Conundrum (5 page)

There was a pause. “Did you notice that I convinced Will to come?”

Jerry hesitated. Damn G.B. for remembering his Achilles heel. The memory of staring fixedly at the back of Will’s glorious wavy hair during structures class popped into his head unbidden. Will had always been catnip for him. “Who else is coming?” He asked trying to muddy the waters.

“Well, Alyssa and Adam, your class’s Heloise and Abelard will be there, of course. And Norman Meeker is acting as pukka-sahib, having the Friday dinner at his new house designed by Iris Reid.”

“Ugh, Will’s girl-toy. So, we’ll have lust, pride, sloth, envy, and wrath?”

“Oh, and C.C. promised to come. Maybe yo
u can pedal some project to her—
write off the trip.”

“Great. There’s gluttony! But you know that
cuttingedgedecor
doesn’t publish commercial architecture.”

“Well, your
reimbursibles
department will not know that.”

“Hmm.
That’s true. Good idea. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen the old gang. I’ll have to think about your offer of hospitality.
Au revoir.”

He hung up, then flipped open his laptop. After pressing some keys, an image appeared of a glass-walled Modernist living room floating high above an expanse of water. He scrolled through the rest of the photos in the listing. The light in the spaces was amazing.

He pressed a speed dial number on his cell-phone.

“Hi, Tony.
It’s Jerry Jensen. Is that condo you showed me on Lake Shore Drive still available?”

“Oh, hi Jerry.
Yeah, it’s still there. The seller doesn’t want to come down at all from the asking, so in this economy it should be there awhile. But… you never know.”

“Good. I’m still interested, but can’t make an offer for another month. Keep me informed if anyone makes a move on it, all right?”

“Sure. I want you to get it. Call me once you know that your financing is ready to go. Then we can move fast.”

Jerry tapped his pen on the desk and thought to himself.
Time for Norman Meeker Enterprises to commission a new headquarters.

***

In Berkeley, California, Will Reynolds bobbled his head as he tapped out the drum solo to “In a
gadda
-da-
vida
” with two felt-tipped pens on the edge of his side table. He finished with a flourish,
then
spun his chair around toward the computer to reassure himself that the numbers hadn’t changed during his recital.
Renno
baby, your ship has come in! He stood up to peer over the workstation walls of the factory loft that he and his partner had converted into an architecture office. Everyone had gone to lunch, except one overly conscientious assistant, Traci, who was hunched over her computer.

Will
lounged
against her partition wall. “Hey, Trace, aren’t you
gonna
break for lunch?” He flashed
her a
boyish
grin.”You
work too hard.”

She gazed up at him over her black nerd glasses. “Vanessa needs these specs redone for her 3:00 meeting. I brought in a salad for lunch. I’m on a diet.”

He leaned in close to let her get a whiff of his aftershave. “I was hoping to buy you a large iced
mochaccino
in exchange for you bringing me one.
How about it?”

Traci snapped her gum and weighed her options. “Okay.”

After making sure that she was out of earshot, Will raced back to his desk, snapped on his blue tooth headset, and punched in a phone number. “Hey C.C., it’s me, Will. What are you doing? Can you talk?”

“Go away—
you’re interfering with my on-line shopping time. There’s a shoe sale on the Bergdorf’s website and I see some Jimmy
Choo
boots with my name on them.”

He heard the sound of tapping.

“Okay, I ordered them. Now you have my attention.”

“I’m calling about the reunion. G.B. Rasputin called and put the screws on me to come. I can’t believe he hasn’t found new victims by now to manipulate.”

“I’m sure he has. We were just his ‘first.’ You never forget your ‘first.’ He got to me too and I wasn’t even one of his boys. I agreed to go to the Friday dinner. But it’s okay. I want to see your old girlfriend’s house for Norman. I may publish it. So what did you want to ask me about?”

“Oh, shit, Iris. I’ll have to see her again and she hates me.”

“I can’t imagine why. Besides, it’s been twenty years. I think you’re flattering yourself.”

“Never mind.
That’s not why I called. Have you kept up with Norman at all? I mean personally? We’ve all read the articles.”

“No, can’t say that I’ve clamped eyes on Mr. Insufferable since we graduated. Why?”

“An old school in the Mission section of San Francisco’s going up for auction. I’ve got to get my hands on it. It’s perfect for condos. I’ve already figured out the design work and put together the numbers. There’s tons of asbestos. That’ll scare away the other developers, but we can get the guys in the space suits to dispose of that. I just need an investor. The Bank turned me down, ass-holes. Hey, you and Sarah don’t have a few
mil
to invest in a good deal, do you?”

“
Ri-i-i-ight
, dream on, bud.”

“Just giving you first crack.
According to Fortune Magazine, Norman has more money than he can use in this lifetime, so do you think he’d back me on this condo deal? Should I ask him during the reunion when he’s feeling nostalgic for his old classmates?”

“You mean because we were so nice to him?”

“We were nice enough. He was a pompous ass back then. So, do you think I should hit him up? I think I’ve got some leverage to make him take me seriously.”

“Is this project going to be ‘green’? Never mind, it won’t be ready in time.”

“So should I talk to Norman about it?”

“I guess it can’t hurt to ask.”

***

“Now this is what I call a marketable talent,” C.C. squeezed her eyes shut.

“Yeah
.
My Craig’s List ad could read—Missy Shiatsu—
your feet in my lap,” Sarah smirked. In fact, C.C.’s feet were resting in her lap at that moment as they shared the L-shaped leather sectional. The shiatsu course Sarah had taken the previous winter at the New School had turned out to be a good investment.

