Share the Moon

by Sharon Struth

  She could just tell Cliff the truth; that she’d been lying to him for the past week.

  Instead, she slipped on her best overwhelmed-but-willing face, hoping it didn’t look like she was in pain. “What about my conflict of interest? Maybe now that Gabby’s back, she should take the story. From what Will’s saying, this sounds urgent. I mean, I’ve got the Bellantoni’s Market hours change to work on.” Cliff stared back, clearly unimpressed. “Oh, and this week I’m scheduled to interview the head of Public Works about the left turn signal at the school park.”

  “Thought I’d be dead before they addressed that stupid traffic light.”

  “Me too.” Even back when Sophie had attended school, the signal at the main intersection of their educational park didn’t have a left turn arrow on the traffic light. Oncoming traffic was delayed by a good thirty seconds once the light turned green, however, during busy hours the precarious moment right before the oncoming light switched to green became a game of chance. “So, you’ll put Gabby on the zoning story?”

  “Can’t.” Cliff rubbed the tip of his long chin. “Will said Jamieson specifically asked for you to do the interview, but I’ll call them and tell them no if you think you can’t handle—”

  “Are you sure he wants me?”

  “You two met at the hearing, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Then you’re the Sophie Shaw he’s asking for.” Cliff lifted a yellow Post-it, held it out at arm’s length, and squinted, apparently forgetting about the glasses on his head. “He said to arrange it through Carl, um….”

  “Carl Hansen?”

  His vision shifted over the top of the note. “You know him?”

  “Oh, yeah. Carl and I go way, way back.” Sophie stood and left. The worn wood staircase creaked as she headed to the first floor.

  When she hit the last step, Cliff yelled, “They’d like the story in by this Friday too.”

  “Of course they would,” she mumbled but yelled back, “Okay.”

  Sophie phoned Carl, who slotted her in with Duncan on Wednesday afternoon. She had two days to figure out how to mend her mistakes. She’d called Duncan a liar, speculated he’d flirted with her to gain professional favor, and then spat out the last word and sped from the parking lot. Two days? She’d need two weeks to find the right words to fix this mess.

  Chapter 6

  Waxing Crescent: Varying amounts of the lunar surface are illuminated

  offering the appearance of growth.

  A trip to the West Farms Mall put Sophie ten minutes behind schedule for her appointment at RGI’s Hartford office. She pushed the accelerator and violated the posted speed limit on I-84. No point in giving the almighty Duncan Jamieson one more thing to add to her list of infractions. As she’d tried to sleep last night, she instead flipped from side to side, riddled with anxiety over how to handle today’s interview. By three AM she’d reached a conclusion: the first thing she needed to do was apologize. She wasn’t too happy about it, though.

  As she neared the exit for RGI, the unpalatable taste of crow lingered in her mouth. By the time she pulled into the parking garage, she’d accepted the bitter tang.

  A glance at the dashboard clock showed she now ran twelve minutes late, thanks to a few traffic lights. Sophie grabbed her bag and hurried along the concrete floor of the garage toward the elevators. The clickity-clack of pointy Jones New York pumps Bernadette had insisted Sophie buy from the clearance rack at TJ Maxx echoed against the concrete walls. Up until now, they’d only seen the light of day on Easter Sunday. She’d dressed professionally in her black pencil skirt and a white silk shell covered by a tweed, cropped jacket. As a finishing touch, she’d twirled her hair into a fisted bun. Dressed as professionally as a reporter from the New York Times, she’d force Duncan to ignore the mistakes of her last interview and erase the image of her as some local gal working for a teeny small town paper who couldn’t control her rage.

  She bopped the button for the eighth floor and, in mere seconds, stepped out into Resort Group International’s tropical lobby. The same interior designer must’ve also done the Waikiki Hilton. She turned to the sound of water, where a miniature waterfall cascaded into a lily pad laden pool.

  At the welcome desk, she snickered and grinned at the receptionist. “Do you serve mai tais here?”

  The receptionist, whose wrinkled face defied her platinum blond hair, looked up but offered no smile. “Can I help you?”

