by Neta Jackson
No, I’d promised. If I took him, then I’d know a doctor actually saw him. Well, all right. I’d take time off and take Philip to his stupid doctor, wherever that was.
I stood up. “I better go. Is there anything you want me to do before I leave?”
He closed his eyes, seemingly drained. But he gestured to a pile of his stuff on another chair. “Yeah. Take that robe back to whoever loaned it to me. And tell ’em thanks. But I didn’t get it washed. Would you—?”
I picked up the brown robe. “Sure. It was Josh Baxter. He’s the one who loaned it to you. I’ll tell him.”
I turned to go.
“And, Gabby?”
“Yes?”
The muscles in Philip’s face twitched, as if he was trying to control his emotions. “Tell Bentley thanks too. I think . . . he may have saved my life.”
chapter 7
The boys got off to school in decent time the next morning—P.J. was still riding the city bus—and I came in to work a few minutes early, knowing I’d have to take some time off later in the day if Philip got an appointment. Even then the coffee pot in the kitchen was down to the dregs, and I had to make a fresh pot before I could settle down to work.
I turned on my computer and squinted at the computer calendar. Second week of October. I typed in 8:30 p.m. House Mtg on Tuesday, thanks to Precious. She’d left a note taped to my apartment door last night saying Josh, Edesa, and Tanya had agreed to eight thirty Tuesday evening for a meeting if we could meet in 3A so Edesa could put Gracie to bed first. What about the other kids? she’d written. Maybe they should be there too. They need to know the rules. I’ll see you then. My cousin’s in town from South Carolina and I’m going to hang with her tonight, maybe tomorrow too. Sabrina’s going with me. Ciao! Then she’d added, P.S. So what happened at church today?
I was just as glad she was “hanging” with her cousin for a couple of days. If and when I talked to Precious about Philip’s run-in with Fagan in that alley, I didn’t want the boys around to overhear.
What else was happening this week? Last week had been a blur with Philip in the hospital and the boys wanting to go see their dad every day after school. His parents had flown in from Virginia and hovered in the hospital room a few days, which was awkward for everyone. We were all relieved when Mike Fairbanks had gone back to work and took Philip’s smother-mother with him.
But in spite of all the hurly burly, there had been one huge, silent void.
Lee Boyer hadn’t called me. Not once.
My head sank into my hands. What did I expect? He’d wanted me to declare it was over with Philip, to let my husband mop up his own mess. But I couldn’t. Not right then. Not when Philip had just been worked over by some thugs and my sons were terrified for their father’s life.
I squeezed back tears. Had I done the right thing to stand by Philip? Yes. Except I didn’t know I’d miss Lee this much. Had I fallen in love with him without knowing it?
Raising my head, I let out a long sigh. Okay, Gabby, suck it up. You’ll never get anything done today if you start second-guessing about Lee. I blew my nose and focused on the computer calendar once again. Monday—staff meeting at ten. Hopefully Carolyn would show up and give a report on the afterschool program, which I thought was going well. Considering. We still had to decide whether to open it up to neighborhood kids whose parents had asked for the extra tutoring help. And it was time to talk about adding a GED program here at Manna House for our residents who still needed to complete their high school education.
I continued to review the regular weekly activities we had scheduled: Estelle’s sewing class this afternoon, still working on their apron project. The ESL class on Tuesday, which was about to lose its volunteer teacher because Tina, our Puerto Rican resident who spoke both Spanish and English fluently, didn’t feel qualified to teach the formal written stuff. Cooking and nutrition on Thursday, Estelle again, no worries there. Jodi Baxter’s typing class on Saturday.
Jotting a note to myself about calling some local schools that trained ESL teachers, I turned my attention to the list of new activities I wanted to add here at Manna House. “One at a time, Gabby, one at a time,” Mabel had warned me. “We’ve got to make budget, remember?”
I grinned at the item at the top of my “proposed” list: a “Fall Getaway” weekend for some of the residents who’d never been out of the city, to see the fall colors and enjoy a bit of nature. But it was already October! If that was going to happen, I needed to get it on the calendar pronto. Maybe the last weekend of this month?
