by Sheila Walsh
“So you’re bringing recycled food?”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it that. It sounds so . . . gross.”
Tammy laughed. “Well, get me the brownies before they get all gooey.”
Ethan opened the passenger door and removed the plate of plastic-wrap-covered brownies. He nodded toward Sarah’s house. “This neighborhood is never going to be the same, is it?”
“No, it’s not.” Tammy shook her head. “I miss her so much.” She wiped at her eyes. “You want to hear something weird? Keith keeps talking about ‘Annie,’ and about angels watching over her, and I’ve realized I really miss Ann too. Almost as much as Sarah, which sounds really strange. I mean, maybe it’s just because Keith is sending her a new angel drawing every single day, and I’m the one mailing them, that she’s on my mind so much. I just met her, but somehow I just feel like she’s a part of this place. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”
Ethan understood more than Tammy knew. “Really? I mean, she seems to be a New Yorker through and through. Do you really think she could belong here?”
“Don’t you?” She asked the question point-blank. There was no mistaking her meaning.
“Well, I . . .” No weakness. Don’t you dare give an inch.
“Hey, Ethan, you ready yet?”
One thing Ethan could say about Keith, the kid had great timing. “Yes, I am, buddy.”
Ann’s computer screen cast a hazy green light around her cubicle. This place definitely needed better lighting—how was she supposed to get inspired while working in flubber-colored ambience?
“Have I told you lately how much I love you for landing the Stinson account?” Beka leaned over the partial wall that separated their work spaces. “Well, I know I told you yesterday, but have I told you today yet?”
Ann looked into the tired eyes of her friend, and in this moment, she knew that whatever it took, holding on to that account was worth it. “You can thank me if I come out on the other side still alive.”
Beka laughed, having no idea how much truth was in Ann’s words. “Yeah, right, Miss Cooler-than-the-Rooms-She-Designs.
I’ll bet you won’t even break a sweat. In fact, I’m guessing you already know exactly what you’re going to do for all twenty units on the ground floor. Am I right?”
It wasn’t until this very moment that Ann realized just how strong of a front she actually put on. It helped to calm her, though, realizing that not even Beka knew how terrified she was. “Almost.” No point in letting down her guard now. Beka needed her strength, and Ann would fake her way through it for as long as she could.
“Hey, I’ve got to take some things over to that penthouse by Central Park—you know, the one on Museum Mile. Would you have some time to come with me? I’m still not sure what to do with the terraces and I was hoping to get your opinion.”
“Like you have ever once liked the outdoor furniture I’ve selected for anything.” Ann grinned, knowing that Beka’s traditional taste did not run toward Ann’s edgy designs.
“I’m actually thinking more of landscaping. You’ve always had a good eye for proportion.” Beka looked at her. “Please? We can go walk around the Met during our lunch hour. They have an exhibit by one of my favorite artists, and there’re a couple of paintings I just can’t get enough of. It’s like they replenish my soul.”
Ann had a pile of work to plow through, but she knew that if she didn’t go, neither would Beka. If anyone needed to take some time to replenish, she did. “Sure, sounds good.”
“Thanks, Ann. You’re the best.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s what you always say after you’ve talked me into something.”
“That’s right.” Beka flashed a quick smile.
“Let me just finish what I’m doing. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“By all means, take your time. As Mrs. Crawford used to say in Design Development class, ‘Excellence cannot be rushed.’ Besides, I’m counting on your design genius to make us all rich and famous someday.”
Ann knew Beka was counting on her. Not for riches but for survival. She just hoped she’d be able to come through.
“Okay, come over here, check this out. Isn’t it amazing?”
Ann stared, trying desperately to figure out what Beka could possibly see in this painting. “Well, uh, it’s nice, I guess.”
“Nice? Nice? Ann, look at it. Can’t you just feel the emotion pulsating off the canvas?”
“Not really. Besides, it’s not canvas; it’s wood. See, says right here, ‘Oil on wood.’”
