by Linda Barlow
The cathedral was designed in the most popular traditional manner, in the shape of a longitudinal cross, with the long central nave running from east to west. This section was crossed near the front of the building with the north and south transept arms and terminated at the east end in a semicircular apse, where the Lady Chapel was located
The design was classic, but the building materials were, of course, modern. Contemporary techniques and equipment had enabled the contractor to build a structure in eighteen months that workmen of centuries past would have labored over for decades.
Annie, Sam Brody, Darcy, and Sidney Canin, all of whom had played major parts in the design for the cathedral, were on site today, along with two of the six members of the United Path Church building committee, for a tour and an update. As project manager of the job, Annie was there every day, but today she would have to fill the others in on her progress. She was a little nervous about the visit, since lately it seemed that they had been plagued with one small problem after another.
Annie’s role as project manager was to oversee the entire operation. Her position was one of enormous responsibility, and it was pretty much a full-time commitment. Since she was under special contract to the owners—the United Path Church—she monitored the work both of the contractor, McEnerney Construction, which was in charge of all the structural work, and all the subcontractors who did the thousands of smaller jobs inherent in all big projects.
Since she was not an architect or a structural engineer, Annie had occasionally encountered problems that challenged her technical know-how, but she’d tried not to let these upset her. If there was something she didn’t know one day, she made damn certain she understood it the next.
In an industry dominated by men, she occasionally ran into a bit of macho “don’t worry your pretty little head about that” from the contractor’s office, but after a year and a half on the job, most of that patronizing had ceased. Annie was confident that she’d won the respect of most of the construction crew.
“Come on, everybody,” she said. “Put on your hard hats and let’s go inside.”
“Hey, boss, did you authorize some folks from the church and the architects’ firm to visit the construction site today?”
Paul McEnerney, owner and CEO of McEnerney Construction, one of the biggest building contractors in the Bay Area, puffed on a cigarette as he listened to Jack Fletcher, calling him on a cellular phone from the job site.
“Don’t need to authorize it, Fletcher—you oughta be able to take care of that yourself.” As the contractor’s job superintendent, Fletcher supervised the scheduling and coordinating of the work of the many subcontractors, including the painters, plumbers, electricians, stonemasons, and woodcrafters. He was supposed to be on top of things.
“I didn’t know they were coming,” Fletcher said.
“Come on, man, you’ve told me a thousand times that the project manager broad—what’s her name—Annie Jefferson—is over there all the time anyhow.”
“She is. And so’s that lady minister we’re working for. But this time they’ve got a whole slew of folks and are taking a little tour.”
“Are they interfering with the workmen?”
“Not really, but you know how this kind of thing slows things up. There’s been too damn much visiting.”
“Hang on a minute, Fletcher.” McEnerney put him on hold while he punched up the latest data on his computer screen. Until recently the numbers had been excellent on the cathedral job. He certainly didn’t want anything to screw up the tidy profit he was making. He smiled. Tidy indeed.
Most of the structural work had been completed on time and under budget. It was the subcontractors who were dawdling. The interior work had been going slowly lately. Everybody was being so goddamn painstaking, for some reason. Maybe because it was a church—shit, no, a fucking cathedral—and they were awed by the greater glory of God.
McEnerney didn’t believe in God. He considered the concept a stupid fantasy invented to counter man’s natural terror of death. But he did believe in the power of superstition, and he’d seen it operating among the various crews working on the cathedral. Ever since one of the early excavations had unearthed a human leg bone or something, there had been a few guys moaning and groaning about the site being cursed.
McEnerney didn’t like these stories. They made the construction crews nervous. And he didn’t like nervous crews. When crews got nervous, things went wrong. Tempers frayed. Union troubles started to brew. Sometimes people got careless and accidents happened. Construction was dangerous work. Even though the company was insured up the wazoo for anything that might go wrong, there was no way to insure the goodwill and dedicated labor of the men on the crews unless they felt safe at the place. A lot of stupid tales about nuns, skeletons, and old rituals sure didn’t help create that feeling of security.
McEnerney pressed the button to resume the phone conversation with Fletcher. As he did, it struck him once again that he didn’t really know Jack Fletcher very well. He’d hired him on Sam Brody’s word because Brody had insisted that he’d vetted him personally.
So far Fletcher had done a pretty decent job. Certainly he’d held all the workers to the schedule, which was crucial in a job this large.
“Listen, Fletcher, I don’t like what I’m seeing on the recent delays,” he said. “You’re my man out there in the field on this one, and I expect you to tighten things up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So get with whoever you need to. That blond designer from Brody Associates is their project manager, right? You and she oughta be able to manage things between you and get this mess straightened out.”
“Right. I’ll talk to her. She’s actually been doing a good job. She’s earned the respect of most of the people working on the project.”
Has she now? thought McEnerney. And to think that this was a woman whom everyone had expected to be only marginally competent. After all, she was a designer, with little experience in the field and none at managing construction sites.
Brody too had recently remarked on what a good job the broad had been doing. Just goes to show, he’d told Sam, it doesn’t pay to underestimate people.