Philip still hadn’t called by the time I gathered up my papers and headed for staff meeting at ten. I was tempted to phone and bug him about calling his doctor but talked myself out of it. Wasn’t I always running ahead of God and trying to make things happen? Okay, I was even going to turn off my cell phone during the meeting.
I tried to catch Estelle after the staff meeting to find out what happened when Mr. Bentley went down to the police station yesterday, but she zipped out of the room without so much as a nod in my direction. What was she in such a hurry about?
But there was one new voice mail when I turned my cell phone back on. “Gabby, it’s Philip. I’ve got a two o’clock with Dr. Gordon. Can you pick me up at one?”
One o’clock? Why did he need a whole hour to get to his doctor? Whatever. I sent a text back to him—“OK 1:00”—and made a detour to Mabel’s office to tell her I needed a couple hours for a doctor’s appointment.
I pulled into the Visitor Parking space outside Richmond Towers right at one. Philip was already downstairs in the lobby waiting for me. He didn’t say much as he lowered himself gingerly into the front passenger seat of my Subaru, just “Thanks for the ride. Here’s the address.” He handed me a slip of paper. “Take Lake Shore Drive to the Randolph Street exit and I can direct you from there.”
Randolph Street? Philip’s office was in the AON Center on East Randolph right downtown. Was his doctor in the same building?
Turned out he wasn’t, but the building was right around the corner on North Michigan Avenue. I let Philip out as close as I could to the front door of the office building while I looked for a parking garage. After circling the block, I ended up in the AON Center parking garage after all and walked to the building where I’d let him out.
The receptionist in Dr. Gordon’s office said Philip was already in with the doctor, so I leafed through a copy of Money magazine. The other options weren’t much better. Business Week . . . Harvard Business Review . . . Forbes . . . Good grief. Didn’t anybody besides CEOs come to this doctor? “Excuse me.” I waggled a hand at the receptionist. “Do you have Good Housekeeping or National Geographic or something?”
“Sorry,” she said. “Those are the doctor’s personal subscriptions. We just put out the old copies.”
Humph. I should’ve brought a book.
Philip came out half an hour later, looking a bit ashen. “Doctor wants me to get a CAT scan of my midsection,” he said as we rode the elevator down. “I think I can get it done at Weiss Memorial, but . . .” He swore under his breath. “Blast that Fagan. I don’t have time for this!”
I kept my mouth shut. Philip wouldn’t even know Matty Fagan if he hadn’t tried to pay off his gambling debts with a shady deal.
“You want me to go get the car so you don’t have to walk?”
“Where are you parked?”
“The AON Center garage.”
A strange light went on in Philip’s eyes. “No, no, that’s good. I need to stop by the office anyway. Only take a few minutes.”
A few minutes? Not likely. I was the one driving, and I needed to get back to work! But Philip had already started out the automatic door as if the prospect of going to the office had given him an energy boost.
Don’t be a wimp, Gabby, I told myself. If he takes more than fifteen minutes, just tell him to take a cab home.
By the time we got off the elevator on the sixty-second floor of the AON Center, tiny b
eads of sweat lined his forehead and he kept his right forearm pressed against his middle. I should have insisted on taking him home. But here we were—might as well see it through.
As we approached the door with a sign that read Fairbanks and Fenchel Development Corp., Philip hesitated. “Uh, Gabby, do me a favor. Would you go in and make sure Henry’s not meeting with anyone? I don’t want to meet any of our clients looking like . . . well, you know.”
I studied him for a moment. Why should I do that? It wasn’t my idea to come up here to his office! And he’d been calling me Gabby lately instead of Gabrielle . . . what did that mean? He was acting as if we were on buddy-buddy terms.
But I had to admit he did look messed up, even though he was wearing a hat and wraparound shades that covered the jagged stitches and the bruises around his eyes. I couldn’t blame him for not wanting to run into any business clients with his arm in a cast and his sport coat sagging off his left shoulder.
