Philip was in the den with the phone to his ear when I came in. I could tell he was talking to his mother. I waved a hand to get his attention. “Boys okay?” I mouthed.
“Just a sec, Mom.” He looked up with exaggerated patience. “The boys are fine, Gabrielle. Dad took them back to the academy this afternoon”—and then he turned back to the phone, his desk chair swiveling so that his back was to me.
What’s wrong with this picture? I muttered to myself, stalking off to the bedroom. We should be telling the grandparents that our boys are fine—not getting the news from them. And why hasn’t Mrs. Fairbanks talked to me about the boys? . . . though I knew perfectly well the answer to that. Philip’s mother had been less than enthusiastic about his son’s rash decision to marry “that girl from North Dakota.” “It was France,” I overheard her tell a guest on our wedding day. “Men don’t think straight in France. The place is so quixotic, the first girl they meet, they think it’s love.” And her friend had said, “You’d think he would have fallen for a French girl. I love a French accent, don’t you?”
Well, howdy. I’d barely made it through France with my Travelers’ Guide to English/French Phrases. So what? I was the mother of the Fairbanks grandchildren, and that ought to count for something!
I slammed the bathroom door on “something” and decided I needed a long soak in the tub. Running the water as hot as I could stand it, I found a bottle of bubble bath and shot a stream of golden liquid under the gushing faucet. Sliding under the bubbles until only my head and my knees poked out of the water, I wondered if this was how a crocodile felt, poking its eyes up out of the water and scoping out the territory. My eyes traveled around the room, the marble wall tiles, the glass-enclosed shower, the marble counter with two sinks—and no windows, thank God. I didn’t need any reminders that this crocodile pond was thirty-two floors deep.
I flicked a bubble that floated past my knees, then another, bursting all that came within fingernail reach. Story of my life . . . bursting bubbles. First there was Damien . . . even now I got goose bumps remembering his dark lashes, lopsided grin, hair falling over his forehead like an Elvis clone. He was top banana of the pep squad at school, and had the same rah-rah attitude at the Minot Evangelical Church youth group. Even the mothers at church loved him, blushing when he paid attention to them. “That color brings out the blue in your eyes, Mrs. Rowling” or “That’s your grandson? You don’t look old enough to be a grandmother, Mrs. Talbot!” Oh, how puffed up I felt when he chose me—a mere junior—to go to his senior banquet. He used to love my curly hair, which I wore long in high school, twining it around his fingers, pulling my head back gently so he could kiss me . . .
I flicked another bubble. We got married the same summer I graduated high school. My dad even gave him a job at the carpet store as a salesman. I thought all my dreams had come true—married to the most popular guy at Minot High School’s Central Campus, and his family went to our church, so my folks were happy. We had a little fixer-upper on the edge of town, with room for his hunting dog and my two cats. Damien said he’d take care of me so I didn’t have to work, so I sewed curtains and mowed the lawn, joined the Junior League and impressed everyone with how I organized the Junior League Thrift Shop, and threw baby showers for my friends who were already starting families.
But Damien just kept flirting—old or young, it didn’t matter. Women were like ice cream to him, his flattery dripping over their egos like thick chocolate sauce. And then one day he found a flavor he liked better than me, I guess. He decided we’d gotten married too young, quit the carpet store, and took a job on a fishing boat out of Puget Sound in Washington State.
I learned later that the boat was owned by Priscilla Tandy’s daddy. Priscilla was the homecoming queen in the class before me. Damien’s class.
I ran a little more hot water, then settled back into my pond. I’d been devastated. Cried for weeks. Married and jilted? Since when had they rewritten the fairy tales? My parents comforted me as best they could. “At least you didn’t have a baby you’re left to care for.” Humph. Small comfort. Right then, I would have welcomed a baby to be mine, to love me back, to love me forever.
“Hey.” Philip poked his head into the door, giving me such a start that I splashed water over the side of the tub. “How long have you been in there? You’ll be a prune.” He snickered suggestively. “Don’t want a prune in bed. But clean is nice . . . very nice. Maybe I’ll take a quick shower.” He disappeared into the walk-in closet between bath and bedroom to strip.
I drained the tub, toweled off, and crawled into bed sans night-gown. I’d just have to take it off anyway. This had become Philip’s intro to lovemaking. An announcement. “Hurry up and come to bed.” Sometimes I got the feeling we made love because he felt the urge and I was the available female. But was he making love to me?
Philip was off early again the next morning, tossing down his orange juice, pouring coffee into a travel cup, and grabbing the plain whole-wheat bagel I toasted for him. “Oh, can you come by the office this afternoon, Gabby? Like two o’clock? Henry thought you and Mona could give some decorating ideas—window treatments, wall color, plants, that kind of thing. Needs to look professional, but we want our clients to feel welcomed. Just take a taxi to the Aon Center downtown. Here’s the address if you need it. Okay?” He handed me a brochure with a picture of a ramrod-straight building on the front. Peck on the cheek. “See you at two.” He disappeared into the gallery, and I heard the front door open. And close.
