Abide: A Christian Romance Novel (The Lewis Legacy Series, Book 7)

by JoAnn Durgin

  That was a surprise. “Hold up a second. You’re on tonight’s broadcast?”

  “I am. Brandy called in sick again—third day in the last two weeks. As far as I know, she’s not pregnant, but I’m sure the producers have to wonder what’s going on with her. I find it hard to believe she’d put such a great job in jeopardy.”

  “It sounds like you might be moving to the weeknight weather spot sooner than later.”

  “Could be. I should give Brandy a call. Maybe she needs a listening ear or a friend.”

  “I’m sure she’d appreciate it.” A bell dinged and a young woman stepped off the elevator—every blonde hair in place, impossibly thin, impeccably dressed. With a polite nod for Caty, she walked toward an unmarked door at the opposite end of the hallway. After pulling a card from a pocket in her skirt and swiping it on the keypad, she disappeared inside.

  Caty checked her watch. Five minutes to spare before her scheduled appointment. Her heart was pounding like crazy. Trying to slow it down was probably a lost cause now.

  “I’d better get moving, Marta. I’ll talk with you later.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Everything according to His purpose.”

  “Amen.” Caty smiled at her friend’s catchphrase—the same one Marta’s husband, Eliot used—usually accompanied by a fist bump between Eliot and the male members of her brother’s TeamWork Missions volunteer crew.

  Disconnecting the call and pocketing her phone, Caty surveyed her reflection in the shiny elevator doors. Not bad, although by comparison to the blonde, she personified walking dishevelment. Before leaving her apartment, she’d taken great pains to ensure her hair and understated makeup were professional. Remnants of the tissue were still stuck to her hand. Ugh. At least her hair’s long layers, framing her face and falling around her shoulders, still looked presentable.

  Caty quickly ran her fingers over the buttons on her blouse. The way her day was going, it couldn’t hurt to make sure they were intact. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Reid,” followed by her blouse popping open, would be the ultimate humiliation. Next, she ran her hand down the side of her pencil skirt. The chocolate seemed to be drying, but she’d give it a few extra minutes for good measure.

  Wetting her finger with her tongue, she scrubbed her palm. “Real hygienic, Caty Bug.” After dropping the residue in her pocket, she glanced about the perimeter of the rectangular-shaped elevator lobby. In spite of what she’d told Marta, she hoped building security officers weren’t watching her antics on surveillance cameras. If so, they were probably getting a good laugh.

  “You are such a mess.” Not much she could do about it now. She tossed a bright smile over her shoulder in case those cameras were in place. “Got all that?”

  A.C. Reid, here I come. Ready or not.

  Caty grabbed hold of the gleaming silver handle on the right door. Resistance. Push, not pull. So much for sophistication and making an entrance.

  After pushing the door open, Caty stepped inside the spacious lobby. Her heels immediately sank into the beautiful Persian carpet while gleaming hardwood floors peeked out from underneath.

  A dark-haired, exotic-looking Asian woman wearing bright red lipstick and a sophisticated headset sat behind a large circular desk. Speaking in low tones, she gave Caty a precursory nod of acknowledgment.

  “I’ll be happy to direct your call to Mr. Reid’s voice mail.” The receptionist listened and then nodded. “Very well. Thank you for calling Belac.”

  “Good afternoon.” The woman eyed Caty with a practiced smile. “How may I help you?”

  “Hi there. I’m Catherine Lewis, and—” When Caty took a step forward, her two-inch, cockeyed heel caught in all the plushness of that Persian carpet.

  Here we go again. Lord, please let my fall be graceful.

  Chapter 3

  Caty managed to steady herself before she sprawled flat on the carpet at the foot of the Belac altar.

  Not an altar, Caty.

  Seemed her cynicism had likewise reached a new high today. She silently thanked her mother for insisting she take six years of dance lessons. Grace could be learned if only to save herself from her own awkwardness nearly twenty years later.

  The receptionist leaned over the edge of the desk, her long, straight hair falling forward over her delicate features. “Miss Lewis? Are you all right?” The woman showed no emotion. Nothing whatsoever. Even amusement would go a long way toward making Caty feel somewhat better about her clumsiness.

  Should have stopped to ask about that glue.