“Glad to hear you and she are getting along. Let me know if you have any problems.”
“Right, sir. I will.”
You’d better, asshole, McEnemey thought as he hung up.
Fletcher put down the cell phone. He felt a tightness in his belly. He didn’t like the way Paul McEnemey condescended to him. And he hated the way he, in return, had to kiss ass.
But he liked this job. He liked being in charge, ordering people around. He liked the way they kissed his ass when they wanted something.
Fletcher took a quick back-and-forth in the trailer he used as an office. It was parked in the vacant lot adjoining the job site, along with the other construction company trailers and subcontractors’ vans and cars. He liked his trailer and thought of it as a cozy little home. He had a computer, a cellular phone, a small fridge where he could store sandwiches and beer, and a microwave to heat coffee and frozen pizza. There was even a narrow bed along one side, and a can in the back. He used both a lot more often than his employer realized. It was better than going home to that cutesy little apartment in the Castro. Never shoulda moved in there—the district was full of dykes and queers.
He reran through his mind the conversation he’d just had with McEnemey. The man was a prick, but Fletcher knew that he’d just have to bite back his anger and pretend to have some respect for him. But he wasn’t ever going to forget that his first loyalty was not to McEnemey Construction but to the building’s architect, Sam Brody.
Brody was all right. He’d done a lot for him, and, much as Fletcher hated to be indebted to any man, he had to admit that he owed Brody. He’d never have gotten this job if Brody hadn’t taken a liking to him.
Brody had known about his trouble but had been willing to overlook it, which had astonished Fletcher at the time.
After all, Brody was a golden boy—rich and sophisticated, the type you’d think would sniff in disgust when confronted with the brutal facts of a man’s ugly past. What did a society boy like Brody know about life in the real world, the down and dirty world of black hearts and mean fists?
“I don’t believe in judging men solely by their pasts,” the golden boy had said. “What I want to know is this: Are you a stand-up guy I can trust right now—today, next month, a year from now? That’s all I care about.”
“I want to bury the past, bury it deep,” Fletcher had replied. “If you’ll help me do that, you’ll find out that I’m one helluva stand-up guy.”
“Okay,” Brody had said. “You’ve got yourself a job.”
Brody had kept his word. He’d never once thrown Fletcher’s prison record in his face. He’d never even looked at him funny. He’d trusted him completely, and he’d gone to bat for him with McEnerney.
Fletcher considered himself Brody’s man. He intended to do his damnedest never to let him down.
Fletcher went to the doorway of his trailer and watched Sam Brody enter the cathedral with the designer and project manager, Ms. Jefferson.
Annie Jefferson.
Annie.
Chapter Four
Everything went smoothly as Annie led the visitors through the site, pointing out to them the special details of the beautiful building. She was explaining about the installation of the handcrafted stained glass panels, when they all heard the sounds of an altercation down at the west end of the cathedral, under the scaffolding for the mammoth rose window that was going in at the traditional position above the cathedral’s main entrance.
Two male voices were raised in anger, and, as they all turned toward the noise, a young man swung down recklessly from the scaffolding where he had been working. He made an obscene hand gesture to the man who was still high up on the scaffolding above the choir loft, then he stalked off the site.
“Any idea what that was all about?” Sam asked.
Annie explained that the rude young man was Vico, nephew of the older man who was still up on the scaffolding, Giuseppe Brindesi, the Italian master craftsman and world-renowned stained glass expert. Vico was a wild, unpredictable ruffian, forever taunting his uncle, who had gotten him the job here.
When Giuseppe saw the party of visitors, he climbed down from the scaffolding—a long climb that most of the workers didn’t bother with, instead using one of the construction cranes or aerial lifts to raise and lower themselves. But Giuseppe prided himself on his physical conditioning.
“I apologize for my nephew’s behavior,” he said to the group, shaking his head. Annie noticed that he looked quite upset. “Children today have no respect.”
Giuseppe was a strong, stocky man in his late forties. Annie figured that he must have been a real heartbreaker about twenty years before. He had roguish eyes and boundless energy. And during the few moments each day when he wasn’t completely absorbed in his stained glass work, he made sure that Annie felt the full effect of his masculine charm.
She’d originally met Giuseppe through Francesca Carlyle, who, as head of the United Path Church building committee, had highly recommended his work. Although he and his sister’s family lived in San Francisco, Giuseppe spent a fair amount of time abroad, doing restoration work in the great cathedrals of Europe. In fact, he’d been out of the country for over a year recently, and Annie was thankful that he’d managed to squeeze this job into his schedule.
Giuseppe hugged Annie and smiled expansively at Darcy. “How is my little madonna?” he asked Darcy, who laughed. He had once told her that she resembled the Virgin in one of the most beautiful stained glass representations in St. Peter’s in Rome. Darcy found it hilarious to be taken for a virgin, and an immaculate one at that.
“How is the work progressing?” Annie asked.
“It is satisfactory,” he said. “There are some things I do not like, but that is not unusual.”
Nothing was ever more than satisfactory for Giuseppe. He was not only a master but also a strict perfectionist.
