17
“GOOD DAY TO YOU, MA’AM. I’m here to remove a load-bearing wall that’s apparently causing problems?”
“That’s fine, mister. But if you’re here to steal my handyman, then you’re the one who’s going to have a problem.”
“Whoa!” Alex Brennan’s eyes widened. “You almost looked scary there for a minute.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” Laughing along with him, I invited him in.
“So, Jimmy’s doing a good job for you?”
“Better than good. I tried to hire him for the next week, but apparently you’ve got him booked solid.”
A look flashed across his face. “Well, that’s why I stopped by. I have a question for you and your husband, and there’s no wrong answer.”
“Sounds a little ominous.”
He shook his head. “I was supposed to begin a house this week, but the city is disputing some of the changes. We’ve got meetings coming up with the building commission, and I expect things to move forward in the next four to six weeks. But that leaves my schedule with an opening, and—”
“Yes!”
A slow smile turned his mouth. “Careful there, Mrs. Powell. When I sense that much enthusiasm, my prices usually skyrocket.”
“Oh, come now, Mr. Brennan. Nanci wouldn’t like you so much if you were that kind of builder, would she?”
He sighed. “Great. Go straight for the integrity.”
I liked his sense of humor. “Seriously though, the answer is yes—provided the estimate is within our budget, of course. It’s sure to be less since today’s news, right?”
He frowned.
“You haven’t spoken with Nanci yet, I guess.”
“About?”
I told him what she’d told me, and a shadow crossed his face.
“I’m sorry to hear it. I was afraid that might happen, though. Some of those board members are more concerned about the letter of the law than the spirit of it.”
“I have to admit, I was disappointed. After hearing about the Homes of Christmas Past Tours, I’d hoped that might be my ticket to a new job. I haven’t had much luck with that so far.”
“Hmm. I wish I knew someone in one of those firms. But I’ve got my own designer—been with me forever. If I hear of anything, though, I’ll let you know.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“Well, email me your plans this afternoon, and I’ll get you an estimate by morning.” He texted me his email address. “I’ll send y’all two estimates, the first in noncompliance with the Register’s guidelines, and the second within—just in case the figures aren’t that far apart.” He smiled. “But I’m guessing they will be.”
“I hope so.”
“Also, part of the deal is that we need to start this week. We’d plan to demo on Wednesday. But by Friday, for sure, seeing as Thursday’s a holiday. The more sketches you send, the better. Your head spinning yet?”
“Actually, I can hardly wait. I feel a sense of purpose I haven’t felt in a long time.”
His eyes narrowed, and I realized I’d revealed more than I’d intended. “I mean, with moving to a brand-new place. Not having a job. Not knowing anyone.”
“It’s a lot all at once, for sure.” He turned toward the door, then back to me. “I admire these old homes. They were built to last. No two-by-fours. Exterior walls three bricks thick, and the interior two. They don’t come down easy. Taken care of, this place will still be standing long after we’re gone.”
“Cheery thought, Mr. Brennan.”
He laughed. “Just my way of saying I’m looking forward to this project. Imagine if these walls could talk. I bet y’all can almost hear it trying to tell you its story.”
I pulled into Burgdan, Croft, and Finney, not fully knowing what I was doing there. I’d been to the firm only once before, the weekend we’d been house-hunting. Stephen had given me a quick tour of the firm’s four-story office building. Only a handful of his colleagues had been there that afternoon and no staff. Today, the lot was nearly full.
The aroma of four dozen warm apple fritters easily overtook the scent of begonias and ferns stuffed in the back. I flipped down my visor and checked for remnants of the fritter I’d just inhaled. After picking up a slew of potting flowers and hanging ferns from Gentry’s Greenhouse earlier, I’d spotted the mom-and-pop bakery Rhonda recommended—All Puffed Up—and next thing I knew, I was standing at the counter sampling a warm buttermilk cruller and trying not to drool on the glass case.
I applied some lipstick and pressed powder and reached for the door handle when my phone dinged. A text from Alex:
Though I was still living to put tomorrow behind me, the renovation gave me something to look forward to. Not the mess, which would be a major hassle, but seeing the designs and selections come together. I never tired of that creative process.
I gave his text a thumbs up, then grabbed my purse and the boxes of fritters.
I braved a gauntlet of miniature US flags lining the serpentine brick walkway to the building, then dodged a buoyant legion of red, white, and blue balloons bobbing in the breeze. Such holiday decorations that once thrilled me had for years now forced painful memories of all we’d lost. But I couldn’t go there right now.
The automatic glass doors swooshed open, and cool air greeted me in a rush. I spotted one of two elevators closing. “Hold, please!” I called out, but whoever was inside either hadn’t heard me or couldn’t be bothered to wait.
I let a few seconds pass, then pressed the button.
Palms sweating from the warm pastries, I knew it wasn’t my kindness that had me standing here so much as Maggie’s text: Still, I hoped Stephen would view my dropping in today as a show of good faith. He’d shown no interest in the details of the renovation. All I’d gotten was a terse, “Whatever you want. I’m sure you already have it all figured out anyway.”
The chasm between us kept widening. But until I met with the new counselor, I was in a holding pattern.
In the elevator, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and felt underdressed. I hoped denim capris and a summer blouse proved acceptable for the wife of a partner. I visited Stephen’s office often back in Denver to deliver goodies to his staff and colleagues. Yet as I thought about it, I realized it had actually been years. The discovery was sobering.
