The rented U-Haul truck driven by Josh Baxter backed into the service lane of the parking garage at Richmond Towers and lined up with the wide doors leading into the security area. Mr. Bentley wasn’t on duty on Saturday, but he showed up to make sure everything went smoothly getting the truck into the garage, letting the moving crew into the security area, and up the elevators to the thirty-second floor.
Penthouse.
I had arrived an hour earlier, let myself into the penthouse that had been my home for a mere two and a half months, and marked the furniture and items to be moved with large, lime-green sticky notes. I felt uncomfortable being there without Philip’s knowledge and permission, but God knew I had tried.
I’d called his office Friday morning and asked to speak to Philip Fairbanks. I had planned to tell him—not ask his permission—that I was coming Saturday with a moving crew and taking enough stuff to make my apartment functional. I had no plans to rob him blind, just take a fair share.
But it was Henry Fenchel who came on the line. “He’s out of town, Gabby,” his partner said flatly. “Didn’t tell me where, just said he was taking Friday off, and he’d be back in the office Monday morning. But I can guess. He—”
“But it’s very important that I get hold of him, Henry,” I interrupted, not really wanting to hear another rant from Henry Fenchel.
Henry snorted in my ear. “Well, you can try his cell phone, but I’ve tried that on weekends, and he usually turns it off when he’s gaming. I tell you, Gabby, something’s not right. First he dumps you, dumps his own kids, and spends nearly every weekend in Indiana at the Horseshoe. The accounts aren’t adding up here in the office either. I’m calling in an accountant to—”
I’d hurriedly said good-bye and hung up. Philip siphoning business monies to support his gambling? Did he have debts he couldn’t cover? No, no, I wasn’t going to believe that about Philip . . . though there were a lot of things that had happened recently I never would have believed about Philip.
I did try his cell phone, got his voice mail, and left my message.
I never got a call back.
Now the volunteer moving crew—Denny and Jodi Baxter, Josh and Edesa Baxter, Estelle Williams and her housemate, Leslie Stuart, and Carl and Florida Hickman and their two husky boys—hauled in boxes, packed up the boys’ rooms, and moved out the things I had marked. Everything from the boys’ bedrooms, including their small TV. My bedroom dresser and mirror and an upholstered reading chair. Some scatter rugs. I left the master bath as it was, but I cleaned out the powder room and the second bath—towels, cleaning supplies, shampoo, and lotions. I put neon-lime Take Me notes on the square kitchen table and its four chairs, leaving the expensive dining room set and the bar stools in the kitchen for Philip. I’d brought a lot of kitchen stuff from my mom’s house already. The only piece I took from the living room was another upholstered chair—now the boys and I all had a place to sit. I left Philip’s office untouched, except for the family photo albums and children’s books I’d collected over the years. Those went in a box and out to the truck.
Mr. Bentley stayed out of the penthouse, doing no more than directing traffic on the lower floor. Maybe that eye was bothering him more than he let on. Still, it was for the best. I didn’t want Philip or anybody else to make him lose his job over “conflict of interest” with a resident. But his grandson DeShawn wanted to be where the action was, especially since the older Hickman teens, Chris and Cedric, were doing a man’s job hauling chairs and boxes, and kept saying, “Hey, DeShawn, you take that end” or “Get that box, will ya?” The youngster beamed.
“What about the big bed, Gabby?” Denny Baxter asked, standing in the master bedroom.
I shook my head. That was my marriage bed . . . and right now I didn’t have a marriage. Sleeping in it alone would be too painful.
My throat tightened. Would Philip and I ever sleep together in that bed again—husband and wife . . . lovers . . . friends? Or was it really over?
Denny must have seen me brush tears from my eyes because he quickly left the room, but I lingered a few moments longer, picking up a framed photo from the top of Philip’s dresser. The four of us two years ago in a candid snapshot, arms around each other, wide grins. Philip’s dark head was next to my “mop top,” as he often called it, the boys laughing as if they were being tickled.
The way we were . . .
I slipped the framed photo into my backpack.
“All done?” Jodi said as I came into the kitchen, where Estelle had managed to produce lemonade and paper cups. “Should we swing back by the shelter to pick up Dandy?”
I shook my head. “I, um, gave him to Lucy yesterday. Just couldn’t bring myself to separate them. There are enough bags of dog food left at Manna House to last her at least six months. I made her promise that she’d take shelter in the winter—Manna House is probably the only shelter that’s going to let her come back with a dog. And if she couldn’t take care of him, I’d take him back.” I grimaced. “Don’t know if it was the right thing to do. She and Dandy disappeared last night. Her bunk was empty and her cart was gone. Dandy’s bed too.”
“Oh, Gabby.” Jodi gave me a hug. “What about Paul?”
I shrugged. “I’ll get him another dog, maybe a puppy. It’ll be okay. But speaking of Paul, could you excuse me a minute? I’ll meet you downstairs. I have a call to make.”
The moving crew tromped through the gallery and out into the foyer, chatting with each other as they waited for the elevator. And then all was quiet.
I stood a few feet back from the wraparound floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out—not down—at Lake Michigan sparkling a deep azure blue in the midday July sun. Lake Shore Drive was bustling and alive . . . but silent up here behind the thick windows. To the south, Chicago’s skyline rose into the air, a thousand stories walking the streets. And now, my story was one of them.
Strange. I would not miss this penthouse. Most of the memories here had been painful ones. But Chicago . . .
I pulled out my cell phone, made the call, and waited until I heard the voices of both my sons on the phone. “P. J.? Paul? It’s Mom. It’s time to come home.”