  “Um, yes. I’m Sophie Shaw. I have an appointment with Duncan Jamieson.”

  “Sign in here.” She pushed a guest book across the desk.

  Under “Reason for visit,” she scribbled Appointment D. Jamieson. Three lines above where she signed, she spotted the name Joseph Dougherty, a member of the Northbridge Zoning Board.

  Sophie’s finger followed to the line for reason he visited.

  The receptionist tugged the book away. “Please have a seat. I’ll let Mr. Jamieson know you’ve arrived.” Her wrinkles creased further with a “gotcha” smirk.

  Sophie waited on a sleek contemporary sofa. Mural-sized photographs of locations where RGI had built resorts draped the walls. From the sunny beaches of California, to snow-capped mountains in the Alps, to the flaxen hills of Tuscany, RGI’s modern luxuries awaited the weary traveler. Joe’s visit nagged at her subconscious, but the issue could easily be resolved by asking Duncan why the zoning board member had been here. Years of reporting proved one thing: never discount anything. A single question might change the course of a story.

  “Sophie?” A fit man with tidy brown hair approached her with an extended hand. His smile showcased his perfect pearly teeth but lacked sincerity. “I’m Carl Hansen.”

  She recognized him from the public hearing. “Sorry I’m a little late.”

  “No problem.”

  The tenseness in her jaw relaxed.

  “Although, Duncan can be a stickler for punctuality.”

  Her stomach tugged into a hard knot.

  Carl’s dark suit and striped tie made her glad she’d dressed up. He led her down a long hallway, with office doors spaced evenly on both sides and a name plaque on the wall near each doorway. Cardboard boxes sat on the floor outside some of the offices.

  “Please excuse the mess. We’re still transitioning while we close the New York office.”

  They entered a large suite. The sleek corporate atmosphere of the hallways disappeared, replaced by paintings of nature, a mission-styled sofa, and tiffany lamps. Meg had mentioned Duncan’s purchase of the Burnham estate, a home known for its Craftsman design. A slender woman, with shoulder-length hair almost the same color as her taupe suit jacket sat at a desk, furiously typing.

  “I guess this where Frank Lloyd Wright sits,” Sophie said then chuckled. Surely, with this décor, Duncan’s staff would know about the architect who embraced the Prairie School of Design, the Craftsman qualities similar to the home he’d purchased in Northbridge.

  Carl blinked and just looked at her for a second. Strike two on the joking around with staff. “Karen. This is Sophie Shaw. Duncan’s appointment.”

  Her catlike eyes lifted with a smile, perhaps a pity offering for the joke. “He’s finishing a call but said to send Ms. Shaw right in.”

  Carl tapped on the half-opened door, stood aside, and waved her inside. The door clicked shut. He hadn’t joined them.

  Duncan sat behind his large mahogany desk with his phone’s handset wedged between his shoulder and his ear while he leaned back and studied a sheet in his hand. “Uh-huh. What’ll it end up costing us?”

  He glanced at her over the top of dark-rimmed, half-framed glasses. A force seared Sophie, like a momentary zap of electricity. His gaze shifted to a digital clock positioned in the corner of his desk and he frowned. Carl’s hint that Duncan was the punctuality police made her belly squirm with butterflies. Why hadn’t she left the mall sooner? Besides the added calories, she’d pay for the last stop at Au
nt Annie’s Pretzels in more ways than one.

  Duncan motioned with his chin to a seating area then lifted a second sheet of paper from a military-neat pile. “Wow. Great price. Including labor?” He chuckled. “No. I’m not asking to pay more.”

  Sure, she needed to apologize. In no way did she have to jump to his rude chin tip command to sit, though. She roamed to the wall not far from where he sat and studied a collage of ten or so photographs. All showed a blue and white hulled sailboat, tipped on an angle with a wind-filled jib and mainsail steering the vessel through choppy waters. When they’d first married, she and Mike had a small sixteen foot sailboat, a midget compared to these. Similar large boats sailed in the background, perhaps a race. A close-up from behind revealed one boat’s name read “True Love.” Another photo showed Duncan standing in a group of men dressed in shorts and matching T-shirts, which read “You Can’t Beat True Love.” His curls ruffled from a breeze and his pale skin glowed pink from a day in the sun.