Life had simply gotten busy. Maggie, my job, the passing of three of our parents. The pull of time . . . Maybe he and I could talk for a minute today, and I could find a way to bring up our seeing the new counselor.
The elevator opened and I stepped off, only to realize I’d gotten off a floor too early. I turned back when I heard someone call my name.
“Claire! What brings you to the office?”
Bill Burgdan approached as the elevator door closed behind me. I wanted to kick myself.
“Bill, hi! How are you?”
“Oh my, what do you have there?” He opened the top box. “Oh, I hope these are for the fourth floor. May I?”
“You bet they are, and sure you can. Help yourself.”
But he already had. “Mmm! Vickie won’t let me have anything like this at home. Says it’s going to mess with my svelteness.”
“Too late,” I wanted to say, but of course I didn’t.
“Tell me,” he went on, “did you reach out to those design firms Vickie recommended? She really put herself on the line for you.”
I smiled. “Yes, and while I certainly appreciated that, those firms aren’t hiring at present.”
“Oh, bad luck. Well, you’ll find something. In the meantime, you and Stephen should join the country club. You and Vickie could meet there for lunch and massages and whatever else you gals do with your spare time. You could get to know some of her friends, maybe join them for that dice game they play every week. The one where they throw something.” He rolled his eyes.
I wished I had something to throw about then.
“Anyway,” he continued, chewing, “I keep harping on Stephen about y’all joining. You’d both love it. Do you play golf?”
“Not enough to—”
“Well, take some lessons out there. They’ve got the best pro instructors around, Vickie says. I think she likes them because they’re young, hunky, and tan!”
I managed a smile as I pressed the elevator button. Thankfully, the doors opened immediately.
“Hold the elevator for me if you can,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll try!”
But as soon as he disappeared, I pressed four, not feeling the least guilty. Bill was proving to be the man I’d judged him to be upon first impression—chauvinistic, pompous, rude.
The doors opened and I stepped off, hoping Bill hadn’t taken the stairs. Then I paused at a woman’s harsh whisper in the adjacent elevator. “Don’t tell me to calm down! And don’t say it was all a big mistake again. That’s not what you told me before. You could’ve handled things differently. After what happened—”
The doors to the elevator closed, and, grateful I’d missed the eye of that storm, I headed toward Stephen’s suite, nodding to smartly dressed interns and staff. None of them wore T.J. Maxx capris and sandals. Ah, well; their loss.
I’d spoken with Stephen’s assistant on the phone, but we hadn’t met in person, and I was apprehensive about it. A pretty young thing for a secretary would not bode well. So, when I saw the woman seated at the desk outside my husband’s office, I felt a trickle of relief. She looked to be around fifty and was impeccably dressed, short hair stylish. Everything on her desk seemed in place. Even the papers she was working on were neatly stacked. Impressive.
“Erin?”
She looked up. “Mrs. Powell! What a nice surprise. You look just like the picture on your husband’s desk.” She smiled, her eyes crinkling.
“Please, call me Claire. It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”
“You as well. Mr. Powell was headed to a meeting when I left for lunch, but he should be back by now. Let me check.” She eyed the boxes as she passed. “That looks a little dangerous.”
“Oh, they are. I thought apple fritters might brighten someone’s day.”
“They’ll be gone in nothing flat.”
She knocked and waited, then peeked inside. “Apparently still out of pocket. Why don’t you wait in here for him, and I’ll take those to the break room?” She plucked a Sharpie and note card from her desk. With quick, efficient penmanship, she wrote, Compliments of Claire (and Stephen) Powell. She winked. “They don’t need top billing for everything.”
Oh, I liked this woman.
She let me into his office and paused. “I’m sorry you’re not able to join us tomorrow night at the club. It’s an annual tradition, and we always have a wonderful time. Mr. Burgdan spares no expense. On the meal or the show.”
It took me a second to process what she was saying, and that Stephen had apparently declined an invitation for us, for which I was beyond grateful. Never mind that I didn’t know what excuse he’d given, nor had he said anything about it to me. I scrambled to cover. “It does sound like a wonderful evening and a generous thing for the firm to do every year. I regret we have to miss it.”
Her expression clouded. “Oh, is Mr. Powell unable to attend now too?”
I hesitated, certain the floor shifted beneath me. “Come to think of it, he did say he was going to try and make it after all, at least for a while.”
“No worries. Just know you’ll be missed.”
She closed the door, and I took a steadying breath. So not only had he not told me about it, but he was planning on going. Then again, with how things currently were between us, should I have expected anything else? Stephen had made it clear that saying no to Bill Burgdan wasn’t an option.
Eager to leave, I couldn’t with Erin right outside. I would wait five minutes, then claim I had another appointment.
The lack of decor in Stephen’s office reminded me I still needed to decorate the space. It simply hadn’t been a priority, and it definitely wasn’t now. It was considerably larger and nicer than his office in Denver. A stunning view of Buckhead filled the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the leather furniture was as nice as what we’d purchased for our home. He even had a full bathroom with a bidet. When Stephen first showed it to me, he’d shared a joke Bill had told him about why every corporate attorney needed one. I hadn’t found it funny.
My hands sticky from the apple fritters, I ducked into the bathroom to wash them. I walked out just as Stephen walked in. Scowling, his features tense, he saw me and his face went ashen.