A Scarlet Cord (15 page)

It was well after midnight when they were finally on the interstate headed back toward Silver Creek. Joel was silent, and Melanie soon drifted to sleep in the passenger seat beside him, dreaming of the glowing headlines that would appear in tomorrow’s newspapers.

“No!”

Melanie stepped back, mouth agape. “Joel? Why not?”

Sitting across from her on a barstool in her kitchen, he held up a hand in apology. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout, but … no, I don’t want the picture in the St. Louis papers.”

She stared at him. “Joel, what is wrong with you? It’s our engagement. You can’t publish an engagement without a picture.”

“You can put it in the
Chronicle
if you want to, but we don’t … we don’t need to put it in the bigger papers. We don’t even know anybody in the city, Mel.”

“Joel, half the people in Silver Creek take the
Dispatch
. And
you
might not know anyone in the city, but a lot of the designers and clients I work with won’t even notice it if we publish it without a picture. And you know my mom will want to put it in their papers out in California.”

She stood up and went around to rub his shoulders, trying to humor him, pouting just a little. “I’m proud of you, honey. I want to show off your handsome face.” She reached around his neck and patted his cheek affectionately.

But he shook his head and pulled away from her touch. “I’m sorry, Mel. Please don’t send pictures to the bigger papers.”

“Would you just explain why?” She picked up the photographs that were lying on the counter. They were candid shots that José Lorenzo had taken the night of the Addy awards. She’d laughed when José brought her the small stack of snapshots at work. Joel looked like a deer caught in the headlights in the first two shots, but then she had flipped to the next print and fallen in love with him all over again. The camera had captured that smile Joel reserved for her alone. It was a wonderful picture of both of them, and she had known immediately that she wanted to use it for their engagement announcement.

She walked back around the bar so she could see Joel’s face, search his eyes for a clue to his peculiar behavior. She knew he’d been under a lot of pressure at work with the building project, but surely it didn’t warrant the reaction she was getting now.

“Joel?”

“I … I don’t want to discuss it any more,” he told her, refusing to meet her gaze. “I don’t think it’s a huge request to make of you.”

“Well maybe I could agree if I had even a clue what your reason is.”

“I just don’t want my picture in the paper, okay?” He spat out the words like bullets, practically shouting now. “Put
your
picture in if you want to.” His voice softened a bit. “Don’t they sometimes do that … just use the bride-to-be’s picture?”

She stared at him. Her easygoing sweetheart had suddenly turned into a paranoid, raving madman. Why wouldn’t he tell her what was eating at him? Her tone was icy as she answered him now. “Joel, I don’t know what is going on, but there is something you’re not telling me.”

With his eyes downcast, he rubbed his fingertips in aimless circles on the countertop.

“Joel? What is it? Talk to me. Please.”

He shook his head, then kneaded his temple with two fingers. He still would not look at her.

A chill went up her spine. Something was terribly wrong. “You … you don’t need to worry, Joel …” Her voice began to quaver violently. She swallowed hard and started again. “You don’t need to worry about me putting the announcement in any paper because … because I don’t think there’s going to be anything to announce!” She burst into tears and fled the room.

“Melanie … Mel, listen to me.” He ran after her, catching up with her in the hallway and grabbing her arm, pulling her to himself. “I … You’re right. I’m sorry.” He leaned away and met her gaze, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry, Mel. I’m acting like a jerk. I can’t … I can’t explain why I feel this way. It’s just …”

She looked him in the eye. Agony was written on his face. “Joel? What is it? Are you … are you having second thoughts?”

“What? About us? About getting married? No! No, of course not.” He pulled her close again, stroking her hair. “I love you, Melanie. Nothing will ever change that.”

“Then what is it? Something is wrong. I know it.”

He swallowed hard and shook his head. “It’s nothing. I’m sorry. I just … I went crazy for a minute. Please … forgive me.”

She paused, searching his face, his eyes. He seemed sincere, and suddenly she felt foolish. She had been acting more than a little irrational herself. Maybe they both just had a bad case of prenuptial jitters. “I forgive you. I’m sorry I made such a big deal out of it.”

His eyes softened, and his demeanor changed. “Hey,” he told her, leaning down to kiss her forehead, “you put that announcement in any paper you want to. Shout it from the rooftops. Shoot, put it on CNN if you want to.”

She laughed then, but the laugh he gave in return rang hollow—like the emptiness that had begun to grow low in the pit of her stomach.

Thirteen

Rain pelted the roof of Joel’s Taurus. He cut the engine and cracked the driver’s side door far enough to slip his closed umbrella through the gap. Popping open the canopy, he slid from behind the steering wheel and huddled beneath the black umbrella while he fumbled with his keys, trying to lock the car. Melanie still teased him about it, but he never had grown comfortable leaving his doors unlocked, even here in Silver Creek, Missouri.

As he ran across the parking lot, dodging puddles, the wind drove shafts of cold rain at him. He wondered if the umbrella had been worth the trouble. Yanking open the wide front door of By Design, he shook off as much water as he could and left the open umbrella upside down in the foyer to dry. He wiped his feet on the mat and tried to brush the rainwater from his hair, then stepped into the reception area in front of the main design studio.

“Good morning, Joel.”

“Hi, Patty.” He smiled at the petite, blond receptionist and looked up at the mammoth clock on the wall behind her. “I hate to tell you, but it’s afternoon already.”

She swiveled her chair and followed his gaze. “Oh … oops. My mistake. Good afternoon, then. Is it raining hard enough for you out there?”

“Plenty, thanks. I shouldn’t complain though. It could be snow. It is February, you know.”

“Well, now that you put it that way, I take back everything I said at eight o’clock this morning when I was trying to blow-dry my clothes in the ladies’ room.”

