by Sheila Walsh
“Yes, let me show you some of the art I’ve found. Also we’ve recently acquired a couple of really nice pieces of furniture that I think will work well with your overall plan.” Ann pulled her portfolio out from underneath her seat.
He took it from her, his hand brushing hers in the process. “Let’s see what you’ve got here.” He flipped it open and began turning pages. “Looks good. Yes, it all looks great.” Then he looked up at her and set the portfolio aside. “I knew I was going to enjoy working with you.”
“We at Marston Home Staging work as a strongly cohesive team. It’s not just me; there are many people working on this project behind the scenes.” Even Ann knew the words sounded forced and stilted, but she needed to slow things down. She needed time to think.
“Yes. Well, I appreciate all those people working behind the scenes, but I’m really interested in your work, in the front scene, where I can enjoy not only your skill but your company.”
Ann watched the flame of the small candle at the center of the table. Every time the door to the café opened, it flickered and danced, totally at the mercy of outside forces. That’s what she was. A flame that simply danced at the whim of things she couldn’t control. She didn’t like the feeling. “Why don’t we talk about the office space? What do you have in mind there?”
“Let’s just say, for imagination’s sake, that we were going to put your office there. What would you want?”
There was a new undertone to his words that alarmed Ann. Still, she tried to pretend it wasn’t there. “Well, I think for your clientele, a nice Moura Starr Century desk—solid white with a white leather top. Absolutely stunning. A couple of white leather chairs with black trim to go with it, and I might consider adding a tango desk for conferencing—stainless steel and glass. It would be sleek, modern, and sophisticated. Add a couple of well-placed art pieces, and it would be perfect. I brought some pictures.”
“That’s not what I asked. I asked what you would want if it were your office.”
“But I’m not your client, so my ideal, and the ideal of someone who could actually afford to lease that office space, are not the same thing.”
“If it were your office, your dream office, what would you do?”
Ann shrugged. At least they were staying on the topic of work. “Well, I’d start with this amazing desk I spotted a few weeks ago. It has a scratched glass top, frosted cross-hatch pattern until the border, which is clear. It’s more like a piece of art than a desk, but what a thrill it would be to work on it. Then there would be glass shelves hung at uneven intervals, chrome accents, some carefully placed black articles just for some contrast, and perhaps a rug in a shocking bright shade just to spice it all up.” Ann could see the whole picture in her mind. It sounded wonderful.
“What if I said that office could be yours?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve been toying with the idea of starting my own staging company. It would save us money in the long term, because we spend a lot of money hiring out our staging. It would also give us another avenue of income, and when we staged for other developers, it would help us stay abreast of what the competition is doing.”
“I suppose that makes sense.”
“Yes, I think it makes a lot of sense. Now, back to that office of yours. Can you see your name on the door?” He leaned toward her across the table.
Ann looked into his eyes—deep brown and oh so sincere. Was he offering what it sounded like he was? “Well, I guess that depends. Would I be in charge of this beautiful office, or in a cubicle in the back?”
“Based on what I’ve seen so far, I find it impossible to imagine anyone but you heading it up.”
And there it was. Just like that. Even more than Ann had dared to imagine, right here within her grasp. “It sounds like a dream.”
He reached across the table and took her hand. “Dreams do come true sometimes, don’t they?” He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand. “You could start right now, you know, let the first job be the Stinson Towers project.”
“Well, I . . .” Ann looked at his hand on hers and knew there was a price involved. “I’d really prefer not to rush things, and I have a couple of coworkers that need their jobs at Marston. Why don’t we proceed a little more slowly?” She reached for her glass, wanting an excuse to remove her hand from his, and took more than a sip of water.
“Loyalty. I like that in a woman.” He polished off his scotch in a single swallow, then held it up as a sign to the waiter that he’d like another. “I’ll grant you there’s no reason to rush, but I’ve never been known for my patience either.” He grinned. “How about we start laying the groundwork now, and when we’re ready for the next project, we’ll be all set to go? Those coworkers of yours, they could be part of the deal too, you know. You’ll need a staff—bring them along.”