“Okay. Give me a minute.” I pushed open the door. The waiting room was empty. I approached the reception desk—rats, I couldn’t remember the name of the receptionist—and tried to sound businesslike. “Hello. Is Henry Fenchel in?”
The receptionist looked startled. “Oh . . . hello, Mrs. Fairbanks. I’ll, um, see if he’s available.” She picked up the phone.
Ah, my clue. She wouldn’t say that if he were meeting with a client. I smiled benignly. “Just tell him Gabby Fairbanks is here to see him.”
The girl seemed competent—short brunette hair in an attractive style but nothing gorgeous, reading glasses, gray suit jacket. I politely stepped away from the desk, pretending to look at a decorator print on the wall until I heard her say, “Mrs. Fairbanks? He’ll be with you in a moment.”
I stepped into the hallway and motioned to Philip. He came into the waiting room just as Henry Fenchel stepped out of his office.
The moment seemed to freeze in time. The two men looked at each other behind blank masks, as the young receptionist stared wide-eyed at Philip. And then Henry Fenchel said crisply, “Philip. You’re out of the hospital. It’s, uh, good to see you, Gabby. Let’s go into my office. Judy, hold my calls.”
Later I wondered why Philip didn’t just go into his office and do whatever he came there to do. Henry would have surely followed him in and the conversation would have been on Philip’s turf. Or why I didn’t bow out of the scene and just find a comfy seat and a magazine in the waiting room. At least Fairbanks and Fenchel had Newsweek and Sierra Magazine besides Architectural Digest.
But the next thing I knew I was seated in a padded chair in Henry’s office. Philip stood at the tall window, looking north over the city, and Henry ensconced himself behind his desk, eyes shifting back and forth between Philip and me. “Surprised to see you both here. You two back together?”
Neither of us answered. The silence hung heavy in the room.
“You look awful, Fairbanks,” Henry finally snapped. “What am I supposed to tell people?”
“I had an accident.”
“It’s not that easy. You missed a couple important meetings last week. Had to make some decisions without you.”
“I know. We can review—”
“And what about the meeting with the county board you missed the week before that, the one we scheduled early Monday morning, but, no, you weren’t back from Indiana yet.”
“We already talked about that, Henry. It won’t happen again.”
“You bet it won’t!” Henry sucked in a breath. “I asked for an audit.”
“You what?” Philip turned from the window and stared at his partner. I saw his left eye had started twitching.
“Asked for an audit. Look, Fairbanks.” Henry stabbed his finger at Philip. “I know what you’ve been doing. Making withdrawals from the business account to cover your little jaunts to the Horseshoe—”
“I covered that withdrawal!”
“Yeah, yeah. That last one. But how do I know you haven’t been leaching funds from the business for who-knows-what monkey business?”
Philip drew himself up as best he could, given his injuries. “I’m half owner of this company, Fenchel. So what if I was short of cash and needed a personal loan? I’m good for it. Every penny.”
“Is that right?” Henry snorted. “Well, let me tell you something. If this audit turns up any irregularities—any at all, Fairbanks! Even one dime!—I’m going to sue you for fraud, for embezzlement, for—”
“Henry. Wait.” Philip shook his head back and forth. “Look, I admit, I’ve made some mistakes. You don’t think I know that? But I’ve got a lot invested in this company. I’m trying to get things straightened out. I just . . . I need some time.”
“Time? We don’t have time! The county board wants to meet again tomorrow with prospective developers about that new construction project. It’s critical. We’re up against two other companies. You gonna be there?”
Philip seemed to sway slightly and put his hand on the window to steady himself. He had to be exhausted. I spoke up. “The doctor doesn’t want him back at work for at least another week. In fact, we should go. Philip? Maybe you two can talk on the phone about that meeting tomorrow.”
Philip didn’t look at me, but I knew I’d probably get it for poking my nose into their business. Henry pushed his desk chair back with unnecessary force as he stood up and then leaned forward, stiff armed, knuckles on the desktop. “Tell you what, Fairbanks. There’s another option here. I won’t sue and you can take all the time you need.”
Philip turned, eyes narrowed, and focused on his partner. “And what’s that?”