  Clearing her suddenly dry throat, Caty nodded with as much dignity as she could muster. She needn’t have bothered applying blush today. “I’m fine. Nothing a little afternoon do-over wouldn’t cure. Please call me Caty.”

  “If you’re here to see your new office, it’s not quite ready yet.”

  “I’m working from home until next week. I have an appointment with Mr. Reid at four today.” Snatching the offending navy blue slingback from the carpet, Caty slipped off the other shoe. She tucked both shoes beneath her arm and approached the desk in her stocking feet. “It’s nice to meet you”—she checked the nameplate—“Suma.”

  “Likewise.” The woman extended her hand. She must pay a fortune for that perfect manicure on her long, slender fingers. Her nails were painted bright red to match her lips.

  Caty shook her hand briefly. “Your name is very pretty. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard it before. What does it mean?”

  “Ask.” The girl raised one finger in the air. “Just a moment.” She answered another call in her velvety-smooth, cultured voice.

  Ask? I just did. Could this day get any more strange? In that moment, Caty missed the ladies who manned the Belac reception desks—Portia in Dallas and Lisanne in Lubbock.

  Suma finished the call. “Suma means to ask. It’s Japanese. I’ll ring for Mr. Reid’s personal assistant to come and escort you to his office.”

  “Thank you.” Caty wandered across the lobby to the floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of the Houston skyline, the tops of the buildings still swathed in thick, low-hanging storm clouds. She should also be grateful the skies hadn’t opened and drenched her during her festival of chaos outside the building. What a day.

  Turning in a slow circle, Caty scanned the walls. Why couldn’t A.C. Reid have a nice portrait of himself in his offices like most insanely wealthy heads of multinational corporations?

  He wouldn’t be the first eccentric, wealthy tycoon to be reclusive, so she respected him although she considered his methods and ways rather odd. He paid her a good salary, a generous cost-of-living raise each year, a solid vacation and benefits package, and an annual bonus. And now she was back in her hometown after paying her dues in Dallas and Lubbock. Those were her primary concerns, and the rest was none of her business.

  After slipping on her shoes again, Caty stepped closer to a large sculpture which stood on a pedestal to the right of the windows. Made from pale gray stone, the exquisite piece depicted a barefoot woman in a loose flowing gown. Long, wavy tresses were draped over one shoulder and trailed halfway down her back. Her right forearm rested across her chest as if shielding her breasts, her fist curled over her heart. The woman’s head was turned to the side, facing the window. In spite of her battle-like stance, sadness radiated in her faraway expression and the firm set of her lips.

  Caty leaned close to read the silver plate mounted on the bottom of the sculpture. Helena, my valiant warrior. Beneath that were the words Commissioned by A.C. Reid, October 2002, and the scrawled signature of the artist.

  “She’s quite spectacular, isn’t she?” A middle-aged woman appeared beside her. Petite and thin, dressed in a prim dark suit, the woman’s shiny silver hair framed her face and flipped at the ends. Her haircut probably wasn’t retro so much as simply the way she’d worn it for decades.

  “Yes, she is,” Caty said. “It takes great skill to convey such deep emotion out of stone.”

  “Mr. Reid was
very pleased with the results.” The older woman’s eyes were a soft blue, her smile kind, her expression welcoming as she offered her hand. “I’m Cordelia Bonner, Mr. Reid’s personal assistant. It’s nice to finally meet you, Miss Lewis. I’ve heard wonderful reports about your work for Reidco. We’re looking forward to having you here with us in the Houston office.”

  The other woman’s words unexpectedly soothed her. “Thank you.” Caty blinked away the sudden moisture in her eyes. If she cried now, she might as well turn and run.

  Cordelia’s glance was curious and she arched her brows. “Is everything all right, dear?”

  The word dear was nearly Caty’s undoing. “Yes. I’m just glad to be here. It’s been quite an afternoon. If it’s not against the rules, I hope you’ll call me Caty.” Although Cordelia looked nothing like her tall, blonde, brown-eyed mother, Sarah, something about this woman’s inherent kindness gave her comfort.

  “There’s no rule against using first names. Feel free to call me Cordelia. Now, if you’ll follow me, Mr. Reid is on an international conference call in another office, but he’ll be joining you in a few minutes.”

