Authors: Rose Connelly
“Mira Anders.” So she would be dealing with one of the bosses it seemed.
“Yes I know who you are.
”
Elizabeth turned and walked toward a bank of elevators, beckoning Mira to follow. “Can I assume,” she said. “That your visit here today has something to do with your former boss and his company?”
“It does.” Mira stepped into the elevator. The doors closed behind them and the cab moved with barely a sound.
Elizabeth leaned against a wall and crossed her ankles. “You know, I used to be quite the environmental activist in my younger days. It burns my ass when
rich corporations think they can do whatever they want and damn the consequences.”
Mira refrained from commenting on how obviously wealthy the woman herself was and followed her out of the elevator and
into a
well-appointed office with a gorgeous view of the bay.
The woman rounded the imposing desk and took her seat. “So what can I do for you?” she asked.
Mira sat down and crossed her legs. “I received a letter from Carter, Stevens & Weston this morning.”
“Sharks,” Elizabeth muttered.
“It seems,” Mira continued. “That Mr. Mitchell
is suing me for breach of contract.”
“Not to worry.” Elizabeth leaned back and rubbed her hands. “It could mean a bit of a fight, but I’ll take care of it. Now, what did you bring with you.”
Mira opened the handbag that Lily had termed ‘monstrous’ and pulled out a thick folder. An hour or so later she walked out
the door and into a balmy San
Francisco evening, very much relieved, but quite a bit poorer. Ms. Stanton may have been a rebel in her youth, but she hadn’t come cheaply.
She climbed in her blue convertible, tossed her purse on the passenger seat, and slid on a pair of sunglasses. It looked like her brief, well-deserved idle was over. She would have to start looking for work immediately.
************************************
**********************
Mira came through the door, tossed her keys and bag on the coffee table, and collapsed onto the sofa. Her first interview in over a month of searching, contacting, and sending out resumes to every architectural firm in the immediate area and even some a few hours’ drive away, and it had turned out like this.
Sure the company had been impressed with her education and had gushed over her samples. The woman interviewing her had seemed genuinely exited about adding her to the staff, especially since the company was fairly new and still trying to build a client base. That and the fact that the place had been a little more than an hours drive outside of San Francisco were probably the only reasons she had even gotten an interview — the hiring manager hadn’t recognized her.
Unfortunately, one of the other members of staff had and, after a whispered conference between the pair, she had been summarily sent on her way with a polite, “We’ll be in touch.”
Of course they wouldn’t be. The stellar reputation, which had once ensured her bigger and bigger projects and constant offers from companies trying to steal her away, was now shot. No one wanted to come near her.
She looked around her spacious
living room —
at the furniture she had carefully picked out and used a chunk of her savings to pay for, the pictures on the wall that she had spent years collecting. She thought about the beautiful, expensive clothing that filled her walk-in closet upstairs and the credit cards she had stupidly used to
buy
some of
the pieces
, thinking she could pay
the balances off
when she got another raise.
The car she was driving didn’t even belong to her. She had leased it from a dealership just before the trouble started so that she could decide if she really wanted to buy a convertib
le to go with the lifestyle she had been creating.
She had
even
spent months searching for her perfect
hou
se and had only signed the papers
seven months ago. She leaned back and r
ubbed her tired eyes. At least real estate in the area was moving pretty quickly
.
Because, i
f something didn’t change quickly it would all have to go. She could probably keep up with the bills for a few more months, but it would eat into the little she had in savings — money she might need to start over. To start with, she’d need to find
a
good,
and relatively cheap real estate agent. The thought of losing her home, a place she’d spent so much time making her own, was heart wrenching, but
it was much too expensive for her too keep up
with. She hadn’t even built up equity, but it looked like she’d
be downgrading.
A blinking red light caught her eye, pulling her from her depressing thoughts.
Perhaps, she thought, the interview had gone better than she had imagined and they had called to offer her a job.
With a glimmer of her former optimism she jump
ed
off the sofa and hit the play button.
The atmosphere in the living room immediately darkened as a heavy silence came from the answering machine. Technically, there was nothing really threatening about the calls, from what the police said anyway. There was no heavy breathing, no softly spoken words. It was as if someone had called, realized they had the wrong number, and hung up improperly.
But Mira knew there was a person waiting behind the silence, wishing her nothing but harm. She started shivering uncontrollably and hit buttons until the message stopped. She had been thinking about a glass of wine, but
right now the whole bottle sounded better. Heading into the k
itchen, she grabbed a bottle from
her diminishing stock,
found her
corkscrew, and
took out
a glass.
She
brought
them back into the living room and placed them on the coffee table
while she sorted through her collection of movies. A nice, cheerful romantic comedy seemed just the thing to take her mind off the situation.
Half way through
My Big Fat Greek Wedding
and on her second glass of wine she noticed that the light on the answering machine was still blinking, indicating another message. With her composure fully restored she got up. If it was another threatening call she could just erase it along with the first one, which she should have done earlier.
The minute the message started she was transported back to her younger days. She found herself smiling as Pat Kelly’s voice filled the room.
“Why have you not called me lass? Have you had any luck finding work? Are ye getting enough to eat?” He sighed heavily. “You know I’ve no liking for these things as I’d rather be talking to a person. Well, ring me as soon as you can. I’m too old to be worrying like this.”
As if Patrick Kelly spent all his time sitting around at home worrying about her. He was far more likely to be out at a baseball game or down at the bar with one of his friends, or invo
lved in some project or another, but she did miss him.
It might not be such a bad idea to pay him a visit after s
he took care of things here and found a good realtor
. Who knows, Mira thought, as she settled back on the sofa with a new glass of wine, she might even find some architectural firm o
n the East Coast who had never
even heard of her.
From the outside
the house looke
d exactly the same. The same t
w
o
oak trees, a little bigger than she remembered them, still flanked the wide, stone path. O
n the narrow front porch sat an
old rocking chair with a fad
ed afghan tossed over it. D
own
the
street
Mira could hear the sound
of barking
.
From the wheezing
,
labored
sound
of it
,
Mr. Johnson’s
ancient
dog was still protecti
ng
the neighborhood.
She
stood
,
taking in the faded brick façade of the townhouse and breathing in the sweet
scent of the lavender that
Fiona
Kelly had planted years ago.
Fiona
had been dead for
a long time
now
,
but
it was obvious that
someone was still tending
her flowers
. The sight of the
pretty blossoms made her smile,
something she sorely needed.
The past few months had been a difficult and trying time for her.
Having to sell her beautiful house because she could no longer afford the mortgage
had been hard enough, but the loss of a career and reputation that had taken years to build had been devastating.
Coming here, to the place that had been like a home
to her for almost 15 years, had been
the right decision. Her friends would have been full of advice and sympathy, but Patrick
Kelly
was the only person who would tell her to get over it and move on.
Since the death of her parents so many years ago, he had become, first her rock and then her friend.
Providing advice and comfort when she needed it and a place to spend the holidays when all her friends were with family.
She stepped
onto
the weathered, but solid porch and knocked briskly
on the door.
It
opened
almost immediately
and
there he stood
,
as tall and broad as ever with
only
a little white
marring the brightness of his read hair.
“You look like hell,
”
Patrick Kelly said by way of greeting.
After a quick once over, h
e pulled her in for a
quick, tight
hug.
“What did you do to yourself?”
She leaned back
and
look
ed
at him. “You look great.
What are you now, 50?”
she joked.
“A
go
od many years older than that me
lass
,
but
it’s been almos
t that long since I’ve s
een you,” he grumbled.
“Did your
glittery career in California mean you
couldn’t see fit to spend just a we
e bit o’ time with an old man?”