“That’s great news.” And it was, but something about the stress in Margaret’s tone said something was not so good.
“Yes. Yes, it is. He’s having his lawyers look over the contracts, but apparently they are already backed up on another issue. He has asked that we go ahead and begin to get the groundwork done for the job in the meantime.”
“We don’t do that.” The words slipped out of Ann’s mouth before she thought enough to stop them.
Margaret stared back, her penciled-in left eyebrow cocked almost to her hairline. “Don’t we?” Her words were cold and hard.
“That’s your rule; obviously you know we don’t. We’ve never started work on a project before the contracts were signed and sealed.”
Margaret stretched her neck, tilting her head from side to side. “True. But we’ve never had a client with the clout of Patrick Stinson. If we can keep him happy and earn his business, the sky is the limit as far as what we’ll be able to do.”
Ann knew Margaret was right. She also knew that Patrick Stinson did not have the same incentive; he had no reason to make certain that Marston Home Staging was happy. Still, Margaret was the boss. If she wanted to gamble with her company, that was her prerogative—at least until Ann became a partner. For now, it helped Ann get what she wanted as well. “Okay, I’ll start getting things together.”
“Fine. By the way, next Thursday night the Stinson Company is having an open house at their new condo project over on Eighty-sixth Street, and Patrick Stinson wants us there.”
“Why?” They hadn’t been the designers on the job, and they’d already seen the pictures. It didn’t make sense.
“It doesn’t matter. He’s our client, our
biggest
client
ever
. If he wants us to come to an event, I don’t care if it’s his son’s bar mitzvah or his grandmother’s funeral, we’re going to be there.”
A nighttime event made the perfect setup for line-crossing relationships—something Ann knew she should avoid for the time being. “Do we both need to go?”
“As owner of the company, of course I’m going to go, and as the designer that Patrick Stinson specifically requested on this job, of course you’re going to be there.”
“Obviously, I would love to be there. It’s just that I was planning to leave for Charleston on Thursday night and take a long weekend.” These words were out before Ann realized it. Still, she decided that perhaps, in this case, it was better to face hallucination-inducing twelve-year-olds than the alternative.
“Next weekend? You’re thinking of leaving next weekend?” Margaret’s voice almost screeched, revealing a rare loss of control. “That is not acceptable. You need to change your plans because we need you to be at that open house. This is not the time to offend Patrick Stinson.”
Little did Margaret know, that’s exactly what Ann was trying to do—keep a safe distance and avoid any potential offense. “I could change my flight to Friday morning, I suppose, then come back Tuesday morning.” If Margaret knew the tickets had not yet been purchased—and in fact, the trip had not been planned—she would shut it down, and Ann couldn’t allow that. At least a next-morning flight gave her an excuse to leave the reception early.
Margaret rubbed her temples. “Am I to assume this will be the last of such trips for some time to come?”
“There might be more, but I’ll keep them as few as possible, and over weekends.” She paused, then added, “Of course, I’ll make certain to keep up with my projects here; I won’t let the travel take away from that.”
“This is the worst possible time for this. Couldn’t you let the house sit for a month or two? What’s it going to hurt?”
More than Margaret knew, but better to stay with concrete facts that she could understand. “Margaret, I believe we made a deal allowing me to buy in as partner, so I have plenty of incentive to seal the deal with Stinson. Besides, as I’m sure you recall, a few months ago I agreed to a sizable pay cut to help keep this company going without layoffs—and yet layoffs happened anyway. I’m barely making my rent and expenses right now; I can’t afford the financial burden of a second home.” Ann didn’t mention the fact that said home was paid off, and the only financial burdens were Internet, cable, electric, and water. “I’ll make certain the office can reach me at all times.”
“You’d better. Or else.” There was no hint of levity in her voice.
As Ethan pulled into Tammy’s driveway, he glanced toward the empty house next door. Just to make certain that things looked in order, that nothing appeared to be disturbed. Keeping an eye on the place, that’s all. It had absolutely nothing to do with Annie, or the still urgent feeling that he was supposed to help her somehow, even though she was in New York, and in spite of—or maybe because of—her fierce independent streak that refused offers of help.