So Henry wanted my decorating ideas, did he? I groaned. I couldn’t imagine anything I’d rather not do than decorate the offices of Fairbanks and Fenchel with Mona Fenchel. Maybe I’d call in sick . . . plead female troubles . . . a migraine . . . a death in the family. Something! Let Mona do it.
Sighing, I embraced the inevitable. Stiff upper lip, Gabby, I told myself, tossing dishes into the dishwasher helter-skelter and heading for the bedroom to get dressed. Think of it as a way to support Philip’s new business venture. Besides, I had all morning to go online and familiarize myself with commercial decorating terms, ideas, and color schemes . . .
Which I did, feeling pretty smug as I gripped my briefcase and wheeled through the revolving doors of the Aon Center—second-tallest building in Chicago after the Sears Tower, the brochure had informed me. In the elevator I faced the bank of floor buttons. Wait a minute. No button for the sixty-second floor.
Noticing my bewildered expression, a woman in an oxymoronic “business” suit—tailored jacket, masculine tie, tight short skirt—said, “This elevator is only for odd-numbered floors. What floor do you want?”
Well, duh. I got off, feeling stupid, and found the even-numbered elevators. This one did have a button marked “62” . . . and “72” and “82.” I felt dizzy even thinking about eighty-two floors. Oh, Lord, help me, please. “Sixty-two.” I nodded to the person closest to the panel, and hummed like Pooh Bear trying to fool the bees until the bell dinged, the door slid open, and there I was.
Sixty-second floor. I followed the numbered signs pointing this way and that until I found the suite number Philip had given me. Company name wasn’t on the door yet, but when I turned the knob, I could hear Mona Fenchel whining. “Well, of course, you have a view. But couldn’t you get a suite facing east toward the lake? Or even south would give you more of a grand sweep of the city. North is so . . . well, not the best parts of the city.” She turned as I closed the door, and the whine turned to sugar. “Don’t you agree, Gabrielle?”
Philip, as usual, had a phone to one ear, finger in the other to shut out distractions. Henry stood in the middle of a mishmash of polished cherry office furniture, a plastic smile attached to his face. I ignored the question. “So this is it!” I said brightly. “Wow, right downtown. Very exciting. How many rooms do you have in the suite?”
Henry’s smile widened. “Aha. I knew you’d be impressed. This is the reception area, natch. Two offices—that one’s mine.” He pointed. “Conference room is bigger than we need, but we’re going to divide it, make half into a drafting room. Of course, heh-heh, it’s a mess right now. But once we get painters in, finish ordering the furniture, and hire a secretary, we’ll be in business.”
Philip turned, flipping his cell phone shut. “We’ve got business right now, Henry. Robinson’s people want to meet us at the Sopraffina Market Caffe in the lobby in half an hour.” He gave me a nod. “Glad to see you made it, Gabrielle. You two okay for an hour or so? Give you time to come up with some ideas about the décor.” He was halfway out the door. “Come on, Henry. Robinson could be a really big client. Oh, grab those sample spec sheets.” And they were gone.
I stood face-to-face with Mona Fenchel, who seemed to be sizing me up, trying to make up her mind if I was a worthy opponent. I didn’t blink. She wasn’t a natural blonde, I decided, though the color was good. But I had her beat. My kid-red hair had darkened over the years to a nice auburn-brunette, all mine.
“Well!” she said, tossing her head. “They expect us to do some-thing with this mess? What do they want, for crying out loud?”
I cleared my throat. “I think what they want is ideas. I came with a few color photo samples”—I snapped open my briefcase and withdrew the pages I’d printed out from the Internet—“but obviously I hadn’t seen the space yet.”
Clearing a place on the desk in the middle of the room, I spread out some of the color pictures of various office décors I’d found. Mona gave them a glance. “Obviously.” She sounded bored.
I counted to ten. Then made it twenty. “All right. Where would you like to start?”
She didn’t answer, just walked into the office Henry had indicated was his. She went room to room, then back to Henry’s office. “A theme. An eye-catching theme, carried from room to room . . . something bold. Daring.”
Oh brother. “Well, um, that’s a thought. I was thinking of using neutrals, which can actually be very alluring if done right.” Ha. What did I know? But I blabbered on, determined not to go down without a fight. “I’m not talking beige. Rather, sandstone, with browns and ochre reds—here, take a look at this photo.” I pushed a sheet of paper at Henry’s wife. “What I read suggested adding contrasting or seasonal colors with plants and fresh flower bouquets. I think that would go well with the cherry furniture Philip and Henry already ordered.”
She took the sheet of paper reluctantly. “Mm. Nice . . . if this was New Mexico. No, I’m talking seascapes, greens and blues. Not pastels, either. Emerald and azure, flowing in curves to represent waves and movement . . .” She waved a hand to indicate a tsunami-sized wave rising from one side of a wall to another, ending at the windows—the very, very high windows—looking out over the north end of Chicago with the ever-present Lake Michigan far, far below.
My stomach lurched.
“Excuse me . . .” I bolted. I needed the bathroom . . . fast.