“Not on the outside, but on the inside. Like when you fall down and scrape your knee and your mommy holds you real close and kisses you. Your knee still hurts, but you feel better just the same. When they sing to me, I feel all happy inside.”
“Kind of like the Wiggles?”
Keith shook his head. “The Wiggles are just pretend. They’re actors, that’s all. The angels, they’re real.”
Ann’s face went pale. “Tammy, are you about done? I’ve really got to get back and put on the last coat of polyurethane, and I’ve got an early flight tomorrow.”
A few moments later Ann scampered out the door and back to her house like she was running from a stalker. Tammy knew the name of that stalker.
Truth.
The sun’s heat reflected on the windows twenty stories up. It beat down on the sidewalks and poured itself over dozens of people emerging from the subway tunnel. The air smelled of perfume and sweat, designer coffee and grime, all mixing with the energy of adrenaline and despair. The contradictions that were New York in the summer never failed to thrill Ann. The place where anything was possible.
By the time Ann rolled her suitcase through the doors of Marston Staging, she felt energized. “Hi, Jen.”
“Margaret wants to see you in her office the moment you arrive.” The grim expression on Jen’s face told Ann more than she wanted to know about Margaret’s current mood.
“Alrighty then.” Ann dropped her suitcase in the cubicle, then walked into Margaret’s office. “You wanted to see me?”
She stood. “Yes, I do. Patrick Stinson has called me a couple of times today. He said you aren’t answering his phone calls.”
“Margaret, I’ve been on an airplane. There are rules about having your cell phone turned off. Remember?”
“Well, you should have checked your messages as soon as you landed and he should have been the first call you made.”
“I did check messages; he didn’t leave one.” Ann looked down at her phone again to confirm. “No, no messages.”
“I should think it would be enough to see his number on the missed calls to know that you needed to call him back.”
Again, Ann looked at her phone. “I’ve got four missed calls, all of the caller IDs are marked private. What, do you want me to start calling Patrick Stinson every time I get an unidentified call on my cell phone? I’m sure that would go over well.”
Margaret sat in her chair, then leaned forward on her elbows, not one hint of defeat showing on her face. “One way or the other, I want you to call him at his office right now.”
“Of course I will.” Ann stood to walk back to her cubicle.
“Ann, a lot of people’s jobs are depending on this contract. You understand that, right?” “Yes, I got it. Loud and clear.”
“Good.”
Ann returned to her desk but took a minute for deep breathing before picking up the phone. Calm, clear thinking was mandatory right now.
She punched in his number. Two secretaries and three minutes later, she heard, “Ann, you’re back. I trust your time in Charleston was fruitful.”
“Yes, it was. I found a new supplier of artwork that I thought we might want to use for a couple of your units. I’ve got samples I could e-mail over.”
“I’ve never been one who liked to work by computer. I’m more of an old-fashioned kind of guy. I like to do my work hands-on. Know what I mean?” There was just a hint of innuendo in the question.
“Of course. Would you like me to put a copy in the mail then?”
“How about in person? Over dinner tonight?”
Everything Ann wanted was right here, wrapped up in the package that was Patrick Stinson. All she had to do was take the gift that life was offering her. So why wasn’t she answering him? Why couldn’t she make even a sound in response?
“I’ll pick you up. Seven thirty.”
“No.” Wow. Patrick Stinson had done the job for her, and still she fought it. What was wrong with her? “I mean, I couldn’t let you go to all that trouble. I have several errands to run in the city; I’ll meet you at the restaurant. Where did you have in mind?”
She could hear the sound of a computer keyboard in the background, so she knew he was still on the phone. He just wasn’t responding. Finally, he said, “Well, it goes against my old-fashioned nature,” he said, his voice smooth as silk, “but if you insist, meet me at La Maison at eight.”
“All right.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” He paused, and this was where Ann knew she was supposed to express how much she was looking forward to it too. She couldn’t bring herself to say it but did finally manage, “Yes, it’s always exciting to talk about new design ideas.”
He chuckled into the phone. “Tonight.” The line went dead.