“Will you quit being so literal and look? Tell me what you see.”
“Well, I see a really pale, depressed-looking woman, holding a piece of paper in her hand.”
“Use your imagination. It’s a letter. Who is it from? Is it from her beloved, telling her he will return on the morrow?
The look on her face is not depression; it’s longing. She doesn’t have what she wants right now, but it’s coming so soon she can taste it. Her dreams are about to come true.”
“‘On the morrow’? Since when do you talk like that?”
“Not me. Her. That’s what she’s thinking, so that’s the way I said it. Lighten up.”
“I’ll lighten up, all right. Right over to the next painting. This one’s a little more my style. A city on fire. Yep, that must have been one big party.”
“Oh, stop it.”
“Look, it’s even the same artist, Camille Corot. She must have let loose a little in her later years or something. Instead of waiting for her love to return on the morrow, she decided to party like there was no morrow.” Ann had always loved teasing Beka, but lately, it was the only time she saw Beka smile. Ann stopped when she noticed a figure at the top of the painting. “Oh, wow, that’s an angel up there throwing down all that fire, isn’t it? Yikes.”
“Yes, it’s Sodom and Gomorrah, you doof. Now keep moving. See, here’s another of his pictures. He’s one of my favorite artists.”
“Camille Corot is a guy’s name?”
“His full name is Jean Batiste Camille Corot, if that tells you anything.”
“More than I cared to know, thank you very much. Come on, let’s go look at some modern art. My soul needs feeding too.”
“Wait, the next one is my other favorite—Hagar in the Wilderness.”
Ann looked at the picture of a woman—a mother, probably—kneeling beside a child on the ground, who looked as though he might be dead. The mother had one hand in the air and the other on her forehead, crying in despair beside him. “What could you possibly see in that picture? It’s past depressing. It’s downright abysmal.”
“No, you’ve got to look at it, to see the whole picture.”
“Let me guess, you’ve made up a story to go with this one too.”
“Didn’t have to—it’s in the Bible.”
“Huh?”
“You know who Abraham is, right?”
“More or less.”
“Well, Hagar was Abraham’s servant—well, his wife Sarah’s servant—and when Sarah wasn’t able to have children, she had Hagar sleep with Abraham, to bear him a child. The boy lying on the ground is that son. His name was Ishmael.”
“Ew. What kind of wife would do that? And what kind of servant would agree?”
“Times were different then, I guess.”
“I guess so. So they didn’t like the kid after he grew up, or what?”
“Sarah eventually had her own son, Isaac. Ishmael didn’t treat him so well.”
“Don’t think I need imagination to figure that one out.”
Beka laughed. “I guess not. Anyway, eventually Sarah got so angry that she insisted that Abraham send Hagar and Ishmael away. They were sent into the wilderness.”
“Tell me again now, why would you want to look at a painting of that story?”
“Look in the sky. See the angel?”
Ann did see it, hovering above the trees in the background. “Yeah, what about it?”
�
�At the very darkest times of my life, I know that there are angels watching over me.”
Ann knew that Beka’s faith ran deep, even though they rarely talked about it. “Doesn’t seem to be doing her any good.” Or you and Gracie any good.
“He will. In just a second, she’ll hear his voice, telling her that her son will be a great nation. She’s going to find a well of water in the very next scene. That angel, he’s with them, even though they don’t know it yet.”
A picture flashed through Ann’s mind of the handful of angel pictures currently in her top dresser drawer. She couldn’t quite bring herself to throw them away, as much as she really wanted to. One picture in particular showed Ann looking toward the sky, much like Hagar was doing now, with an angel in the background. “I . . . I’ve got to get back to the office.”
Beka reached over and hugged her. “Do you have any idea how precious you are?”
“Precious? I think I’m offended.”
Ann saw the red hair a second before she saw the face, but the recognition was instant. Yet—it couldn’t be.
