“You definitely had me fooled, neighbor. You look, well, quite dapper. Yes, I think that’s the best word for it.”
“God forbid. Dapper...” Then, openly surveying her own apparel, he said, “Let me return the compliment. You look quite dapper yourself this morning, Mrs. O’Neill.”
“Thank you,” she replied with a neat nod, trying desperately to defuse the flirtatious turn of this conversation.
“Is today your first day at your new job?”
She nodded, and her lips tightened with her stomach. “I’m not off to a very good start. The babysitter arrived late, and I still have to find my way to the subway. I’m a bundle of nerves.”
“They call it the tube over here. But if you’re in a hurry, the thing to do is to grab a cab. Follow me.”
She didn’t have the spare money to pay for the luxury of a cab ride, but, checking her watch, she realized she had no choice but to take his advice.
He took hold of her elbow and guided her down the block. She felt the strength of his fingers on her arm and when he deftly commandeered her away from a hole in the pavement, she realized that someone had taught Jack Graham manners. At the next corner traffic whizzed by on a main thoroughfare. Jack raised his hand, placed his teeth on his lower lip, and let out a piercing whistle that any New Yorker would have been proud of. In a flash, a cab swerved over and stopped at the curb.
“Your chariot awaits you, madam.”
“Aren’t you coming, too?”
“No, I have to go all the way out to Oxford today. Guest lecture stuff.” He leaned inside and handed the driver a few bills. “Take the lady where she wants to go.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she said, opening her purse.
“Consider it a first-day-on-the-job gift. We’re friends, remember?”
Friends. This time when he said it, she believed him. And he did have the nicest, most contagious smile. “I remember,” she replied as a hesitant half smile eased onto her own face.
“Thanks, Dr. Graham.”
He leaned forward and his dark eyes sparked. “Jack.”
“Jack,” she conceded.
“Good luck today. Faye,” he added, then with a grin, closed the door. The cab lurched and sped off.
* * *
At eight-fifty that morning, Faye strode through the carpeted halls of Leo Burnett’s London office, listening to the familiar buzz of voices, the ringing of phones, and the click of keyboards. Everything was so alive. Fast. Her blood raced with anticipation.
She rode the elevator up to the inner sanctum where the carpet was upgraded and the artwork was original. Bernard’s secretary checked her name on his calendar, announced her via intercom with indifference, then indicated the direction with a languid turn of her hand.
“Come in,” boomed the familiar baritone. It was a loud, I-don’t-care-who-hears-me voice that could shake the rafters. There was a time years back when Faye heard that bellow as a rallying call. Today, however, her breath caught in her throat.
Opening the door, she stepped into an immense office of glass and steel. In a business where the size of the office indicated position and power, Bernard’s office made a clear statement of his success. The building was one of the few skyscrapers on the block and as if to shout out that fact, the interior design conveyed a high-tech, cutting- edge impression. It suited an advertising agency that prided itself on its clean, creative, energetic campaigns.
Bernard looked powerful sitting like a king behind a desk the size of a small car. He was leaning far back in his high, black-leather chair and chatting on the phone in a staccato voice. He looked up when he saw her and waved her in with a free hand. Faye attempted to appear nonchalant and returned a brief smile, then turned to stroll and stand before his windows. His office offered a spectacular view of London. In contrast to the cold steel of the skyscraper, the history and romance of the historic city were welcoming. Staring out at the vista, she marveled that this magnificent city was her new home.
“Faye! Long time no see.”
She turned and saw Bernard rise from his seat and walk, arms extended, across the carpet. It was more a swagger than a walk, with movements strong and self-assured. When he reached her, he surrounded her with his powerful bulk and delivered a warm, affectionate hug.
“Bernard,” she said softly, stepping back and smiling into his face. He hadn’t changed much at all in the last ten years. A little more gray in his dark hair, perhaps. It suited him. He had piercing black eyes and a bulb-tipped nose, a combination most people found intimidating.
“God it’s great to see you again,” he said, his gaze roaming her face intently. “You look great. Just great.”