Joel laughed, then motioned with his head toward the loft. “Is Melanie in her office?”

“I think so. Let me ring her.” She reached for the intercom.

Joel held up a hand. “That’s okay. I’ll just go up. She’s expecting me.”

“Well, here … you better take the elevator.” The receptionist reached into her top desk drawer and handed him a key on a thick wooden dowel. “Melanie nearly fell going up the stairs this morning. Her shoes were wet, you know. Those stairs do get slippery as all get out. I keep telling Harold not to wax them like he does, but you can’t tell that man anything.”

“Thanks, Patty.” He started toward the service elevator at the end of the long studio.

“You two have a nice lunch,” Patty called after him.

The elevator was at the top, so he turned the key in the lock. The century-old gears ground and grated, and the large car descended and settled on the ground floor with a shudder. The doors slid open, and Joel got in.

He rode to the top and stepped into Melanie’s office.

She greeted him with that smile he knew was reserved only for him. “Hey, you. I’m glad you took the elevator. I about killed myself coming up those stupid stairs this morning. My shoes were slick, and I lost my footing, and then I dropped my keys and just about went headfirst down the stairs trying to retrieve them.” She glared in the direction of the steep spiral staircase around the corner from the elevator.

“That’s what Patty said.”

“Oh, she told you?”

He went to her desk and leaned over to kiss her. “Well, I don’t think her version was quite so dramatic”—he ran a finger playfully down the bridge of her nose—“but I got the general idea.”

She captured his hand and kissed his knuckles. “Where do you want to go for lunch?”

“You don’t have anything to eat here, do you? It’s nasty out there.” He looked out over the rail to the opposite wall where rain cascaded down the grid of leaded glass windows.

“Hmmm. It wouldn’t break my heart at all not to have to go out in this. I might have some instant soup. I know I’ve got crackers. Here … I’ll go check. You put some water to boil in the microwave.”

“I think I can handle that.”

He took off his topcoat and spread it over the railing to dry, then followed her into the tiny kitchenette. She handed him a ceramic teapot. He filled it with water, put it in the microwave, and punched in four minutes. Gathering up napkins and plastic spoons, he took them out to her desk.

“Do you want chicken noodle or French onion?” she hollered.

He went back to the doorway. “I’m not picky … chicken noodle, I guess.” While he waited for the water to heat, he stood with his back against the doorjamb and watched her as she emptied soup packets into heavy mugs and arranged everything neatly on a rattan tray. He marveled at how her mere presence could turn a simple instant soup lunch into a feast. He loved her so much.

She turned and caught him staring at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” he smiled. “Just enjoying the scenery.” He lowered his voice. “Just thinking how much I love you.”

She set the tray down on the counter and curved a finger at him. “Come here.”

He went to her and took her in his arms, cradled her head gently to his chest, feeling a delicious warmth spread over him. “Mmm …” he murmured into her hair. “Who needs lunch?”

The
ding
of the microwave broke the spell.

“Saved by the bell,” he deadpanned.

She gave a breathy laugh and disentangled herself from his arms.

While the rain continued outside, they sat together at her desk, savoring the warm soup, laughing and talking, and enjoying just being together.

Finally Melanie dropped her spoon into her empty mug and stood to brush the cracker crumbs from her skirt. “Here, if you’re finished, I’ll take your dishes.”

He crumpled his paper napkin and put his dirty dishes on the tray. “I’ll get these. You go wash up or fix your makeup or whatever it is you women do after lunch.”

“Thanks,” she laughed. She closed the door to the rest room, and he heard the water running.

He took the dishes to the kitchenette, found some soap under the sink, and squirted a little into the mugs. Rinsing them, he set them upside down on the counter to dry and went back out to Melanie’s office to wait for her.

Below, he heard the quiet
whoosh
of the main door opening in the lobby and, a few seconds later, felt the draft it created reach the loft. Walking to the rail, he looked down through the plants to the receptionist’s desk. A tall potted plant blocked his view, but something about the voice that drifted up from the lobby made him take notice. The visitor stepped closer to Patty’s desk and the top of a balding head came into view. Joel could see a black umbrella clutched in the same hand as the man’s briefcase.

“Could you tell me where I might find the manager?” the man was asking. His voice held an unmistakable New York accent. Joel heard Patty tell him the manager was at lunch, but through the branches of the ficus tree, he watched her punch a button on her phone.

Joel started as the phone on Melanie’s desk rang. “I can get that,” Melanie hollered from behind the closed rest-room door.

Joel watched as the visitor stepped back from the desk and did
what every visitor to By Design did: He tilted his head and looked up, taking in the impressive view thirty feet up. Now with a clear look at the man’s face, Joel’s heart jumped, and he sucked in a tight breath. It was Larry Cohen, the man he’d run into at the Addy awards.
What was he doing here?

Cohen was the father of one of Joel’s former students at Foxmoor College. Joel had only met the man on a couple of occasions, but he did recall now that the family owned an advertising agency. The day after the Addy awards, disconcerted by his encounter with Cohen, Joel had looked up the name in a St. Louis telephone directory. A few discreet calls confirmed that St. Louis was, indeed, where Larry Cohen had relocated his business.

The family had moved from New York before Joel had had to leave Langston, so apparently the news of Joseph Bradford’s demise had traveled as far as St. Louis. The thought terrified him.

Melanie’s phone rang again, and Joel had to force his feet to propel him away from the railing. Frantically, he tried to decide what to do.

Melanie came from the bathroom, her lipstick fresh and her hair neatly brushed. She barely glanced his direction and hurried to pick up the phone.

“Yes? Hi, Patty. Okay … What did you say his name is? Oh yes. The Cohen Group. In St. Louis, right?”