“Sounds perfect.” And it did. Almost. This job offer, or promise of a job offer, came with strings attached. Looking across the table, she saw a man with whom most women would kill to make a connection—string or otherwise. If this thing panned out, she could hire Beka and Jen, and they could all be free from the tyrant that was Margaret. She wouldn’t need to buy in either. The sale of the house would give her financial freedom like she’d never dreamed of. She would be crazy to hesitate. And yet . . .
Keep your head, Ann. Think this through. Ann tried to concentrate on her surroundings, to just clear her head for a moment.
A woman stood talking to the piano player, her back to Ann. The pianist nodded at her and smiled as she dropped a folded bill into the tip jar and walked away. She didn’t return to her seat, however; she walked toward the exit where the outdoor lights lit up her auburn hair.
“You’ve fallen quiet. I can see that once again I’ve managed to bore a dinner companion with too much business talk, one of my shortcomings, I’m afraid. Let’s talk about you, Ann Fletcher. Tell me all about you.”
“There’s nothing interesting to talk about there. Let’s hear some of your stories.”
The music changed keys, and for the space of five heartbeats, Ann heard the song she never wanted to hear again. “It can’t be, not that song.” She said the words aloud before she realized she was doing it.
“Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 16, I believe.” Patrick Stinson nodded toward the piano player, who was now quite clearly not playing what Ann had thought she heard. “Did you know that although this is likely his most famous work, it was not published until sometime after his death?” He took a generous sip of scotch before continuing. “One of the things I find most interesting is that the opening bars were really made famous because Looney Tunes associated them with Granny in the Sylvester and Tweety cartoons. Ironic, isn’t it? A work that was never published by one of the most gifted composers to have ever lived became famous only after it made its way into cartoons.”
“I didn’t realize you were so into music.” Ann couldn’t have cared less, but maybe if she kept talking, she could forestall the inevitable mental freak-out she knew was coming.
“I’m not really. In college, I wrote a paper about the serendipity of success, citing this piece of music as a major example.”
Ann looked around the room again, the uncomfortable sensation of being watched prickling against the back of her neck. Were angels watching her right now, or was this hallucination starting to develop into full-blown schizophrenia? Hold it together, don’t fall apart. Not here. Not now. “You think success is more luck than hard work?”
“I think it’s both. Look at us, for instance. What are the odds we’d just happen to be on the same plane the day after I’d told my previous staging company that I didn’t plan to use them for the next project? Then I just happen to be close enough to see what you were sketching. And now, here we are, talking about a new business venture together. If you weren’t a hard worker, and if fate hadn’t intervened, then we wouldn’t be here right now.”
The food arrived and Ann managed to force down a few bites,
but mostly moved the food around on her plate. She searched for some semblance of normal. “What made you decide to switch designers, if you don’t mind my asking?”
He shrugged. “They did some nice work for us, but it was just time to move on to something new and fresh.”
Ann wondered if he meant design-wise, or just a different woman. “I see.”
“Did you meet Meredith at the open house—Meredith Radke?”
“Yes, I met her.” Ann could still remember the perfection of both her designs and her beauty.
“Perhaps it was also serendipitous for her that our joint projects ended, because I understand that she has left her former company and gone out on her own now.”
Ann suspected it was less a “left the company” and more a “fired for losing the Stinson account.” “Started her own company? Really? She’s very brave to do that in these economic times.”
“True. But I’ve heard a rumor that she’s doing very well and, in fact, has landed a couple of my competitors’ accounts already. So see . . . once again, lady luck has worked her magic.”
“Yes, magic.” The restaurant grew hot and stuffy, making it difficult to take a deep breath. After the waiter cleared their plates, he brought back Ann’s leftover slices of roasted duck, wrapped in aluminum foil twisted to be shaped like a swan.