Faye tried to remain relaxed, but she sensed he was picking up all the signs of wear and tear she’d noticed in her mirror earlier that morning. “Thanks,” she murmured.
“How are the kids?”
“Fine, thank you. Just fine,” she replied, skirting over the question. She wondered how much he knew about Tom. “You know I appreciate your offering me this opportunity. Especially now. I...”
“Hell, Faye. I don’t want your gratitude. You’re my ace in the hole on this project. I need you. I’ve been angling for the Hampton Tea account since I got to England. They want to move into the American market, and who better to help them do just that than an international ad agency headquartered in the Midwest? I just happened to be looking for a first-rate American account executive when I heard you were available.” He shrugged his wide shoulders. “I made the call. No big deal.”
She knew he was being modest, and she was filled with just the kind of gratitude and loyalty that he wanted from her. Well, he had them, she concluded.
“You know I’ll do my best.”
“Know it? I’m counting on it. I want this account, Faye. But I gotta tell you, it’ll be a challenge. There’s a lot of competition on the street for this one.”
Her lips curved slightly. “My biggest challenge right now is trying to find a good baby sitter,” she said, not entirely joking. “It has to be easier than that.”
He gave off a short laugh, then, skewering her with his gaze, said, “No. Your biggest problem is trying to find a pitch that will snag the Hampton Tea account.”
Zing. Faye’s toes curled inside her navy pumps. “Of course.”
“You’re not a hausfrau any longer, Faye. The account comes first. I’m counting on your best work.”
“Of course,” she repeated, mentally cursing herself for sounding as inane as Jane Lloyd. She was mistaken to think this would be a nostalgic homecoming. Bernard Robbins might be friendly, but he was not her friend. Time was money, and she’d better be careful not to waste either.
“The Hampton Tea account is huge. For all of us. I’m putting my best people on it.” A deliberate compliment. Faye stood straighter but said nothing.
“Right now they’re just sticking their toes into the American waters,” he continued. “But I believe we can convince them to dive in. They should. It’s a damn good product. Ever try it?”
Faye said a quick prayer of thanks for her perspicacity. The first item she bought upon reaching the English shore was a tin of Hampton English Breakfast Tea. She knew that Bernard was a stickler for his people trying and believing in the product they represented.
“Yes, sir. I’ve tried a number of their teas. Frankly, I’m surprised how much I like them,” she replied, exaggerating the truth. “So rich and full of body. I’m usually a coffee drinker.”
“Not anymore you’re not.” He laughed loudly at her expression. “Well, maybe we can allow coffee once in a while. We also represent a Colombian coffee company.”
“It’s tea for me until I land this account.”
“That’s the spirit. Have you reviewed the material I sent you on Hampton Tea?”
"Yes, thoroughly. I’ve a few questions.”
“Good ... good. I’ll introduce you to Research later today.”
He moved over to his desk
and rummaged through the papers littering the polished surface. Faye waited quietly beside the desk. From both his demeanor and his expression, she knew the cordiality was over. He was all business now. She preferred it this way, and how it was as if she’d never stopped working for him. He tucked a slender silver pen in his vest pocket, then picked up a few manila file folders.
“Here are some additional copies of the research our team has come up with,” he said, walking toward her. He handed her the folders. “They focused on the quality of the tea. Better go over them before you meet with the Hampton boys. Set you up with a meeting next week. Your secretary will review your calendar with you later.”
“Yes, sir.”
He fixed her with a smile. “Well then. Let’s go meet the troops. They’re assembled in the conference room. I want to get started on this campaign.”
Faye’s mouth went dry and her palms grew damp. “Now?”
He raised his brows. “Of course now. Everyone’s waiting. Why not?”
Faye wanted to say because she’d only just stepped in the building. Because she hadn’t seen her office yet, met her secretary, or had the time to get a feel for the place. Damn, because she needed a cup of coffee. Knowing Bernard, at the meeting there would only be tea. Looking into his eyes, however, flashing with impatience, Faye knew that it was out of the question to refuse. What could she do but hoist a loyal smile, and reply,
“Why not, indeed?”