A small smile tipped the corner of Henry Fenchel’s mouth. “A buy-out. I’ll buy out your interest in this company. That should give you enough money to take care of whatever you’ve got going on. Give you time to get things ‘straightened out,’ as you say. But it’d be hands off, Philip. Hands off. Starting today.”
My mouth nearly dropped open. I saw Philip’s features go hard. “Never!” he hissed between clenched teeth. “I started this company and you are not going to grab it away from me.” He pushed away from the window and strode with effort for the door. Then he turned back and stabbed a finger in Henry’s direction. “I’ll be at that meeting tomorrow, Fenchel. Put that in the bank. Come on, Gabby.”
I followed him out the door, but behind us Henry yelled, “Get some help, Fairbanks!”
chapter 8
Philip and I barely spoke on the way home. But as I turned off Lake Shore Drive and onto the frontage road toward the curving glass and steel edifice that was Richmond Towers, I broke the silence.
“Philip, don’t go back to work. Henry’s bluffing. He’s got to be. But you need to get that CAT scan like the doctor said. Something’s wrong—you’re still in pain. I can tell. Nothing’s going to get better until you get better.”
To my surprise, Philip didn’t reply. He didn’t yell at me for speaking up in Henry’s office either. I pulled the Subaru to the curb in front of the revolving door on the backside of the luxury building but left the motor running. “I should get back to work,” I said. “Are you going to be all right getting up to the penthouse?”
Philip nodded and reached for the door handle. But something— someone—caught his eye across the frontage road in the park. I followed his eyes and saw a man sitting on one of the park benches, arms resting along the back of the bench, ankle balanced on one knee. Seeing us, a slow grin spread across his face and he gave a thumbs-up signal in our direction. Then the man got up and sauntered off down the path.
I felt Philip slump back against the passenger seat. My heart started to race. “Was that one of the men who’s been stalking you?” I didn’t wait for an answer but turned off the motor. “I’m coming up with you.”
Philip shook his head. “No . . . no, it’s okay. You go back to work.” He glanced over at me. “Thanks for taking me to the doctor, Gabby. I appreciate it.” He pulled the door handle and opened the door, then hesitated and turned back.
“Do you pray, Gabby?”
His question caught me off guard. But I tried to keep my voice steady as I said, “Yes. Yes, I do pray. All the time lately.”
“Then maybe you could send up a prayer for me. I . . .” He looked away. “I don’t know what to do.”
It was four o’clock by the time I got back to Manna House. Paul was there already per our afterschool arrangement, walking Keisha and Sammy back to the shelter from Sunnyside Magnet School. Even though Sammy’s mom had moved to the House of Hope, Tanya was trying to find a job and wanted Sammy to be in the afterschool program at the shelter. I’d agreed to bring Sammy home along with Paul when I got off at five.
I was half hoping Estelle would still be there, but her sewing class was over and the dining room where they met was dark and empty—at least until the volunteer group who was scheduled to bring that Monday night’s dinner would arrive at five thirty or six. I breathed a brief “Thank You, God” that I wasn’t the one who had to schedule supper volunteers seven days a week, week after week. What a job!
But maybe it was just as well Estelle was gone. I needed some time alone in my office to process what happened that afternoon. Philip had asked me to pray for him? And that man on the bench— was Philip still in danger from Fagan’s cronies? Things between Philip and Henry were certainly a mess. Like the rest of Philip’s life right now.
Leaning my elbows on the desk, I rested my head in my hands and squeezed my eyes shut. “Oh God,” I breathed. “How do I pray for Philip? He’s got himself in such a mess! And it’s all so complicated! But You know all about it, Jesus, and in his own way he seems to be asking for Your help, so please . . .”
I meant to spend only five or ten minutes praying and was surprised when I looked up and saw I’d been crying out to God for half an hour! But one thing led to another and I’d found myself praying about our broken marriage, and my dicey relationship with Lee Boyer, and how to manage this tiger I had by the tail that we were calling the House of Hope. But when I was done I felt a certain peace leaving all my worries in God’s lap.