Antonia's Choice

by Nancy Rue

  “Ya think?” Stephanie said. “They just added a whole studio onto their house.”

  “That place was four thousand square feet to begin with.”

  Stephanie gave one of her signature snorts. “You don’t exactly live in a shack yourself.”

  “My shack’s rented,” I said. “And I can only afford that because it belongs to a client.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with the house you and Chris own in Richmond, either,” Mama said. “I drive by it every now and then. Chris is keeping the lawn up.”

  I had never been so glad to see the Nashville terminal, or more grateful for the overzealous security people who blew their whistles if a driver left his car stopped at the curb for more than seven seconds.

  “I would come in with you,” I said, flipping the trunk release and whipping open my door, “but I really have to get to work.”

  “Not a problem,” Stephanie said. She caught up with me at the trunk and planted a kiss on my cheek.

  I felt a wave of longing. I really wanted her to stay.

  My mother pulled me into her arms then, and I felt just as overwhelming a wave—of guilt. She really cared. I knew that. And I could be such a witch in the face of it.

  Spine feeling like a piece of barbed wire, I hugged her back and whispered that I loved her. Mama’s face looked pained as the guard blew insistently on his whistle and she pulled away.

  “I love you, too,” she said. “And I just want you to be happy. I know that if you would just—”

  “Come on, Mama, before this poor man blows a gasket,” Stephanie said. “Love you, Sis.”

  I blew them both a kiss and slid back into the front seat, cupping myself in leather. It was suddenly too quiet in the car. All the stuff Mama had just opened up about Chris and about Ben filled up the air space.

  “I’m not going there,” I said out loud. “Work. Think about work.”

  Not hard to do. I had the meeting with Jeffrey first thing that I needed to concentrate on.

  As I waited behind a line of cars, I took a quick glance in the rearview mirror again to make sure I had the right look for the meeting. Aside from the tousled hair, the result of having done a whole day’s work already, I was probably passable.

  That sent a pang through me. Chris had always said that. I would come out of the bedroom after an hour in front of the mirror and he’d get that impish glimmer in his eyes and smile—his smile was so slow it was maddening—and he’d say, “You’ll pass.”

  In his more amorous moments, of course, it had been different. The Louisiana drawl he’d tried so hard to hide since law school would ooze right on out into, “Baby, do you know how hard it was for me to keep my hands out of your hair this entire evening?”

  “I’m so sure you were going to run your fingers through my hair while you were entertaining clients, Wells,” I would tell him. “Give me a break.”

  “I’m serious, darlin’. I saw it all thick and blond and tucked behind your ears and I wanted to slide my fingers right in there.”

  “Get over yourself!”

  “Look at your eyes, lookin’ so brown, just a-twinklin’ at me, telling me, ‘Come here, boy.’”

  “In your dreams.”

  “Let me just hug on that cute little ol’ body—”

  Uh-huh, I thought now. Did you say the same things to that little paralegal you bedded down?

  I shook my head, tossing back my bangs. Don’t go there, I told myself. Do not EVEN go there.

  I went back to Jeffrey Faustman.

  Whether or not my mother was right about the causes of Ben’s behavior, it was obvious I was going to have to do something about it before he started slipping out at night with a can of spray paint. Not to mention the fact that Ben and I were miserable. It seemed like all we did was scream at each other. Chris and I hadn’t even done that, which made me wonder why Ben had chosen that as his latest means of expressing himself.

  During the two weeks my mother was there I had had to admit, begrudgingly, that she was correct about one thing: I wasn’t spending enough time with Ben. An hour in the morning, trying to get cereal down his throat without tossing the whole bowl against the wall, and an hour and a half between the time I got home from work and the time he was supposed to be in bed really didn’t cut it.

  The night before, when I’d finally gotten Ben to sleep for the second time after the bed-wetting ordeal, I’d stayed up forming a plan, which by dawn sounded reasonable to me. Now I just had to convince Jeffrey.

