After Josh told Zan about the airline charge to her credit card, he suggested they check all the other cards in her purse.
Bergdorf Goodman had new purchases of expensive clothing charged to her account, clothing that was in her size, but that she knew nothing about.
“On this day of all days,” Josh muttered as he notified the store to cancel the card. Then he’d added, “Zan, do you think you can handle this appointment alone? Maybe I should go with you?”
Zan promised she would be okay, and promptly at eleven o’clock she was standing at the door of the office of Kevin Wilson, the architect of the stunning new apartment building overlooking the Hudson River. The door was partially open. She could see that the office was a makeshift space on the main floor of the new building, the kind an architect would keep for convenience to observe the progress of an ongoing project.
Wilson’s back was to her, his head bent over the papers on the table behind the desk. Were they Bartley Longe’s drawings? Zan wondered. She knew his appointment had been earlier than hers. She knocked on the door and Wilson, without turning around, called out for her to come in.
Before she reached his desk, Wilson swiveled around in the chair, stood, and pushed his glasses up on his head. Zan realized that he was younger than she expected, certainly not more than midthirties. With his tall, lanky frame, he looked more like a basketball player than an award-winning architect. His firm jaw and keen blue eyes were the most prominent features in his ruggedly handsome face.
He extended his hand. “Alexandra Moreland, glad to meet you and thank you for accepting our invitation to submit design plans for our model apartments.”
Zan tried to smile as she took his hand. In the almost two years since Matthew disappeared, she had usually managed to compartmentalize herself, to force Matthew from her mind when she was in a business situation. But today the combination of Matthew’s birthday and the shock of knowing that someone was piling up bills on her credit card and charge accounts was suddenly breaking down the wall of reserve she had built so carefully.
She knew her hand was ice cold and was glad that Kevin Wilson didn’t seem to notice it, but she could not trust herself to speak. First she had to let the lump that was crowding her throat begin to dissolve, otherwise she knew that silent tears would begin to run down her face. She could only hope that Wilson would mistake her silence for shyness.
Apparently he did. “Why don’t we take a look and see what you’ve come up with?” he suggested, gently.
Zan swallowed hard, then managed to speak in an even tone. “If you don’t mind, let’s go up to the apartments and I can explain to you how I’ve chosen to put things together.”
“Sure,” he said. In a long stride, Wilson was around the desk and had taken the heavy leather folder from her. They walked down the corridor to the second bank of elevators. The lobby was in the final stages of construction, with overhead wires dangling and narrow strips of carpet scattered on the dusty floors.
Wilson kept up a running conversation, surely, Zan felt, to help her get over what he must have thought was her nervousness. “This is going to be one of the most energy-efficient buildings in New York,” he said. “We’ve got solar energy and we’ve maximized the window sizes throughout to give all the apartments the constant feeling of sun and light. I grew up in an apartment house where my bedroom faced the brick wall of the building next door. Day and night it was so dark I could hardly see my hand in front of my face. In fact I put a sign on the door when I was ten years old, ‘The Cave.’ My mother made me take it down before my father came home. She said it would make him feel bad that we didn’t have a better place to live.”
And I grew up living all over the world, Zan thought. So many people think that’s wonderful. Mother and Dad loved the diplomatic life, but I wanted permanence. I wanted neighbors who would still be there in twenty years. I wanted to live in a house that was ours. I didn’t want to have to go to boarding school when I was thirteen. I wanted to be with them, and even sometimes resented them for being on the move so much.
They were stepping into the elevator. Wilson pushed a button on the panel and the elevator door closed. Zan searched for something to say. “I guess you may have heard that since your secretary phoned and invited me to submit design plans for the model apartments, I’ve been in and out of here any number of times.”
“I heard that.”
“I wanted to see the rooms at different times of day, so that I could get a feel for them, and of how it would be for different kinds of people to walk in and say, ‘I’m home.’”
They started in the one-bedroom, one-and-a-half-bath apartment. “My guess is that the people looking at this one fall into two categories,” Zan began. “The apartments are expensive enough so that you’re not getting any kids just out of college, unless Daddy is paying the bills. I think you’ll probably have a lot of young professionals looking at this model. And unless it’s a romance situation, most of them won’t want roommates.”
Wilson smiled. “And the other category?”
“Older people who want a pied-à-terre, and even if they could afford it don’t want a guest room because they don’t want overnight guests.”
It was getting easier for her. She was on safe territory. “This is what I’ve come up with.” There was a long counter separating the kitchen from the dining area. “Why don’t I lay out my sketches and swatches here?” she suggested as she took the portfolio from him.
She was with Kevin Wilson for nearly two hours as she explained her alternate approaches for each of the three model apartments. When they were back in his office, he laid her plans on the table behind his desk and said, “You’ve put an awful lot of work into this, Zan.”
After the first time he had called her Alexandra, she had said, “Let’s keep it simple. Everybody calls me Zan, I guess because when I was starting to talk, Alexandra was too big a mouthful for me.”
“I want to get the job,” she said. “I’m excited about the layouts I showed you and it was worth the time and effort to give them my best shot. I know you invited Bartley Longe to submit his plans, and of course he’s a superb designer. It’s that simple. The competition is stiff and you may not like anything that either of us has planned.”
“You’re a lot more charitable about him than he is about you,” Wilson observed dryly.
Zan was sorry to hear the note of bitterness in her throat when she answered, “I’m afraid there’s no love lost between Bartley and me, but on the other hand I’m sure you’re not treating this assignment as a popularity contest.” And I know I’ll come in at least a third cheaper than Bartley, she thought, as she left Wilson at the imposing entrance to the skyscraper. That will be my ace in the hole. I won’t make much money if I get this job, but the recognition will be worth it.
In the cab going back to the office, she realized that the tears she had been able to hold back were streaming down her cheeks now. She grabbed her sunglasses out of her shoulder bag and put them on. When the cab stopped on East Fifty-eighth Street, as usual she gave a generous tip because she believed that anyone who had to make a living driving every day in New York traffic deserved one.
The cabbie, an elderly black man with a Jamaican accent, thanked her warmly, then added, “Miss, I couldn’t help notice you were crying. You’re feeling real bad today. But maybe tomorrow everything will look a lot brighter. You’ll see.”
If only that were true, Zan thought, as she whispered, “Thank you,” gave a final dab to her eyes, and stepped out of the cab. But everything won’t look brighter tomorrow.
And maybe it never will.