Patrick Stinson walked her outside and waited while the bellman hailed a cab. “Did you not enjoy the food? Next time I’ll have to let you pick the restaurant.”
“No, it was lovely. It’s just that after traveling all day, I’m never particularly hungry. Airplanes seem to do that to me.”
“Forgive me, I should not have insisted that we do this tonight; it’s just that I’m very excited about this project.”
“No, it was great, really. I look forward to seeing this project through to completion.” Ann extended her hand for him to shake, but instead he took it and kissed it.
“I think there are many happy projects ahead of us.”
The cab pulled up to the curb, and Ann had never been so happy to make an escape in all her life. Oddly enough, she found herself wishing the cab was taking her back to the house in Charleston, away from Patrick Stinson.
When the cab stopped in front of her building, Ann climbed out onto the sidewalk and stood for a moment. She looked to her right and saw a homeless man digging through trash cans, his hair unkempt, his jacket torn in several places. Suddenly, her feet were moving by themselves, and she found herself standing next to him. He shrank back when he noticed her approach. She tried to smile so he wouldn’t be frightened, but the fact was, she was frightened, so it didn’t work so well. “Hi, I’m Ann. I just went to dinner and couldn’t finish my meal. They wrapped up the leftovers for me, but I know it won’t be nearly as good tomorrow as it is tonight. Would you like this?”
He looked up at her, surprise in his eyes. His hair was long, gray, and scraggly, and he had a jagged scar across his left cheek. “I’ve seen you here lots of times, and you’ve never offered me nothing before.”
Ann shrugged. “Maybe I’ve changed.”
“Good to hear.” He reached out carefully, watching her the entire time as if he expected her to retract her offer. When he finally grasped the swan, he nodded. “Thanks.” He turned and walked slowly away, the foil making metallic sounds as it was ripped open.
“You’re welcome.” Ann went to the door of her building and was punching in the combination on the keypad when she heard whistling. The door latch clicked open, and she found herself humming along as she started inside—at least until reality set in. The tune—the one the homeless man was whistling . . . the one she was humming—it was . . .
“Hey, what’s that—?” She let go of the door and whirled around.
He was gone.
Chapter 25
Beka’s studio apartment always smelled like warm rolls and Christmas spices. Tonight was no exception, in spite of the fact that dinner had consisted of brown rice and stir-fry chicken. It was as if the teriyaki understood that its fragrance was not homey enough for the traditional décor and chose not to intrude. Ann couldn’t help but admire her friend’s ability to so completely capture her own essence in her home, down to every last tiny detail.
“Mama, I think Ann needs therapy.”
Ann was too stunned to say anything at first, but finally managed, “Huh?” She looked across the small kitchen table, her focus shifting from Gracie to Beka—who had burst out laughing.
Beka laughed for a solid minute before she put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Oh, sweetie, you’ve got to watch how you word those things.”
“Why? What’s funny about it?” Seven-year-old Gracie looked up at her mother with gigantic brown eyes. “You like to do therapy, don’t you, Mama? Wouldn’t Ann like it too?”
Beka stood, picked up her daughter, and swung her in a circle, then stopped and hugged her tightly to her chest. She looked at Ann, a mischievous smile on her face. “Now that I think about it, Ann needs some therapy worse than just about anyone I’ve ever known.”
“Great. I’ll get the stuff.” Gracie wriggled down from her mother’s embrace and skipped toward the refrigerator.
Ann folded her arms and looked at Beka. “I think I’m supposed to be offended right about now?”
Beka started giggling again, which erupted into another all-out laughing fit. Ann couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her friend like this, so lighthearted. After years of being married to an emotionally abusive hothead who finally—and mercifully as far as Ann was concerned—left her for another woman, and the past year of Gracie’s medical problems, well . . . it had been a long, hard journey for Beka.
“Here we go.” Gracie handed her mother a large silver mixing bowl covered in aluminum foil, then turned to rummage in the cabinets.