“I’ve brought my boss with me today,” Annie explained. “He wants to meet you.”
Sam stepped forward and Annie made the introductions. When Sam put out his hand to Giuseppe in his usual friendly manner, Annie was surprised to see the older man hesitate. He was staring intently at Sam, a puzzled look in his eyes.
“Have we met before, signor?” Giuseppe asked.
Sam looked briefly surprised, then shrugged. “If so, I apologize for not knowing it,” he said affably. “Put it down to my lousy memory for faces.”
“Me, I have an excellent memory for the human face and form,” Giuseppe said.
“And you re-create them exquisitely in the stained glass,” said Annie. “We are very fortunate to have your talents. These will be the finest stained glass panels in the entire city!”
“In the entire country, if not the world,” Giuseppe corrected. He was not a modest man.
“It looks as if you’re almost finished with the rose window,” Sid Canin noted.
“Yes. Tomorrow we start on the large panels over the doors in the transept aisle,” Giuseppe said. He waved his hand toward the front of the cathedral, where there was a lot of hammering going on. “They are installing my scaffolding now.”
“May I climb up there with you and get a closer look?” Darcy asked, squinting up at the rose window.
Giuseppe nodded and smiled. He seemed to have put aside the altercation with his nephew. “You are the architect, are you not, madonna? Yes, please, come up. There are several things I would like to show you.”
“Be careful, Darcy,” Sam called out as she started to climb.
Darcy turned and shot him a flirtatious grin. “Will you catch me if I fall?”
Sam laughed. “Hey, if you fall, I’m getting the hell out of the way!”
“You’d both better be careful,” Sidney Canin said in his usual lugubrious tone. “If anybody falls and gets hurt on a construction project, we’ll have OSHA breathing down our necks for the next decade.”
When the tour was over and Annie emerged with her colleagues into the muddy lot where the construction trailers were parked, Jack Fletcher took her aside.
“We’ve got a problem,” he said. “You saw what happened in there with Giuseppe and his nephew?”
Annie nodded. “Just the end of it, actually.”
“We’re going to have to let him go. For good this time.”
“Ah, Jack, I know the boy is difficult, but I was hoping we could give him some leeway.”
“Look, we’ve got no choice. The cops were here a little while ago with a warrant for Vico’s arrest. It seems our boy has been running a cocaine ring on the side for several months.”
“Dammit!” Annie said. No wonder Giuseppe had been so angry. He’d been trying to straighten Vico out for months. The boy was talented, too. But he’d been running with a gang since the age of ten or eleven. “Poor Giuseppe. He’s such a hard worker and such a decent man. It must kill him to have such a reprobate nephew.”
“Yeah, probably. But we got no choice now, Annie. We gotta fire the kid.”
“You’re right,” she said slowly. “Okay, let’s do it.” This was one aspect of being project manager that she really hated. Fortunately there had been very few firings on this job, but she worried about the workers involved every time it happened.
“It’s got to be done,” Fletcher said. “I’ll take care of the paperwork.”
“We were right, I think, to give him a chance, but we certainly can’t employ fugitives from the law.”
Fletcher’s expression changed. “No, ma’am, I reckon one criminal associated with this project is more than enough.”
He was talking about Matthew Carlyle, she presumed, who was on trial for the murder of his wife. He was associated with this project since a significant portion of the building funds had been donated by him, via Francesca.
“Mr. Carlyle isn’
t technically a criminal,” she reminded Fletcher. “He hasn’t been convicted yet.”
Fletcher blinked at her. “Matthew Carlyle? No, he hasn’t and he probably won’t be. But all that proves is that the rich are different.”
Annie shrugged and excused herself. As she walked away, it struck her that there was something about Jack Fletcher that she didn’t like. Although he was always polite, she didn’t care for the way he deliberately tried to cut her out of the decision-making loop.
She had confronted him about it—in what she’d hoped was a pleasant, nonthreatening manner—and things had improved somewhat. But where Fletcher was concerned she had learned to ask a lot of questions and make sure she got complete answers.
It wasn’t easy being a woman in a male-dominated and -controlled profession. But it was challenging.
Fletcher watched her walk away from him, her long slender legs, the subtle curve of her ass under her skirt. Annie Jefferson always dressed in an elegant professional manner, usually wearing tailored suits that displayed her trim body to perfection without flaunting it. She had great legs. Her breasts—which he’d once caught a glimpse of through a sheer blouse on a hot day—were to die for. And her face was lovely. Clear blue eyes, looking surprisingly innocent for a woman who had been married for several years. Something sensual about the mouth. A straight nose with tiny nostrils that flared occasionally, when she was angry or upset about something, although she was too cool ever to let any negative emotions register for long on her face.
Ever since he’d first met her, he’d wanted to fuck her Just that. He didn’t want a relationship with her. He didn’t do relationships. He fucked—and rarely the same woman twice. He didn’t need the hassle of a woman in his life, didn’t want the inevitable conflict, the jockeying for control, the complaints that he was inattentive or unfaithful or unable to commit.