Bernard seemed pleased. “Remember the routine? Okay. Let’s go snap the whip.”
* * *
Snap the whip? Sitting on the edge of her seat in the conference room, Faye felt more like she was being flogged by one.
When she first walked in the room, she’d felt the heat of a dozen pairs of eyes boring into her. She smiled a cool greeting, not too friendly, not too hostile, well aware that her conservative, beautifully cut, designer navy suit would stand the scrutiny. Her shoes, too, were well worth the weeks of eating peanut butter it took to purchase them. After she sat down, Bernard introduced her as his protégé from Chicago. Instantly the pairs of eyes surrounding the attractive, petite woman narrowed in suspicious regard.
Bernard was right, everyone was there. He first introduced the account supervisor, Susan Perkins. She was a dramatically attractive type with a hard smile and piercing blue eyes that peeled away layers like a laser. Patrick and Harry, the copywriters, and Pascal, the art director, made up Bernard’s “Creatives.” From production and media she met George and Jaishree.
Smiling and committing their names to memory, she thought to herself that though individual features varied and accents differed, ambition was the common thread. How accurate indeed was Bernard’s analogy of being a lion tamer in the circus ring surrounded by hungry cats ready to pounce and devour her when she wasn’t paying attention. Bernard liked his people hungry. He felt it kept the creative juices boiling. There was a time, ten years earlier, when Faye thrilled at the crack of new ideas as they whipped the air. She relished the growls of frustrations when opposition was crushed.
Today, however, sitting at the edge of the conference table, facing the circle of gleaming eyes and teeth shining through hard smiles, Faye shuddered. A lion tamer who lost her edge was a lion tamer in danger. For the first time in all her years in the advertising business, Faye Armstrong O’Neill felt fear.
And the lions surrounding her could smell it.
Chapter 5
Summer beckoned. The days grew longer, birds sat on eggs in the nest, and there was a lazy lushness in the brilliant green trees and in the way dandelion seeds floated on a scant breeze. Maddie patrolled the small patch of flowers she’d planted around the fountain as fearlessly as the mother birds did their nearby nests.
Jack chuckled as he lay on the cold, hard flagstone tinkering with the fountain, listening to Maddie croon to the frail green seedlings that struggled through the finely cultivated earth. He’d spent every rare, spare moment from his work in the past weeks trying to get the old fountain to work again and had discovered in the process that he enjoyed being in the fresh air and sunlight again after months of an around-the-clock routine of teaching and poring over theories in stuffy labs and libraries.
“Would you like some water, Jack?” Maddie asked, bending low to catch a glimpse of his face beneath the overhang of the fountain.
Jack wiped the grease from his cheek and smiled back at the gamine face that stared at him with adoration. He had to admit that he was enjoying his stature as hero in Maddie’s eyes ever since he began his repairs of the fountain. She still bullied Tom around, keeping the poor boy running from one errand to another, but with Jack, her words were sugar-coated. Little minx, he thought to himself, chuckling. She’d be a heartbreaker someday. He was no fool, though. He knew this preferential treatment would last only until he got her beloved Peter Pan fountain to spring to life.
“Some water would be great, thanks.”
“Um, Jack, how’s it going?”
“Don’t know yet. This old thing’s rusted solid down here.” Then, seeing the disappointment on her face, he wiggled his brows and added, “But I’m hopeful.”
Maddie’s face broke into a wide grin before she nodded and sped off into her flat for the water.
From the corner of his eye, Jack spied Tom watching him intently from his usual hiding place in the overgrown boxwood. They’d been playing this game of cat and mouse for several weeks now, and Tom had yet to make a squeak. What a timid little guy he was, all wide eyes and twitches. When he wasn’t staring at him, he was gazing up at Crazy Wendy’s window. Maybe, Jack thought, it was time to add a little bait.