Why was it that the more she claimed
not
to need help, the more determined he became to help her? Sarah’s independence never struck him that way, but with Ann, it was almost an obsession. Then, of course, there was the single freckle on her right cheekbone that he had the insane desire to touch.
No, none of that mattered. It was probably just old habit, since he’d had so many good memories over there when Sarah was alive, when he’d have lunch with Tammy, Keith, and Danielle on the patio.
Whatever you do, don’t ask Tammy if she’s
heard from her. You make one move toward weakness and more are sure to
follow
.
“Ethan, hi.” Keith was climbing down the steps, waving, before Ethan even got out of the truck. “You ready to play?” He held a small football in his hand.
Ethan climbed out of the truck and held up both hands. “You bet I am. Hit me, I’m open.”
Keith threw the ball, almost falling in the process. It landed several feet short. “Oh, man, I’m not very good at this. Sorry, Ethan.”
“Like I’ve told you before, buddy, even professional athletes warm up before the big games. I should have been closer for our warm-up throws.”
“Keith, didn’t I tell you not to demand Ethan’s attention the minute he pulled up?” Tammy was at the door now, fists on hips, looking a mixture of frustrated, amused, and exhausted.
Ethan held up his hands. “My fault. I told him I was open.”
Tammy rolled her eyes and smiled. “You could at least bring in the dessert first. Especially if you did the usual stop-at-the-grocery-store-and-buy-a-gallon-of-ice-cream-on-the-way kind of dessert. It’ll just sit in your truck and melt.”
“Who, me?” Ethan tried to look offended but was pretty certain he wasn’t pulling it off very well. “As a matter of fact, that’s not at all what I did. I brought homemade brownies, thank you very much.”
“You? Made brownies?”
“That’s not what I said. I said I
brought
homemade brownies.”
“Then who made them?”
“You know that colonial I’ve been remodeling? Their youngest daughter just graduated from high school, and they had a big family shindig last night. This afternoon they sent me home with a couple boxes of leftovers.”
“So you’re bringing recycled food?”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it that. It sounds so . . .
gross
.”
Tammy laughed. “Well, get me the brownies before they get all gooey.”
Ethan opened the passenger door and removed the plate of plastic-wrap-covered brownies. He nodded toward Sarah’s house. “This neighborhood is never going to be the same, is it?”
“No, it’s not.” Tammy shook her head. “I miss her so much.” She wiped at her eyes. “You want to hear something weird? Keith keeps talking about ‘Annie,’ and about angels watching over her, and I’ve realized I really miss Ann too. Almost as much as Sarah, which sounds really strange. I mean, maybe it’s just because Keith is sending her a new angel drawing every single day, and I’m the one mailing them, that she’s on my mind so much. I just met her, but somehow I just feel like she’s a part of this place. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”
Ethan understood more than Tammy knew. “Really? I mean, she seems to be a New Yorker through and through. Do you really think she could belong here?”
“Don’t you?” She asked the question point-blank. There was no mistaking her meaning.
“Well, I . . .”
No weakness. Don’t you dare give an inch
.
“Hey, Ethan, you ready yet?”
One thing Ethan could say about Keith, the kid had great timing. “Yes, I am, buddy.”
Ann’s computer screen cast a hazy green light around her cubicle. This place definitely needed better lighting—how was she supposed to get inspired while working in flubber-colored ambience?
“Have I told you lately how much I love you for landing the Stinson account?” Beka leaned over the partial wall that separated their work spaces. “Well, I know I told you yesterday, but have I told you today yet?”
Ann looked into the tired eyes of her friend, and in this moment, she knew that whatever it took, holding on to that account was worth it. “You can thank me if I come out on the other side still alive.”
Beka laughed, having no idea how much truth was in Ann’s words. “Yeah, right, Miss Cooler-than-the-Rooms-She-Designs.
I’ll bet you won’t even break a sweat. In fact, I’m guessing you already know exactly what you’re going to do for all twenty units on the ground floor. Am I right?”
It wasn’t until this very moment that Ann realized just how strong of a front she actually put on. It helped to calm her, though, realizing that not even Beka knew how terrified she was. “Almost.” No point in letting down her guard now. Beka needed her strength, and Ann would fake her way through it for as long as she could.