  The baggy-pants gardener was out in front of Faustman Financial Services putting in a flat of pansies when I pulled into the circular driveway. For a mad moment I wished I had his job, complete with the amount of derriere he was showing over the top of his rather pointless belt. To my knowledge he never had to take files home.

  You know you love what you do, I told myself. You’ll get through this phase with Ben and then you can get refocused on the joys of handling other people’s money. You can do this. You can do anything.

  I could feel myself setting my jaw, bringing my overbite into full view. As vain as I admittedly was about my appearance, I’d never wanted to have that fixed. I’d seen myself once when a TV camera had caught me cheering in the Orange Bowl, the year Florida was ranked number one, and I’d kind of liked the overbite. It gave me character. Chris always said so.

  “Would you stop!” I said into the rearview. “What is with the Chris obsession today?”

  I marched my little self up to the oak double doors and breezed into the foyer, where the brass umbrella stand and the leaf-perfect ficus plant greeted me. Regina Acklee looked up from the reception desk, blue eyes taking inventory.

  “You on a mission this mornin’, honey?” she said. She glanced at the grandfather clock that ticked solemnly across from her desk. “Jeffrey’s gonna wish your mission was to get here on time.”

  “What am I, two minutes late?” I said.

  “Ninety seconds.” She gave me a toothy smile. “But who’s counting?”

  I set my briefcase down on the marble floor and sat on the edge of the chair at Reggie’s desk. I could feel the bumps of the brocade through my pants.

  “What kind of mood is he in?” I said.

  Reggie glanced over both shoulders at the office, which was perfectly quiet except for the soft tinkle of Mozart. If anyone were blinking within a hundred feet, we would have heard it.

  Reggie then leaned forward, fingernails tapping on the oak desktop. I couldn’t resist a peek at what she had going today. One shade short of fire engine red, each with a slant of gold. The pinkie had a ring in it. I could never figure out how she typed with those talons.

  “He’s Mr. Business today,” she said, barely moving her lips. “You know, all crisp—callin’ me Miz Acklee and tellin’ me to hold his calls.”

  “Oh.”

  Her eyes narrowed, revealing more of the makeup job that must take her two hours to apply with that kind of precision. I’d always been in awe of it.

  “What kind of mission are you on, honey?”

  Although I was an associate and Reggie was the receptionist, it had never bothered me that she called me “honey,” “baby,” “sugar,” and assorted combinations thereof. I trusted her more than I did anyone else in the office, including my own assistant, who daily made it evident that it was my job she’d really rather have.

  Reggie was watching me closely. “The way you’re lookin,” she said, “this may not be the day to approach His Worshipfulness.”

  “I have to. I’ve got to spend more time with Ben, so I’m going to ask Jeffrey to let me work mornings here and afternoons at home. I can schedule all my appointments in the mornings, and if I have to do any evening meetings I can get a babysitter and do them after Ben goes to sleep. If he goes to sleep.”

  “Oh, honey, does he still have that screamin’ thing goin’ on?”

  I nodded. “But I’m thinking that if I spend more time with him—maybe get him into some sports activitie
s to burn up some of that energy—he’ll start to settle down some. Don’t they have soccer and baseball for kindergarten-age kids?”

  “Are you kiddin’, baby? Every child in Davidson County is on a soccer or T-ball team the minute he leaves the playpen.”

  “Then Ben’s behind.” I cocked my head at her. “And what’s T-ball?”

  “Oh, honey, you have got a lot to learn.” She shook her head, wagging the strawberry-blond ponytail. She was the only nearly-forty-year-old woman I knew who could still get away with a ponytail at the office. And if Jeffrey had disapproved, he would have told her so long ago.

  She was blinking at me now.

  “What?” I said.

  “I’m just thinkin’—and mind you, this is just my intuition—but I’m just thinkin Jeffrey is not gonna go for that plan at all. Not the way he’s acting this mornin. First thing he did when he came in here was check to make sure everybody’s desk was left neat last night.”

  “Why—so the cleaning crew would be impressed?” I said.

  “All I’m sayin’ is that if you could put it off till another day, you might have a better chance.”