Jack grabbed his pliers and made a big show of trying to budge one of the rusted bolts, grunting loudly, pretending to push with all his might. Discreetly, he noticed that Tom had emerged from the shrubs, cautiously watching.
“Whew, that’s a tough nut to crack,” he said aloud. “I wish I had some help.”
Tom stood as quiet as a mouse.
Jack couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to make that boy so skittish. He knew if he so much as spoke his name right now, Tom would tuck tail and scurry off into the boxwoods, or to his bedroom, where, as Maddie reported with childish disgust, he crouched under the bed reading a book. That he could read chapter books alone at age six indicated the boy was certainly bright enough. And he wasn’t deaf or mute. Maddie told him that. So what was it that kept that scowl on his face and his lips silent?
Trying another strategy, Jack moved his foot, accidentally-on-purpose kicking the screwdriver closer toward Tom. Then he made an excellent show of reaching for it.
“Now how am I going to get that screwdriver while holding on to this bolt?”
Tom stood staring at the screwdriver, wringing his hands with a worried look on his face. Jack held his breath, careful not to look directly at the boy, not daring to utter another sound.
“Come on, boy, come on...” he whispered.
Then, with a look of intense concentration on his small, round face, Tom bent at the waist to pick up the long, heavy tool. He held it in his child’s hands for a moment, weighing its heaviness, measuring his courage. Jack saw the boy’s brow wrinkle with worry, as any old man’s, and he felt an impulsive longing to hold Tom in his arms, to tell him, “there, there,” then to tickle him and make him laugh. Anything to take away that wizened expression that violated his childish features.
He felt as though his heart broke for the kid, and in the fissure, suddenly, he saw the faces of other boys he’d seen wearing that same hangdog expression. The faces of boys he’d known at the boys’ home.
A first memory...
He squeezed his eyes tight, capturing it. Through the dark mists he saw shapes, heads: red hair, black hair, blond hair. Faces, all bearing the same knowing sadness as Tom. Yes, he remembered them now: Eddy ... Bobby ... Mac ... Eddy was deaf in one ear where his dad had cuffed him. Bobby never talked about it, but he limped a little to the left. And Mac... he never
knew what happened to Mac. Like Tom, he never spoke a word. None of the boys ever talked details among themselves, but everyone knew they’d been abused in one way or another. Himself, too.
When Jack opened his eyes he spied the screwdriver lying close to his hand. But the little boy, like the brief memory, had quickly vanished.
* * *
Later that afternoon, long after the children had returned indoors, Jack tossed down his tools and gave up his combat with the ornery fountain. He stretched his cramped muscles, then collapsed in one of the four green wrought-iron chairs that wobbled on the crooked flagstones. Sighing with contentment, he picked up his feet and sipped a long, cool gin and tonic. On the table sat a thermos filled with the ambrosia and an empty glass. He was on his second sip when the back door opened and Faye O’Neill stepped out onto the patio. He smiled like the cat about to catch the mouse.
“Come to take me up on that drink, I hope?” he asked with one brow raised, watching her approach.
She startled and quickly tucked a tendril in her hair. “Oh. Hello, Dr.—” She stopped herself. “Jack,” she amended. “Actually, I’ve come to pick up my children’s mess. She tsked and shook her head. “Shovels and gloves and sprays of dirt everywhere. One of these days they’ll have to learn to clean up after themselves.”
“If you find a way to teach kids that lesson, you should write a book. You’ll make a fortune.”
“Well, we have to try.” She bent over to pick up a muddy pair of gardening gloves that looked to Jack like they’d fit a leprechaun.
“Come on, Faye. Put your feet up and have a drink. It won’t kill you to take a break, you know. I’ve been watching you around here, and from what I can tell, slaves have better hours. You work round the clock. I’ve done that, and I’m here to tell you there’s no percentage in it for the long haul. Besides, I seem to remember a promise you made to have a drink in the garden.”
“I don’t remember giving a promise,” she said with a wry smile, slapping the gloves against her thigh to shake off the dirt.
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