It was almost seven when Ann arrived at her apartment building. Before she went upstairs, she stopped at her mailbox, something she normally wouldn’t do when she was in a hurry. It was stupid now, she knew that, but she’d grown fond of Keith’s almost-daily drawings. But she’d left Charleston only twelve hours ago, so this was obviously a waste of time. Even if he’d mailed one today, it wouldn’t be here. She turned the key in the lock and pulled the door open to find a stack of bills and a couple of flyers. Of course there was nothing.
She rode the elevator to the eighth floor, and as she walked down the hall toward her apartment, she could see a letter leaning against her door. On a yellow sticky note attached to a blue envelope, she read:
Ann, this was in my box by mistake. Welcome home. Christine
She let herself inside as she tore open the envelope. She pulled out a drawing that showed Ann with her hand extended toward a yellow blob beside her. It looked like she was holding a flat letter
m
. Behind what Ann knew to be the angel of the drawing, there was something that looked like a cylinder.
Well, this one was a little harder to decipher than most. She put it on the refrigerator, thinking maybe she’d have to take this one back to Charleston next time and have Keith explain it to her. Something inside of her ached at the thought. Well, she didn’t have time to think about that right now.
Despite the fact that she was going to be late if she didn’t move fast, Ann took extra care choosing her clothes. She wanted to look nice, but not overly appealing. She would play along with Patrick Stinson’s little game, enjoy it even, but she wanted contracts signed before this relationship took any sort of a personal turn. Black slacks and a white, quarter-sleeve, silk button-up seemed to fit the bill: professional, attractive, and traditional enough that it was neither trendy nor out of fashion.
She rushed out the door, hailed a taxi, and arrived at the restaurant at three minutes before eight. La Maison was a quaint café, candlelit tables, a pianist at a grand piano playing classical music. Patrick Stinson had not yet arrived, but the maitre d’ escorted Ann back to the table. A waiter immediately came to take her drink order. She wouldn’t drink anything that might impair her judgment tonight. “Just water, thanks.”
A few moments later Patrick Stinson arrived. “Ann, I’m terribly sorry I kept you waiting. I got a last-minute call from one of the developers on our team, and well, you know, crisis averted, but not without making me late to meet my beautiful dinner companion. I do apologize.”
“Apology accepted.”
He wore a black turtleneck under an expensive gray jacket. Something about the slight curl to his hair, combined with his left-sided dimple, gave him a boyish charm. That, coupled with his confidence, born of power, was so inviting. “I could hardly wait for you to get back into town.”
“Yes, let me show you some of the art I’ve found. Also we’ve recently acquired a couple of really nice pieces of furniture that I think will work well with your overall plan.” Ann pulled her portfolio out from underneath her seat.
He took it from her, his hand brushing hers in the process. “Let’s see what you’ve got here.” He flipped it open and began turning pages. “Looks good. Yes, it all looks great.” Then he looked up at her and set the portfolio aside. “I knew I was going to enjoy working with you.”
“We at Marston Home Staging work as a strongly cohesive team. It’s not just me; there are many people working on this project behind the scenes.” Even Ann knew the words sounded forced and stilted, but she needed to slow things down. She needed time to think.
“Yes. Well, I appreciate all those people working behind the scenes, but I’m really interested in your work, in the front scene, where I can enjoy not only your skill but your company.”
Ann watched the flame of the small candle at the center of the table. Every time the door to the café opened, it flickered and danced, totally at the mercy of outside forces. That’s what she was. A flame that simply danced at the whim of things she couldn’t control. She didn’t like the feeling. “Why don’t we talk about the office space? What do you have in mind there?”
“Let’s just say, for imagination’s sake, that we were going to put
your
office there. What would you want?”
There was a new undertone to his words that alarmed Ann. Still, she tried to pretend it wasn’t there. “Well, I think for your clientele, a nice Moura Starr Century desk—solid white with a white leather top. Absolutely stunning. A couple of white leather chairs with black trim to go with it, and I might consider adding a tango desk for conferencing—stainless steel and glass. It would be sleek, modern, and sophisticated. Add a couple of well-placed art pieces, and it would be perfect. I brought some pictures.”
