large window of his fourteenth-floor office. Late afternoon sun glittered off Lake Washington. His arguments against the new headquarters for Cascade Freightways had nothing to do with the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows looking east and south. Just, he didn’t belong on Sand Point Way, and he didn’t like the fact that the head of the company had to be called a CEO and had to have an office in some ritzy building far from where the job got done. For thirty-six years he’d worked out of the warehouse down by the docks, just as his father had for nearly five decades. Down where the ships came in and the trucks got loaded. Even today, this minute.
    He still used that phrase, getting them loaded, but it was all containers now. Far from the old docks, the longshoremen strikes, the union halls, the fights. He’d weathered those times, had the scars, to the ego and some sewn-up cuts as well. He’d even weathered the container battle. First he was opposed, containers would kill the dockside jobs. Then, when he recognized the inevitability of it—a ship arrives with containers pre-loaded, crane them down, set them on trailers and they zip off on x-teen wheels—he bought in and did his best to placate those redundant longshoremen who were his friends, getting some of them jobs with Cascade.
    That’s what he was good at, helping people. And why Cascade had outlasted most of the competition. If you take care of your people they end up caring for you. As true for business as for the family. Your neighborhood, your Church.
    Sure, he knew the kids had to find their way. But where he could help, he did. Brought them into Cascade if they wanted, nieces, nephews, whoever. Didn’t have to become truckers, truckers have a hard life, some guys like it, some don’t. Vasily, his nephew, was strong, but Andrei wouldn’t put that kid on the road. Vasily had a different kind of strength, troubleshooting strength; Andrei could relax a bit knowing