“Well, hello, Ann. What a treat to find you here.” Eleanor Light approached from the left, wearing a beige pantsuit and a smile. “Checking out some Corot paintings? He’s one of my favorites.”
“Mine too.” Beka smiled. “I’m Beka, by the way.”
Eleanor extended her hand. “Eleanor.” She looked at Ann. “Somehow I don’t quite believe he’s one of Ann’s favorites.”
“I like the one with the letter.” No reason not to be polite.
Beka shoved her arm. “You do not. You told me you hated it.”
“Ah,” Eleanor said. “Perhaps that was before she saw the next ones—they can be a bit more shocking than the first.” She moved forward as if to study the painting of Hagar. “Funny, I’ve always found that when a piece of art disturbs me, there’s something in it I need to learn about myself. I wonder what this one is trying to teach us?”
“To stick with modern art.” Ann tried to laugh, but it didn’t work. Time to change the subject. “What brings you to New York?”
“Oh, I’m here on business for a few days. I thought it would be nice to visit the museum while I was here.” Eleanor moved closer to the painting of Sodom and Gomorrah. “Interesting, isn’t it, the different jobs that angels have. This one is destroying a city; this one is helping an outcast in the wilderness. A rather diverse job description.” She looked at her watch. “Oh dear. I hate to be rude, but I have to run. It was awfully nice to have met you, Beka.” She squeezed Ann’s forearm. “See you soon, I hope.” She turned and walked briskly from the room.
Beka sighed. “Wow, she has the most beautiful hair. It’s the exact same hue as that burnished-copper Moroccan wedding tray I just bought for the Browns’ loft. I showed it to you, right?”
“Let’s get out of here.”
“Eleanor was right. You are disturbed.”
“Back to the office. Now.”
Chapter 12
Through the spotless floor-to-ceiling windows, Ann watched scores of well-dressed people mill around the new lobby. As she climbed out of the cab, she questioned the wisdom of not bringing a date. She was certain that she wouldn’t know anyone here, and she was not in the mood to make small talk. In fact, she wasn’t in the mood to talk at all.
She wished she’d thought of calling Richard. He was always good for an evening out on the town. Somehow he could work a room at a party, taking all the pressure off Ann to do so, yet he never came across as obnoxious. He was one of her favorite dates for an event like this and was usually available for last-minute calls. But she wanted to get in and out as fast as she could, and things always got more complicated when there was another person to consider.
“Welcome. I need your name, please.” A woman in a black pantsuit stood at a table near the door.
“Ann Fletcher.”
The woman smiled in a knowing way. “Ms. Fletcher, right.” She looked down the list of names and made a check mark. Then, gesturing toward the guests, she said, “Bars are set up on both sides of the lobby. Feel free to have a look around.” She smiled. “Enjoy yourself.”
“Thank you.” Ann walked toward the bar, trying to decide whether having a couple of drinks to take the edge off tonight was worth feeling sluggish tomorrow. Definitely. The bartender wore a black vest and white shirt. “What’s your poison?”
“Chardonnay, please.”
He turned around and lifted a green bottle out of an ice bucket, the cork already removed and lightly resting on top. Before he could pour, a voice from behind Ann said, “Don’t give her that. Ann is a special guest; she gets the good stuff.”
The man nodded without saying a word and reached beneath the counter. Ann turned to face Patrick Stinson. “That’s really not necessary.”
“Of course it is. If we’re going to be working together for the foreseeable future, I want to make certain that you are treated well when you are in my territory, just like you’re taking good care of me in yours.” His eyes were a deep shade of brown framed by dark lashes. Everything about him was . . . perfect.
Yes, she definitely should have brought a date. “Thanks. I’m looking forward to our upcoming projects.”
“As am I.” He lifted his glass in a silent toast and Ann clinked her glass against his. “I’m thinking that later on tonight—”
“Patrick, you’ve outdone yourself. This is the best building yet.” The man in an Armani suit made just enough distraction to break the magnetic pull of Patrick Stinson.