“That’s not what I asked. I asked what
you
would want if it were
your
office.”
“But I’m not your client, so my ideal, and the ideal of someone who could actually afford to lease that office space, are not the same thing.”
“If it were your office, your dream office, what would you do?”
Ann shrugged. At least they were staying on the topic of work. “Well, I’d start with this amazing desk I spotted a few weeks ago. It has a scratched glass top, frosted cross-hatch pattern until the border, which is clear. It’s more like a piece of art than a desk, but what a thrill it would be to work on it. Then there would be glass shelves hung at uneven intervals, chrome accents, some carefully placed black articles just for some contrast, and perhaps a rug in a shocking bright shade just to spice it all up.” Ann could see the whole picture in her mind. It sounded wonderful.
“What if I said that office could be yours?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve been toying with the idea of starting my own staging company. It would save us money in the long term, because we spend a lot of money hiring out our staging. It would also give us another avenue of income, and when we staged for other developers, it would help us stay abreast of what the competition is doing.”
“I suppose that makes sense.”
“Yes, I think it makes a lot of sense. Now, back to that office of yours. Can you see your name on the door?” He leaned toward her across the table.
Ann looked into his eyes—deep brown and oh so sincere. Was he offering what it sounded like he was? “Well, I guess that depends. Would I be in charge of this beautiful office, or in a cubicle in the back?”
“Based on what I’ve seen so far, I find it impossible to imagine anyone but you heading it up.”
And there it was. Just like that. Even more than Ann had dared to imagine, right here within her grasp. “It sounds like a dream.”
He reached across the table and took her hand. “Dreams do come true sometimes, don’t they?” He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand. “You could start right now, you know, let the first job be the Stinson Towers project.”
“Well, I . . .” Ann looked at his hand on hers and knew there was a price involved. “I’d really prefer not to rush things, and I have a couple of coworkers that need their jobs at Marston. Why don’t we proceed a little more slowly?” She reached for her glass, wanting an excuse to remove her hand from his, and took more than a sip of water.
“Loyalty. I like that in a woman.” He polished off his scotch in a single swallow, then held it up as a sign to the waiter that he’d like another. “I’ll grant you there’s no reason to rush, but I’ve never been known for my patience either.” He grinned. “How about we start laying the groundwork now, and when we’re ready for the next project, we’ll be all set to go? Those coworkers of yours, they could be part of the deal too, you know. You’ll need a staff—bring them along.”
“Sounds perfect.” And it did. Almost. This job offer, or promise of a job offer, came with strings attached. Looking across the table, she saw a man with whom most women would kill to make a connection—string or otherwise. If this thing panned out, she could hire Beka and Jen, and they could all be free from the tyrant that was Margaret. She wouldn’t need to buy in either. The sale of the house would give her financial freedom like she’d never dreamed of. She would be crazy to hesitate. And yet . . .
Keep your head, Ann. Think this through
. Ann tried to concentrate on her surroundings, to just clear her head for a moment.
A woman stood talking to the piano player, her back to Ann. The pianist nodded at her and smiled as she dropped a folded bill into the tip jar and walked away. She didn’t return to her seat, however; she walked toward the exit where the outdoor lights lit up her auburn hair.
“You’ve fallen quiet. I can see that once again I’ve managed to bore a dinner companion with too much business talk, one of my shortcomings, I’m afraid. Let’s talk about you, Ann Fletcher. Tell me all about you.”
“There’s nothing interesting to talk about there. Let’s hear some of your stories.”
The music changed keys, and for the space of five heartbeats, Ann heard the song she never wanted to hear again. “It can’t be, not that song.” She said the words aloud before she realized she was doing it.
“Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 16, I believe.” Patrick Stinson nodded toward the piano player, who was now quite clearly not playing what Ann had thought she heard. “Did you know that although this is likely his most famous work, it was not published until sometime after his death?” He took a generous sip of scotch before continuing. “One of the things I find most interesting is that the opening bars were really made famous because Looney Tunes associated them with Granny in the Sylvester and Tweety cartoons. Ironic, isn’t it? A work that was never published by one of the most gifted composers to have ever lived became famous only after it made its way into cartoons.”