“God, are you tense!” Sarah’s brow puckered as she kneaded the areas below C.C.’s baby toes. “Is it the news about Met Home?”

“I swear I’m getting an ulcer. I keep waiting for Paul to haul me in to his office. All the other ‘shelter porn’ magazines seem to be going down like dominos.” She gazed out the huge windows as the violet dusk deepened into the black of the Hudson River. She loved this loft. She had found it before the Meatpacking District had taken off, and had bought it for a song. Then, during the renovation, she had met Sarah who was working as a finish carpenter on her contractor’s crew. That was when her life had made a U-turn toward a contentment she had never expected. Now, if she lost her job, would Sarah stay with her without the prestige of her work, or the perks that came with it? How would she be able to afford her Manhattan lifestyle?

“That’s not going to happen to
cuttingedgedecor
, baby. Your publishers have deeper pockets. They’ll probably scoop up some of those orphan Met Home advertisers. It’ll be okay.”

“Well, I’m trying to pull together that September issue on green architecture. It’s Paul’s pet project.
Which reminds me—
I’ve got to go to that damned reunion so I can see this wonder house that Iris designed for Norman.
I hear from G.B. that it’s got all the latest eco-bells and whistles. Are you sure you don’t want to come with me? Will’s going to be there. He called me today at the office.”

“Why is he going to a reunion after all these years? No, I’d better not go. After what you’ve told me about how nasty some of these people were to you back then, I’m afraid I might punch out somebody’s lights.”

“I may need you to help
me
behave. I forget why Will said he was going. I’ll ask him next month. What is that area you’re massaging now?”

“Here?
Right by the ball of the foot?”

“Yeah, it kind of hurts.”

“That’s because it corresponds to your liver, where all those martinis are wreaking havoc.”

With that reminder, C.C. downed the rest of her drink.

Chapter 8

F
ive weeks later Norman sat in his office on the top floor of Norman Meeker Enterprises, behind his Danish, blond-wood desk, clumsy fingers setting his ‘executive toy’ stainless steel balls in motion, back and forth, back and forth.

“Claire! Has she called?”

His assistant stuck her head in the door. “She’s only 15 minutes late, Norman. It’s a monsoon out there. She’ll need an ark to get here.”

At that moment the outer door clicked open, and Iris Reid greeted Claire as she edged in past her. Realizing that her umbrella was dripping on the Berber carpet, Iris retreated to park it in the umbrella stand and returned.

“Sorry I’m late.
Storrow
Drive is closed near the B-School.” She dropped down into the guest chair, pulled a clipboard out of her over-sized tote, and passed him a revised chart of the schedule.

“
Assuming that this rain lets up—
whi
ch it’s supposed to do tomorrow—
we should be in pretty good shape, Norman. The painters are scheduled to start on Monday. The floor finishers will come afterward. We should be able to complete everything in three more weeks. There might be some punch list items to deal with after the party, but nothing noticeable will be missing.”

“I hope not, Iris. Remember, I want to knock C.C.’s socks off at this dinner.” For what it cost to build I deserve to get some premium PR out of this house. He had chosen Iris as his architect despite suspecting she didn’t like him. He never would have considered using a stranger. And the others from the class were designing skyscrapers or museums, while she had
l
asered
in on residential design—
the latest materials, eco-conscious approaches, practical nitty-gritty, and most important to him now, how to design a magazine-cover-worthy house.

“Here are the latest requisitions from
Farraday
. I’ve checked them all and they’re ready to be paid. I’ve included my latest invoice in there too.”

Norman put on his wire-rimmed glasses and pretended to study the top page. This was phase two of his plan. His ex-wife, Barb, had been part of phase one. He had picked her out of that snooty class to stand by him while he built up an empire. She had shared those years of slogging through business school while trying to develop environmental products on the side. But Barb couldn’t see the big picture. Not to mention that she’d turned into a bitch. It wasn’t only about money or security. Most of the jerks in his GSD class had acquired a kind of polish merely by coming through the
frigg
in
’ birth canal. Take Iris Reid—
typical WASP from some academic family. Sure, she tried to dress edgy with her black leather jacket and boots. But anyone could see, from her porcelain skin and boarding-school accent that she was a good girl from the
right side of the tracks. Shit—
architecture was ‘a gentleman’s profession.’ You were supposed to go
into it for the love of it, not the money. What a bunch of chumps. What had he been thinking spending three years there? Business school had made a lot more sense.

“Do you see a problem, Norman? You’re frowning.”

“No, no.” Norman leaned back in his ergonomic chair. “I’ll have Claire cut the checks.”

***

The meeting finally over, Iris battled her way through the slashing rain to her Jeep. As soon as she’d buckled her seat belt, her cell phone rang. “Undisclosed caller” appeared on the screen.

“Hi, Iris,
it’s
Will. How are you?” She froze at the sound of his voice and, covering the mouthpiece, forced herself to take several deep breaths.

“I’m fine. I noticed on the GSD website that you’re coming to the reunion.” God, now she sounded perky.

“Yeah.
I have to be in New York on business the week after, so I figured I’d stop off in Cambridge for the weekend. Maybe we could get together for coffee before this thing starts?

It’s been a long time since we’ve talked and things kind of blew up at the end of school. I’ve always felt bad about that.”

She tried to figure out what she wanted to happen. “I’m going to be pretty busy on Friday afternoon. Norman’s got me running around organizing everything for the dinner. I’ll probably be out in Lincoln at the house.” She wouldn’t make it too easy for him.

“I heard that you designed a house for Norman. I can’t wait to see it.”