by Terri Kraus
“Drake. You mean … like the oil well?”
Paul Drake laughed. “No. No relation to the Drake who drilled the oil well. That question is only asked in Venango County by the way. History can be so provincial. And, Miss Dane, that branch of the Drakes died penniless, I am told.”
Cameron tilted her head, baffled, then brightened. She turned and pointed to the empty office in the corner. “Like the Drakes who own the newspaper?”
“Well, yes, Miss Dane, at least in the general sense. The newspapers are on the other side of the family. Aunt Paige and all them. I’m from the black sheep side of the Drake line.” He leaned closer and whispered, conspiratorially, “We left Venango County eons ago—before the Ice Age, I believe—and made our way to the balmy southern climes of Pittsburgh.”
Cameron liked this young man already, although she had never once heard Paige mention having relatives in Pittsburgh.
“We are involved in—” he whispered, the last word the softest of all—“television.”
Then Paul Drake stood tall and resumed his normal speaking voice, which was bold and clear. “Actually, Aunt Paige is a great-aunt, or is that called a second aunt?” Paul said, batting the air, as if dismissing the complexity of his genealogy. “But we are related in some convoluted, backwoods fashion, I’m sure.”
Cameron found herself grinning.
“And I am surprised that Aunt Paige is not here. After all, she did invite me here—to talk to you, actually.”
He waited for the words to have effect.
“Sort of, anyway.”
Cameron had no response.
“So—are you free for dinner?”
At the corner of her vision, she could see Clara, so confused and desperate to figure out who this stranger was.
Emily Harrington thrust out her hand to a surprised Ethan Willis.
“Mr. Willis? Scott said to express his regrets. He had planned to come today but was tied up with a family … situation. You’re a dad, right? Then you must understand how these things sometimes happen. I’m Emily Harrington. Scott and I are partners. I am the Harrington of Anderson and Harrington.”
Ethan recovered the ability to speak. “Oh, yes, sure, that’s okay. I just had expected Scott. We had talked some, you know. And he said, well, he was going to be here.”
Emily stepped into the large foyer. “You knew that Scott had a partner. But he never mentioned me, did he? He never mentioned that he had a partner who happened to be of the female persuasion, I’ll bet.”
Ethan smiled. “No. He did not. Not once.” He ushered the designer back through the house toward the kitchen. “Not that I mind. This project has lots of women involved. It’s just that I was just expecting … someone named Scott.”
Emily surveyed the large open area that would someday be a kitchen. “If it helps, Mr. Willis, you can call me Scott.”
She smiled at him, broad and warm, and from what Ethan could tell, in great earnestness. She was very pretty, Ethan would admit later. Pretty, and actually a lot more than just pretty, but in a middle-aged sort of way. Her form was trim, not thin, and her medium-blonde hair was short, precise. Red-framed glasses matched her lipstick and fingernails.
“No. That’s okay,” Ethan replied, almost recovered from his surprise. “Just a little startled at the end of a longish day. I think I’ll be able to handle it.”
The designer set her ample Louis Vuitton bag on the makeshift plywood table, pulled out a case, unzipped it, flipped open a thin and chic laptop, switched it on, and retrieved a small, digital camera from her bag.
Paul Drake straightened his Italian silk tie. It did not need straightening.
Cameron would later guess he could not have been more than two years older than she. If she were writing his description for use in a book, she would have written, And he was devilishly handsome … a fact that he knew of, approved of, and ignored.
He pushed a hand through a shock of dark brown hair. His hair was unmoussed, she was sure, but it obeyed as if it were.
“So, Miss Dane, are you mentally considering which fine local dining establishment you shall recommend for the two of us? We do have some important business to discuss.”
Cameron looked over her shoulder to see if she had missed a large section of conversation and it was lying behind her, unused.
She saw no such pile of words there.
“Yes, yes, I know my aunt is not one for telling the appropriate parties of important conversations between herself and her nephew … or great-nephew—whatever. But that does not answer my question. Dinner? Where?”
Clara almost fell from her chair at the desk. She offered a small shriek that got both Paul Drake’s and Cameron’s attention.
“I’m fine,” she called out as she grabbed the edge of the counter and pulled herself upright. “Why not Gibson’s? Best steaks in Venango County.”
Cameron shot a harsh look at Clara, then softened when she turned back to Mr. Drake.
“Obviously, Aunt Paige was negligent in her duties. She did not let you know I was coming. She did not discuss this at all with you. I must talk to her about this. But now, we must attend to the matter at hand—dinner. I am famished. It has been a long day.”
Cameron almost stood, as if being swept along by the force of Mr. Paul Drake’s personality. “But … but why are you here? What do I have to do with—”
Paul smoothed the camel-colored cashmere overcoat he had draped over his right arm. “Well, I suspect I will be forced to disclose my plans before I can coerce you to leave your desk. Miss Dane, I know a good bit about you already. We get copies of The Derrick down in Pittsburgh. A few days late, but we get it. I have admired your work. I asked my aunt to tell me about you.”