Time to move elsewhere. She mumbled something about seeing someone across the room and made an escape while she had the chance.
“Hi, I’m Meredith. You must be the new stager.”
Ann looked at the breathtaking blonde who had just stepped in front of her and wondered who she might be. “Yes, I’m Ann Fletcher. I’ll be working on the Stinson Towers project.”
Meredith tossed her golden curls over her bare shoulder. “What do you think of the condo setups for this place?”
“I haven’t walked through yet, but I’ve seen pictures. To tell you the truth, I’ve never seen anything so amazing.” Ann could have added, “I am totally unworthy to follow in these footsteps and scared out of my wits,” but she didn’t. She settled for, “Incredible attention to detail.”
Meredith stared at Ann long and hard, as if trying to decide whether or not to believe her. Finally, she said, “I’m the one who designed them.”
Ann felt the heat on her cheeks. It seemed wrong to be at the party to celebrate the job done by the person her company was replacing, but it certainly hadn’t been her idea. “Well then, I’m especially glad to meet you. I think you are extremely talented.”
Meredith nodded, but her eyes looked doubtful. “Maybe you can keep his attention longer than I did. I wish you the best of luck.” She flung her hair over her shoulder and walked toward the bar.
Ann watched for a few seconds. Sour grapes? Or yet another legitimate warning to keep a distance between herself and Patrick Stinson?
“Ann, you’re looking lovely as always.” Margaret’s fourth husband came to stand beside her.
“Thank you, Edward. And where is your lovely wife?”
He shrugged and tossed back most of the contents of his martini glass. “She’s around here somewhere. You know Margaret.”
“Yes, I do.” Ann smiled, as if it were cute that Margaret avoided her husband at parties, or that she needed to because he drank to excess in social situations. She started to make an excuse to move on but saw Patrick heading their general direction. “So, Edward, do you want to take a tour with me? I’ve been dying to check this place out and would love some company.”
“Sure. Let’s make a little stop at the bar first.”
Two hours and several bar stops later, Ann managed to make it out the door and flag down a taxi. As it pulled to the curb, she heard a voice behind her. “Surely you’re not leaving so soon. Was my party not exciting enough fo
r you?”
“It was perfect. I’ve got an early flight in the morning, so I’m sneaking out a little early.”
“You’re leaving town while my job is getting started?”
“I’ve got to get back to Charleston for a few days—estate issues.”
He nodded. “You know, I’ve been thinking about some real estate down south. Maybe we’ll have to talk project ideas after you get back.”
Ann nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll still be working on your project, even while I’m down there.”
“Good, I wouldn’t want you to forget about me while you’re gone.” There was no subtlety in his tone. This was going to be tricky.
Ann looked at him as if he’d just recited tomorrow’s weather and said, “Enjoy the rest of your party.” She climbed into the cab and waved good-bye to the handsome Patrick Stinson.
Chapter 13
Ann pulled her rolling suitcase through Charleston International Airport, stood in the line at the car rental counter, and drove to the house, all while functioning on autopilot. There were things to be done, and she was doing them by focusing on the next task ahead. It was the only way she could move forward.
She turned into the driveway of Sarah’s house and let the tires follow the two narrow strips of concrete separated by grass that was overdue for mowing. She hit the brakes. Her autopilot clicked off, and reality burst through. And Ann was forced to navigate it alone. Not until this very minute, when she looked at the outside of the gray stucco house that had been her home for most of her growing-up years, did the full impact of her aloneness . . . the absolute finality of it . . . hit her. She was alone. She was always going to be alone. The only two people who had ever loved her were gone forever—Nana, who died of cancer several years ago, and Sarah just two weeks ago. Ann was a thirty-year-old woman with an entire lifetime of aloneness in her future.
Sobs exploded from her chest while she sat in the driveway, her car still running. The subconscious mind had a terrible sense of timing. Why couldn’t it be when she was back in New York? In her own apartment? With other ways to cope?