  She glanced toward his desk, where he remained wrapped up in his phone call. The top button of his crisp white shirt was undone, visible beneath a loosened red power tie. Cuffed sleeves, folded neatly to below his elbow, revealed strong forearms. He lifted his gaze over the rims of his glasses. She froze.

  “Hold on, Kevin.” He covered the mouthpiece. “Please. Have a seat.”

  “Sorry.” Duncan returned to his call. “We’ll have to wrap this up. My appointment arrived. Anything else we need to discuss?”

  He’d requested her for this interview but didn’t seem happy she actually showed up. Did he have another reason, like to retaliate for the parking lot outburst?

  She approached an expensive-looking leather sofa and removed a tape recorder, pad, and pen to a teak coffee table but, on principle, refused to sit. Jay often remarked how he hated her passive-aggressive behavior. The reality of his observation came to full light with this situation.

  An end table held a picture of Duncan with a pretty, dark-haired woman huddled close to two children, the backdrop some European city. Meg had said his wife passed away. Had she suffered a long illness like Sophie’s mother or was her death sudden?

  “Not again?” Duncan sounded annoyed. “You’re right. Okay. I’ll send Carl this time.”

  She lifted the photograph. The teenage girl appeared in her early teens and had the cute nose of the woman and her dark hair. The young boy had Duncan’s features, with brighter cinnamon hair and freckles around his nose.

  The room’s silence suddenly screamed. Sophie glanced over, afraid Duncan’s angry scowl would have returned. Instead, he studied her with a softened stare. His thoughtful gaze appraised her legs, paused midway then inched the remainder of her torso with a smooth caress. He stopped at her face and those damn crystal eyes pinned hers in place. Sophie’s breath hitched.

  Pink rushed his cheeks and he twirled his chair to the back credenza and acted as if he were searching for something. “I’m sorry, Kevin. How much did you say?”

  Sophie strolled to the large windows overlooking Hartford. Heavy traffic on the street below seemed oblivious to the lovely crisp autumn day or the fall foliage beyond the city limits.

  He cleared his throat, but she didn’t turn. Ignoring his request still gave her the upper hand, something she clung to with strange desperation at this moment.

  “Good. Fax me the price quote. We’ll take it from there. Anything else?”

  She sensed his stare through his pause in conversation.

  “Thanks, Kevin. Then we’ll talk in the morning.” He hung up. “Hello, Ms. Shaw. Give me another second to refill my coffee. Would you like some?”

  Ms. Shaw? She turned around. “No thank you.”

  He nodded and lifted a mug printed with a simple blue and white image of a sailboat, confirming her guess sailing was one of his hobbies.

  Even during her rant in the parking lot, he’d called her Sophie. She blew out a breath and leaned closer to the window, noting how high up they were. Did this higher altitude change his attitude toward her?

  A traffic jam blocked the intersection below. A driver attempted to make a left-hand turn from the far right lane. Right now, her emotions were in the dead center of an internal jam, confused by the unexpected turns of Duncan Jamieson. She wished Gabby were here instead of her.

  Awareness of his presence from behind fell over her, followed by the waft of his familiar cologne.

  “Gorgeous view, huh?” His softer, less businesslike voice landed near her ear.

  “Lovely.” Her peripheral vision caught him close enough to touch yet far enough away to be appropriate.

  “Especially over there.” He pointed at the horizon and his arm brushed her shoulder.

  She followed his finger and noted a space in the distance, where dots of evergreen added color to leafless treetops. His arm returned to his side, but an invisible impression where he’d grazed her shoulder remained.

  His tone dipped, quiet enough to be a thought he didn’t intend to say out loud. “Reminds me that my new home in Northbridge isn’t far away.”