This time Cameron did stand. Somehow it felt more appropriate.
“And I have come all this way to …”
Cameron listened closer.
“… to offer you a job.”
Cameron had to force her jaw to remain closed, but somehow she accomplished it. Clara was much less successful than Cameron.
Emily snapped dozens of pictures of the kitchen, making sure that every angle of the empty room was documented and every perspective explored. She tapped at her laptop and typed for a moment.
“This is much more grand than I imagined,” she finally said. “Scott isn’t the best at describing a room. A room always feels so different in person than it does on a blueprint, doesn’t it? The light. The flow. The height.”
She looked directly at Ethan, her eyes catching him full on. He felt observed, examined. “How long until you start on the finish work down here?”
Ethan had anticipated the question. “We have another three weeks on the top floors. We’re waiting on some custom glass bathroom tiles Mrs. Moretti ordered from Italy. If they show up … three weeks. If not … then maybe we’ll finish the basement first.”
“Good,” Emily said, nodding and typing. “Of course we have some preliminary planning done. We knew that wall would be cabinets,” she said, pointing at the north wall. “They’re close to being selected.”
“What about the appliances?”
“Mrs. Carter was very, very certain about what she wanted—as long as it was the absolute best. That makes our job a little easier. I have a tentative layout here,” she said as she pulled a rolled blueprint from her bag. “I wanted to walk it all out with tape so I could check on traffic patterns.”
Ethan helped hold one edge of the blueprint down on the plywood table. As he bent close to her, he smelled a hint of citrus. It might have been a lemony fragrance, but sweeter. On the work site, that scent was not a regular occurrence. He told himself not to breathe deeply, thinking that the gesture might be considered rude.
“The Wolf range and ovens are here, and over here are the Sub-Zeros,”
Emily said, pointing. “And we have the island right in this area. That’s the one dimension I need to check. We like architects. Especially the team from 3R. It’s just that we don’t trust them.”
Ethan found himself laughing in agreement.
“Help me with this tape?” she asked as she extended a thick roll of bright orange masking tape to him. In her other hand, she pulled out a battered forty-foot tape measure—just like the one Ethan used.
“Gibson’s it shall be, Miss Dane. Clara would not send us to a mediocre establishment, would you, Clara?”
“Certainly not,” Clara responded with some pride. “I don’t go very often. But Gibson’s is real good.”
Paul Drake slipped his coat on in a single smooth move. “I adore ‘real good,’” he said as he extended his hand to Cameron. “I hope you like ‘real good’ too.”
As Cameron took his hand, he turned back to Clara. “Miss Clara, would you be so kind as to call that fine establishment and make reservations for the two of us? At their nicest table—one with a view, if they have one.”
Clara was already in the phone book. It was obvious to Cameron that Paul Drake was a man who was used to getting his own way—and to having people help him get it.
Paul drove. Cameron had forgotten how smooth and supple a luxury car could be. His black Lexus, though maybe a year old, looked immaculate and still smelled of new leather with the tiniest hint of some woodsy aftershave.
The maître d’ at Gibson’s escorted them to a table overlooking the river. Though it was early, the dining room was three-quarters filled.
“Winter brings out the early crowd,” Paul said as he slid in Cameron’s chair. “Pittsburgh in the winter is exactly the same.”
A trio of waiters scurried over with water, bread, and menus. Paul did not take one.
“The lady will take her time, but have your chef pick out the best New York strip in the house for me. When he cooks it, make it medium rare to medium, no blood, please. Instead of the baked potato—grilled asparagus, plain, and a double order of a house salad—no radishes, bleu cheese dressing on the side. And a large glass of water. With a slice of lime, not lemon.”
Paul folded his hands on the table. “But, Miss Dane, please, take all the time you need. I admit that I can be a distraction in restaurants. I have only a few favorite foods—and I order them over and over.”
Cameron held up her hand, bidding the waiter to stay. She knew she wouldn’t be able to function well with Mr. Paul Drake watching her decide on dinner.
“A large salad, the house vinaigrette, extra croutons. The petite filet, medium well. Baked potato with everything. And an iced tea if it’s fresh brewed, lots of lemon slices. If not, a sparkling water. With a slice of lemon, not lime.”
It was clear that Paul was nearly impressed. “Not many people, women especially, come to quick decisions in a restaurant. I like those that do. Not that it proves anything at all, but I like that quality in a woman—and in a man, for that matter.”
Cameron folded her hands in front of her on the table. She forced herself to say the words evenly and calmly. “So, Mr. Drake, what sort of job are we talking about?”
In fifteen minutes, Emily and Ethan had lined the kitchen floor with the fluorescent masking tape, outlining the shape of the cabinets, the appliances, the island, the built-in desk, and had taped the counter height on the raw stud walls. Emily tapped scores of measurements into her laptop. She walked through the room, stepping aside of the tape, entering and exiting at each door. She knelt where the dishwashers were to be located, she paced backward from the stove as if taking out a large turkey, she walked between the refrigerator/freezers and the sink, and the ovens and the sink—what she referred to as “the working triangle.” She spent several minutes learning the distances between those points on foot.