  Being mindful of her broken shoe heel, Caty followed the older woman around the reception desk and then down a long hallway on the left perimeter of the building. If she angled her right foot a certain way as she walked, it helped to maintain her balance. She kept pace as best she could, but becoming overconfident might cause another mishap. She couldn’t take the risk.

  “If I remember correctly, Cordelia was the name of King Lear’s youngest daughter. His favorite daughter,” Caty said.

  “That’s correct.” Cordelia seemed pleased by the observation. “You must be well-versed in Shakespeare.”

  Caty smiled. “Not really. King Lear was required reading in high school. I think I remember Cordelia because I appreciated how forgiving she was. Even after she was unfairly banished from the kingdom, she still came back and forgave her father.”

  “Yes, forgiveness is an admirable quality.” Stopping abruptly in the middle of a long, wood-paneled hallway, Cordelia used a key card to open an unmarked door.

  Caty swallowed her surprise. A hidden entrance? That seemed both awesome yet odd at the same time. Ultimately, it raised more questions in her mind about the CEO and founder of Belac.

  “After you.” The other woman stood aside and motioned for her to enter the office.

  As expected, A.C. Reid’s office was massive. He was obviously a professional baseball fan. Lots of sports memorabilia lived here. A signed bat was framed in a shadowbox on one wall. Another shadowbox held a collection of signed baseballs, photos, and other mementos. Sam and her dad would have a field day in this office. For some unknown reason, Caty had expected the man to be a big game hunter, but no mounted deer heads or fishing conquests decorated the walls.

  Judging by the classic furnishings, elegant fixtures, and hardwood floors—covered with another large Persian rug—Mr. Reid preferred function and handcrafted beauty to sleek and modern. Given the dimensions of the office, Caty guessed the width must extend from one side of the office tower to the other. She imagined Cordelia’s office, as well as those of Mr. Reid’s other assistants, must be somewhere nearby.

  “Please have a seat.” Cordelia gestured to a tall wingback chair, covered in a maroon brocade fabric that faced a large desk made from highly polished mahogany. “Would you like something to drink? A soothing cup of afternoon tea, perhaps?”

  Caty set her briefcase on the floor and then took a seat on the chair. “That would be lovely. Anything is fine, thanks. I’m not particular.”

  “Cream and sugar?”

  “A little cream if it’s no trouble.”

  “Not at all. I’ll return shortly.” Something about the rigid set of Cordelia’s shoulders and the purposeful way she moved reminded Caty of her brother, Will, and her father, Sam Sr. They’d both served as Air Force pilots. Could this woman be a military veteran? Caty watched as Cordelia disappeared behind an interior door on the opposite wall from where they’d entered the office.

  A large painting of an oil rig in the setting sun—the same design as the Belac, Inc. logo but in full color—hung behind the desk. Everything appeared to have its place, no doubt courtesy of Cordelia’s dutiful attention. Colorful folders—one for each of the entities Mr. Reid controlled, perhaps?—sat neatly stacked to one side of the desk blotter, a gold fountain pen beside it.

  Reidco was the largest and most profitable division of Belac, Inc., but considering he also owned interest in several international oil corporations, the man’s personal financial portfolio must be staggering.

  What does a man do with all that money? Own homes across the globe with staff on stand-by? A private jet? She couldn’t begin to imagine that kind of wealth.

  Twisting in the chair, Caty swept another appraising glance around the office. A few western-themed sculptures, framed documents, and a massive wall clock completed the look of professional sophistication. A fireplace was built into the wall opposite Mr. Reid’s desk with a cozy conversational grouping in front of it. A conference table with eight executive chairs sat in one corner. Although a bit dark, the CEO’s office was exactly what she’d expect for the head of the corporation.

  Caty drew in a deep, cleansing breath, trying to control her racing pulse.

  “Everything according to His purpose,” she murmured under her breath.

  Cordelia returned with a silver teapot and a delicate cup and saucer—hand-painted, bone china—on a silver tray with a matching small pitcher of cream. When she set the tray on the desk, Caty spied a folded, damp paper towel in the woman’s hand.

  “For your skirt.” Cordelia handed her the paper towel .