Beka removed the foil, revealing a large blob of white dough. She looked at Ann then. “Occupational therapy. She’s supposed to be keeping her fingers exercised so the arthritis doesn’t cause them to stiffen up and lose flexibility. One of the ways she can do that is with play dough. We’ve just discovered it’s a lot more fun to do it with cookie dough. So . . . most nights after dinner, we spend some time working our dough into a fun shape; then we bake it up and eat it for dessert. Our therapy.”
Ann tussled Gracie’s hair. “Well, I feel a lot better now. And I’m downright thrilled that I’m getting some therapy tonight. Cookie making is exactly what I needed.”
“That’s what I thought.” Gracie’s voice was very serious. “You have to go wash your hands first. That’s the rule.”
“Let’s get washing, then. I’m ready for my cookie.”
A few minutes later Beka put a cloud, a dog, and a pony into the oven. She looked at Ann. “Before she started on Enbrel, she could never have done any of this. That drug has been life changing for us. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost my job and couldn’t afford to get it for her anymore. I just don’t know.”
Ann started to say something like, “You could let her father find a way to pay for it,” but she didn’t. It took great restraint, but she tried not to bad-mouth Richard in front of Gracie. Besides, she knew he had lost his job on Wall Street over a year ago and he and the new wife were rumored to have filed for bankruptcy. “Well, I . . .” Ann debated about whether to come clean about how precarious the deal was. When she looked at Beka’s smile, though, she decided right then she would not add one more burden to her friend’s shoulders. She reached over and hugged her tight. “Keep your head up. I can’t give you details just yet, but I think things are about to get even better. There’s an opportunity on the horizon that can change both our lives.” Why had Ann ever doubted whether she wanted to work for Patrick Stinson? “It’s far from certain yet, but I will tell you that it doesn’t include Margaret.”
“Say no more. I’m on board.” Beka laughed as she opened the oven door. “Mmm, everything looks perfect.”
Ann sure hoped so.
/> On Friday, Margaret and Ann met Patrick Stinson at the Marston warehouse. A lot of home staging companies rented furniture from specialty companies, and the Marston Company did some of that, but Margaret had decided long ago it was better to own as much of it as possible. Then, not only could she earn the rent money, but she controlled who got it, when, and for how long.
The threesome walked the rows, which in better times were all but empty. In this current housing market, the aisles were filled to capacity. People were trying to sell for less, no one could afford to buy, and paying for a stager sounded extravagant, regardless of the statistics Ann knew by heart. She wondered if Patrick would see the large inventory for the sign of trouble that it was.
Yes, of course he would. Undoubtedly he would smell in that trouble a way to talk down prices.
Ann touched a particularly high-end Danish sofa, one of their nicest pieces. “What do you think of this?”
He paused and put his fist under his chin, looking at the furniture as if pondering. “That is a nice piece. This would be fine for one of the smaller units, but for our deluxe models, I want all custom furniture.”
Margaret’s face remained calm, but her pinky was tapping on the clipboard she carried. “We can do that. Of course.”
“I particularly like the pieces at Blazes.”
Ann held her breath. As a designer, she had to admire his taste. Blazes carried the most exquisite pieces of modern furniture she’d ever seen. In fact, their inventory was more like pieces of art that you could sit on, if you chose to do so. But since they were all one of a kind, the prices were outrageous.
Margaret continued to write without looking up. Ann knew that she was thinking through her options. If they were really low on capital, where would they find the funds to buy these pieces? Finally, she looked at him and said, “I’ve been meaning to purchase some stock pieces from Blazes anyway. Thank you for giving me the excuse that I needed.”
“Good,” he said, more to confirm their agreement than to offer a compliment. “Now, I’m considering doing something a little different in a few of the kitchens. Keeping it modern, because I think we all agree that there can never be too much sleek and beautiful”—he quirked his eyebrow slightly as he looked at Ann—“but I’d also like to warm it up a bit. Do you have any suggestions?”