  The motives for his closeness left her suspicious. “Well, Connecticut’s the third smallest state in the nation.” She took a step to the side and faced him. “You can pretty much see everything if you stand dead center.”

  He provided a pity grin to her stupid remark.

  She vowed not to say one more sarcastic thing for the rest of this meeting.

  He offered his hand. “Good to see you again.”

  His handshake meant business, but was appropriately tempered for a female grip. The warmth reminded her of the moment he’d taken her cold hand right after she slipped.

  “Sorry I’m late.” She gently pulled away and dropped her gaze to the floor for a second, where she concentrated on his shiny black wingtips. A path of distrust with this interviewee was prudent.

  “No problem. Let’s sit.” He motioned to the seating area. “You know what they say, though?”

  She settled on the sofa. “About what?”

  “Punctuality.” He lowered himself into a chair across from her. In the bright daylight, slivers of gray threaded in the sandy-colored curls near his temple stood out. “It’s the soul of business.” The handsome company president tilted his head, as if his little quote taught her a valuable lesson.

  “Oh? I’ve heard punctuality is the virtue of the bored.” Her close-lipped smile felt starched, not normal. “And please, call me Sophie.”

  His mouth crumpled and he nodded. “Thanks for meeting with me on such short notice.”

  “When the paper’s owner sends a direct request, we oblige.”

  His cheek muscle twitched. Cliff would give her a “tsk-tsk” over the bitchy dig. Why couldn’t she simply have said, “You’re welcome”?

  “Let’s clear up any misconception about this meeting.” He folded his hands in his lap and crossed an ankle on his knee. “After our last conversation, I didn’t expect to hear from your paper again. That’s why I contacted Will Steiner. He’s been a friend of the family for years.”

  Heat brushed Sophie’s cheeks, but she grabbed the opening. “I understand. Look, about what happened, I’d like to apologize for my reaction after the hearing.”

  He raised his light brows. “Oh?”

  “Learning your real identity surprised me.”

  The slight movements of amusement played at the corners of his mouth. “Does being surprised always make you angry?”

  “No. Being lied to does.” The angry snipe escaped without warning. “Anyway, I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  His face melted into a pensive stare. “Thank you, but I must confess something. I planned to apologize to you today. The first time we met, I wasn’t truthful with you.”

  A sarcastic sound seeped from Sophie’s throat.

  “I had a reason.”

  “So that made deceiving me okay?”

  He held up a hand. “May I finish?”
r />   She crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Buzz told me the town was split on the resort plans. I didn’t plan to mislead you. At the kayaks, after the way you spoke about how much you hated RGI….” He paused for several drawn-out seconds then his deep voice shifted, softer and more personal. “You hated me, too, for bidding on the land. I scrounged for any manner to stay in your good graces.” He dipped his chin and stared into his mug. “It’s tough to be the bad guy.” He looked up. “Especially when meeting a beautiful woman.”

  The hard finish of her prior opinion cracked. She hadn’t expect this, especially because he’d laughed at her flirting remark after the hearing. Her folded arms slipped apart.

  He stared. “Are we okay?”

  “Yes, of course.” Sophie tried to sound sincere but still didn’t trust him and had a job to do. “How about we start this interview?” Before he could answer, Sophie tipped her chin toward the tape recorder. “Mind if I record? You seem busy so this would be the fastest way to get through this.”

  “Um, sure. Go ahead.” His forehead wrinkled, some hesitation obvious.

  She pushed forward with questions about his background; how he got into the resort business. She wanted to get this over with since everything about this guy unwrapped her like a gift at Christmas. He discussed college at Stanford and how, a year before graduation, the idea for RGI developed with his college roommate and current partner, Ross Manson, during a semester abroad in Spain.

  “Why develop on Blue Moon Lake?”

  “Ross lives in Westport and fishes around there. One day we were discussing untouched and more remote places to build. He mentioned Northbridge. Kind of surprised me since my father’s family owned a home near the covered bridge. We only visited a few times, but those were memorable summers.”

  “Does your family still own the house?”

  “No. After our last summer there, Dad sold the place.”