“Hey, I’ve got to take some things over to that penthouse by Central Park—you know, the one on Museum Mile. Would you have some time to come with me? I’m still not sure what to do with the terraces and I was hoping to get your opinion.”
“Like you have ever once liked the outdoor furniture I’ve selected for anything.” Ann grinned, knowing that Beka’s traditional taste did not run toward Ann’s edgy designs.
“I’m actually thinking more of landscaping. You’ve always had a good eye for proportion.” Beka looked at her. “Please? We can go walk around the Met during our lunch hour. They have an exhibit by one of my favorite artists, and there’re a couple of paintings I just can’t get enough of. It’s like they replenish my soul.”
Ann had a pile of work to plow through, but she knew that if she didn’t go, neither would Beka. If anyone needed to take some time to replenish, she did. “Sure, sounds good.”
“Thanks, Ann. You’re the best.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s what you always say after you’ve talked me into something.”
“That’s right.” Beka flashed a quick smile.
“Let me just finish what I’m doing. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“By all means, take your time. As Mrs. Crawford used to say in Design Development class, ‘Excellence cannot be rushed.’ Besides, I’m counting on your design genius to make us all rich and famous someday.”
Ann knew Beka
was
counting on her. Not for riches but for survival. She just hoped she’d be able to come through.
“Okay, come over here, check this out. Isn’t it amazing?”
Ann stared, trying desperately to figure out what Beka could possibly see in this painting. “Well, uh, it’s nice, I guess.”
“Nice?
Nice?
Ann, look at it. Can’t you just feel the emotion pulsating off the canvas?”
“Not really. Besides, it’s not canvas; it’s wood. See, says right here, ‘Oil on wood.’”
“Will you quit being so literal and look? Tell me what you see.”
“Well, I see a really pale, depressed-looking woman, holding a piece of paper in her hand.”
“Use your imagination. It’s a letter. Who is it from? Is it from her beloved, telling her he will return on the morrow?
The look on her face is not depression; it’s longing. She doesn’t have what she wants right now, but it’s coming so soon she can taste it. Her dreams are about to come true.”
“‘On the morrow’? Since when do you talk like that?”
“Not me. Her. That’s what she’s thinking, so that’s the way I said it. Lighten up.”
“I’ll lighten up, all right. Right over to the next painting. This one’s a little more my style. A city on fire. Yep, that must have been one big party.”
“Oh, stop it.”
“Look, it’s even the same artist, Camille Corot. She must have let loose a little in her later years or something. Instead of waiting for her love to return
on the morrow
, she decided to party like there
was no morrow
.” Ann had always loved teasing Beka, but lately, it was the only time she saw Beka smile. Ann stopped when she noticed a figure at the top of the painting. “Oh, wow, that’s an angel up there throwing down all that fire, isn’t it? Yikes.”
“Yes, it’s Sodom and Gomorrah, you doof. Now keep moving. See, here’s another of
his
pictures. He’s one of my favorite artists.”
“Camille Corot is a guy’s name?”
“His full name is Jean Batiste Camille Corot, if that tells you anything.”
“More than I cared to know, thank you very much. Come on, let’s go look at some modern art. My soul needs feeding too.”
“Wait, the next one is my other favorite—
Hagar in the
Wilderness
.”
Ann looked at the picture of a woman—a mother, probably—kneeling beside a child on the ground, who looked as though he might be dead. The mother had one hand in the air and the other on her forehead, crying in despair beside him. “What could you possibly see in that picture? It’s past depressing. It’s downright abysmal.”
“No, you’ve got to look at it, to see the whole picture.”
“Let me guess, you’ve made up a story to go with this one too.”
“Didn’t have to—it’s in the Bible.”
“Huh?”
“You know who Abraham is, right?”
“More or less.”
“Well, Hagar was Abraham’s servant—well, his wife Sarah’s servant—and when Sarah wasn’t able to have children, she had Hagar sleep with Abraham, to bear him a child. The boy lying on the ground is that son. His name was Ishmael.”
“Ew. What kind of wife would do that? And what kind of servant would agree?”
“Times were different then, I guess.”