  Caty suppressed her sigh. She’d momentarily forgotten about the chocolate. No wonder this observant woman held the high-ranking position as Mr. Reid’s trusted assistant. She ran her finger over the spot, relieved it had finally dried. Using her fingernail, she quickly flicked off the chocolate, brushed the remaining traces into her palm, and then lightly ran the towel over the spot. Good as new. Within seconds, model-of-efficiency Cordelia took the paper towel and pocketed it.

  “Thank you,” Caty murmured. “As long as we’re on my road tour of humiliation, you don’t happen to have a quick fix for a ripped underarm seam, do you?”

  “No need for humiliation.” Cordelia gave her a smile that Caty interpreted as more motherly than patronizing. “I’ll attend to your jacket if you’ll slip it off and allow me to take it for a few minutes.”

  “That would be great. Cowboy Abe was right. The ladies of the 35th floor are indispensable.” She could tell she’d intrigued Cordelia with that statement although she remained silent while Caty unfastened the buttons and handed over her jacket.

  After draping it across another wingback chair, Cordelia set about preparing and pouring Caty’s tea. “This is Darjeeling tea. It’s grown on steep and dangerous slopes in India, Nepal, and the Bhutan border, anywhere from 5,000 to 8,000 feet above sea level.”

  “In other words, a very expensive tea.”

  Cordelia carefully set the cup and saucer on the desk beside her. “Spoken like a true accountant.”

  Caty shrugged. “I can’t seem to help myself. It’s how my mind works. So, is Mr. Reid more a tea or a coffee connoisseur?”

  “That depends on where he is in the world, but he’s traditionally more of a coffee drinker. Why don’t you try your tea, dear? See if it’s brewed to your liking.”

  “I’m sure it’s perfect.” She’d rather have Cordelia work on her jacket, but to humor her, Caty took a dainty sip, hoping the other woman didn’t notice how her hand trembled slightly. “It’s delicious. And is Mr. Reid’s favorite coffee made from rare, exotic beans?”

  Goodness. She should stop with the Mr. Reid this, Mr. Reid that nonsense. Normally, she wouldn’t ask so many questions, but when she was nervous, she had the unfortunate habit of saying whatever popped into her mind. Like the fairy
cowboy thing. That had been a personal low.

  “Mr. Reid’s coffee preferences aren’t exotic. The most expensive coffee would be the Kopi Luwak in Indonesia. Are you familiar with it?”

  Cordelia’s words interrupted Caty’s musing. “No, I can’t say that I am.” Caty took another quick sip of the tea.

  “It’s quite fascinating,” Cordelia continued. “The coffee is made from beans that have been eaten by a weasel-like animal, partly digested, and then excreted.”

  Caty slapped a hand over her mouth. “You don’t say,” she managed, thankful she hadn’t spewed tea all over the desk. The way her day was going, the hot liquid would have landed all over that precise stack of multicolored folders. She wiped the corners of her lips with her fingers. “What a lovely story.”

  Cordelia handed her a napkin. “Supposedly the internal digestion adds a unique flavor to the beans by removing the bitterness.”

  “I have to say, this has been the most educational tea drinking experience I’ve ever had.” Caty dabbed the corners of her mouth with the napkin. “I think I’ll pass on sampling the Copy Loowack in my lifetime.”

  The older woman appeared amused by her obvious mispronunciation. “You might be relieved to know that Mr. Reid prefers the mountain grown variety.”

  “Smart man.” Caty lifted her cup. “The best part of waking up.”

  “I’ll leave you to drink your tea,” Cordelia said. “I’ll be back in seven minutes with your jacket, most likely before Mr. Reid joins you.”

  “Thank you again.” Seven minutes? Surely she was ex-military to be that exact. If she timed Cordelia, Caty felt sure the helpful woman would return with her jacket precisely when predicted. While she was at it, she should have asked for fixative for her shoe.

  Taking another sip, she savored the robust, hot brew. It was helping to alleviate her frayed nerves. What an odd afternoon. First the enigmatic but compassionate cowboy, and now the assistant who spouted random and sometimes disgusting facts. What type of person knew those kinds of things? Cordelia must be fun at company parties. Get a little alcohol in her, and she must be off-the-wall wacky.