  “I can’t wait. Either Ben’s going to pop a blood vessel or I’m going to haul off and smack him.”

  Reggie nodded, her very-round face soft. “I’m so sorry ya’ll are goin through this. I’m prayin’ for you.”

  “Thanks,” I said automatically.

  Reggie was always reassuring me of her ongoing prayers, and I didn’t have a problem with that. I’d been brought up with Sunday school and potluck suppers and mite boxes during Lent. But right now I just didn’t see what good praying was going to do. Even God, I was sure, couldn’t loosen Jeffrey up. That was going to be up to me.

  I dropped off my briefcase and purse in my office, giving a list for the day to Ginny, my assistant, who greeted it with the usual poorly disguised lip curl. After stopping by the restroom for one last perusal in the mirror, I headed for Jeffrey’s office. My pants were so wrinkled in the front they looked like an accordion, but otherwise I had the confident, professional look going on. It was all about attitude.

  The oak door with its JEFFREY R. FAUSTMAN, JR. brass plate was closed when I got there. I knocked soundly and pushed it open. I hadn’t called first and I didn’t wait for an invitation to come in. Where I was headed, it was better not to give Faustman opportunities to say no to anything along the way.

  Jeffrey’s bald head, still bent over the desk as I stepped into his office, caught the carefully focused track lighting. I’d often wondered how he achieved the perfect shine on the completely hairless part of his head. It was as flawless as the thick fringe of auburn below it. I’d always meant to ask Reggie if she thought he waxed his cranium.

  When he looked up, I caught the fleeting irritation behind his glasses, but as soon as he stood up it was gone. Jeffrey Faustman never lowered himself to emotion. With the clients he was cordial and showed an understated charm. Ours were the kind of clients who had been schmoozed over enough to be able to spot it the minute they crossed the threshold, and would turn on their heels to avoid it. With the staff, on Reggie’s level, he was crisp and businesslike, bordering on abrupt, at times resorting to rude. With his associates, like myself, he was professional and polite, drawn into our personal concerns only on rare occasions. As I settled back into the Queen Anne chair in front of his desk, I was determined this wasn’t going to be one of those occasions.

  “Were we scheduled to meet this morning?” he said, glancing at his Day-Timer as he returned to his desk chair. He looked six-foot-three when he sat, or when he was standing over someone’s desk, but he was barely six feet tall. I drew myself up as far as my own five-foot-four self would allow.

  “No,” I said. “But there’s something I need to discuss with you before the day gets going.”

  “Mine is already going.”

  There were lifted eyebrows, which I ignored.

  “I’m going to need to change my working arrangement. The details are outlined here.”

  I slid a file across his desk and leaned back against the silk brocade while he glanced over my plan. I had purposely not referred to it as a “proposal.”

  He closed the file and lined it up precisely on his desktop. “What’s this about, Toni?” he said.

  “It’s about my needing to change my working hours.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s personal.”

  “I don’t think I’m overstepping my boundaries by asking you for details.”

  He wasn’t. I had to answer.

  “My circumstances have changed,” I said.

  “Are you getting back together with your husband?”

  “No!” I said, and then silently cursed myself. Bad move. Regroup. “No,” I said, minus the exclamation point. “It’s nothing like that. My son just needs more of my attention.”

  Jeffrey leaned back in his chair, formed a pistol with his two index fingers, and rubbed the tip of his nose with it. I’d only been in his firm for two and a half months, but I’d learned the first week that pistol-fingers meant he felt he had the upper hand.

  I will not squirm, I told myself firmly. No more little outbursts. And no more information.

  “I have very little experience with arrangements of this kind,” he said, lowering the pistol only enough to uncover his mouth. “And what I have had has not been positive.”

  He stopped, obviously waiting for me to defend myself. I didn’t.

  “If I knew more about what you were up against…” he said.

  No way. Nothing doing, I thought. You are not going to make me vulnerable.

  “Am I prying?” he said.