“Paper can be so misleading. It’s such a blessing to have the space unfinished so I can really see how things will fit together.”
Ethan watched with admiration. Seldom did he find architects or designers who took this sort of care with a project, working hard to make the design fit for humans. Most often it was vice versa.
“Well, Mr. Willis, I think I am done for tonight. Our specifications expert is coming tomorrow morning.”
“Right. That’s what Scott said.”
“I don’t think he really needs to be here … but I think he just wants to get out of the showroom for a day and take a long drive.”
“Should I roll up your blueprint?” Ethan asked.
Emily looked over her shoulder as she was packing up her computer.
“No. Unless it’s in your way. We’ll need it tomorrow.”
“You’ll be here tomorrow?” he asked, a little surprised.
“Yes. Jacob, our specs ‘consultant’ is—well, to be kind—a little high-strung. I don’t want him getting too excited about any change in the plans or dimensions. It’s easiest if I just spend the night in Franklin so I can hold his hand, if you know what I mean, in the morning. You know how temperamental some designers can be—and kitchen designers are simply the worst.”
Ethan nodded, though he didn’t really understand any of this. But he did know what high-strung meant, and he knew it was better if someone else dealt with it.
“I have a room at The Franklin House. That’s the historic hotel on the main street of your downtown, right? I hope it’s a decent place.”
“It’s not bad. I can’t say I’ve ever been in the rooms. I imagine they’re not spacious, but the dining room is … well … it’s okay. And other people who have stayed there said that … that it was clean and friendly. It’s an okay place.”
“Okay is fine. There aren’t that many lodging choices in Franklin. It was either this or the Holiday Inn in Oil City. And I didn’t want to drive there after dark.” Ethan helped Emily pack up her tools, then walked over to the light. “You’re done, right?”
Emily shouldered her bag. “I am. But I do have one favor to ask. It’s a long drive from Pittsburgh to Franklin. And I’m tired. But more than that, I’m really hungry. What’s the best place to eat around here? I’m in the mood for meat—a good steakhouse would be great.”
Without giving it a lot of thought, Ethan replied, “Gibson’s. But it’s out on the river highway—a few miles out of town. There’s no steak place closer than that, I’m afraid.”
Emily didn’t try to hide her disappointment. “No. I’m no good driving strange roads after dark. I’m not that good even with places I know once it gets dark.”
“I could draw a map. It’s real easy to get to.”
Emily hoisted her bag higher on her shoulder. “No. That’s okay. The Franklin House will be fine.”
Ethan saw something in her eyes, then, without thinking about the words, said, “I could take you there.”
Emily brightened. “Would you? I mean … could you? Your family must be waiting for you. I would hate to impose on your time.”
“No one is waiting. My son is at his friend’s house tonight. There’s nobody waiting.” He was not sure if he should explain further, and he did not.
“That would be great. Is it a fancy place?” She didn’t really look at his clothes, but she did glance.
He looked down at his clean denim shirt and pressed khaki pants. “No. I think I’m fine. This is Franklin, after all.”
“Then you have a dinner date.”
The word stopped him for a moment. “Well, then—okay.”
Chase lay on his back on the floor, his legs elevated on Elliot’s bed.
They both could hear Elliot’s mom clattering in the kitchen. She was rearranging the cabinets, moving dishes from one cabinet to the other, cleaning the shelves and laying out new shelf liners. When she was in one of these moods, which were now known as “Mom’s frenzies” in Elliot’s house,
everyone avoided that specific room, lest they be recruited into a cause for which they had not expected to volunteer.
“You going away over Christmas?” Elliot asked. He was lying on his bed, tossing a Nerf ball up and down, seeing how close he could come to the ceiling fan without hitting the blades.
“No. My dad’s still working on the Carter place. I heard him and Joel talking and that it’s taking longer than they thought it would. Maybe spring break, he said, we could go someplace not too expensive,” Chase replied. “You guys going anywhere?”
Elliot snorted a laugh. “And when was the last time we went anywhere? You’re the lucky one who went to Disney World last year.”
From the kitchen Chase heard Elliot’s mom bark out his younger sister’s name. “Elaine! I see you there. Come here. Hold these plates. My word! Every time I start to clean, it seems like everyone disappears.”
Elliot snorted another laugh.
“Yeah. Real lucky,” Chase said with more than a little sarcasm.
Not to forgive is to be imprisoned by the past,
by old grievances that do not permit life
to proceed with new business.
—Lance Morrow
Forgiving what we cannot forget
creates a new way to remember.
We change the memory of our past
into a hope for our future.
—Lewis B. Smedes
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“YOU SEEM TO BE a direct person,” Paul said as he carefully took a single croissant from the basket of various types of dinner rolls. “Aunt Paige said you had moxie. I like moxie.”
Cameron could not help smiling.
“I know. Moxie is such an out-of-date word, isn’t it? Like gumption. No one has gumption anymore. I mean, sure, people have it. They simply call it something else.”