  “I think you’re well enough acquainted with my work to know I will get the job done and done well, no matter what schedule I keep.” I looked at the file and then at him and waited for an answer. If he said no, I told myself, then maybe I’d beg.

  He pistoled his nose a few more times and, still leaning back like the Godfather, said, “Two weeks.”

  “Excuse me?” The words I’m giving you two weeks’ notice whipped through my head.

  “We’ll give this arrangement two weeks and then review it. If you come up short, I’ll expect you back in the office full-time.”

  I stood up and thanked him coolly—giving him a you-really-didn’t-have-any-other-choice smile—and left his office. Then I closed the oak door behind me and sagged against it. What would I have done if he hadn’t said yes? This was the most lucrative, upwardly mobile job in the entire Southeast for me, and I knew it.

  But by the time Reggie came into my office fifteen minutes later, the satisfaction of a victory-over-Faustman had already taken over. I was looking up soccer programs on the Internet. Apparently Ben and I were in luck, because they were just starting to form teams for the spring season.

  “How did it go, honey?” Reggie said, setting a cup of coffee on my desk. I was sure it had just the right amount of Sweet’N Low in it. “Fine. I start my new hours tomorrow.” Reggie stared. “You are not serious.” “As a heart attack, girl. Was there ever any doubt?”

  “Yes! I thought surely you were gonna come out of there cryin’.”

  “Nah. The Kerrington women don’t cry. It’s in our contract. Our father—may he rest in peace—made us sign it when we hit puberty.”

  “Now you’re teasin’ me,” Reggie said.

  I laughed, but it was almost true. We didn’t actually sign on a line; it was more one of those unspoken family agreements that we all adhered to as if it were in the IRS manual. Daddy had definitely been the head of the household, at least as far as our behavior was concerned. All he’d had to do was look at Bobbi and she’d cry and run to Mama, who would attribute it all to Bobbi’s “beautiful sensitivity.” Stephanie didn’t have to worry about it much because she’d never so much as bent a rule, much less broken one.

  I, on the other hand, had tested them all and suffered the consequences—with no compensating psychological excus
es provided by Mama. At one point in my early adolescence, I’d found myself in a room stripped of all my personal possessions, marking off each of my thirty days of confinement on a calendar. Interesting. I was the one who had turned out to be most like my father—calm, analytical, and in full control of my emotions.

  Two

  I DIDN’T TALK TO MY MOTHER until after Ben was asleep that night. It had been a long day getting myself organized for my new working arrangement, and Jeffrey’s e-mail, which I received right after lunch, didn’t make it feel any shorter.

  Am still slightly less than optimistic about your new schedule, he wrote. This may cause me to rethink some plans I had for your advancement. We’ll see.

  “Jerk,” I said out loud when I read it.

  From the outer office, Ginny said, “Did you call me?”

  I smothered a guffaw and told her no. I told myself that I was going to surprise Jeffrey Faustman with my productivity on the new schedule and get the advancement. This deal with Ben was only temporary—just until I could get him settled down. Time in itself, I thought, took care of a lot of issues. Not all issues, but this had to be one of them.

  On my way home, I picked up a soccer ball to surprise Ben and, admittedly, to sneak him into a better mood. I’d signed him up for a soccer team on-line that afternoon, and had decided it might not be so bad. I’d been athletic in high school and college—okay, I’d been a cheerleader. Ben had some of my genes. And as for the job thing, I was too determined to make it work for it not to. What I did was, after all, who I was.

  All was actually quiet on the home front when I slipped in through the front door and into the family room in the back part of the house. Ben was sprawled out on the Oriental rug right in front of the television, where the Rugrats had him entranced. He looked smaller than ever in two stories of cherry paneling and oversize burgundy leather chairs, with an impressive copy of Stuart Mill’s portrait of George Washington surveying him from over the fireplace. Kevin Pollert, my client who owned the house and who was in Europe for two years, had a thing about his American heritage. The twelve-foot-high bookcases, complete with a sliding barrister ladder, always made me feel like I was sitting in the Library of Congress.