by Neta Jackson
I flicked another bubble. We got married the same summer I graduated high school. My dad even gave him a job at the carpet store as a salesman. I thought all my dreams had come true—married to the most popular guy at Minot High School’s Central Campus, and his family went to our church, so my folks were happy. We had a little fixer-upper on the edge of town, with room for his hunting dog and my two cats. Damien said he’d take care of me so I didn’t have to work, so I sewed curtains and mowed the lawn, joined the Junior League and impressed everyone with how I organized the Junior League Thrift Shop, and threw baby showers for my friends who were already starting families.
But Damien just kept flirting—old or young, it didn’t matter. Women were like ice cream to him, his flattery dripping over their egos like thick chocolate sauce. And then one day he found a flavor he liked better than me, I guess. He decided we’d gotten married too young, quit the carpet store, and took a job on a fishing boat out of Puget Sound in Washington State.
I learned later that the boat was owned by Priscilla Tandy’s daddy. Priscilla was the homecoming queen in the class before me. Damien’s class.
I ran a little more hot water, then settled back into my pond. I’d been devastated. Cried for weeks. Married and jilted? Since when had they rewritten the fairy tales? My parents comforted me as best they could. “At least you didn’t have a baby you’re left to care for.” Humph. Small comfort. Right then, I would have welcomed a baby to be mine, to love me back, to love me forever.
“Hey.” Philip poked his head into the door, giving me such a start that I splashed water over the side of the tub. “How long have you been in there? You’ll be a prune.” He snickered suggestively. “Don’t want a prune in bed. But clean is nice . . . very nice. Maybe I’ll take a quick shower.” He disappeared into the walk-in closet between bath and bedroom to strip.
I drained the tub, toweled off, and crawled into bed sans night-gown. I’d just have to take it off anyway. This had become Philip’s intro to lovemaking. An announcement. “Hurry up and come to bed.” Sometimes I got the feeling we made love because he felt the urge and I was the available female. But was he making love to me?
Philip was off early again the next morning, tossing down his orange juice, pouring coffee into a travel cup, and grabbing the plain whole-wheat bagel I toasted for him. “Oh, can you come by the office this afternoon, Gabby? Like two o’clock? Henry thought you and Mona could give some decorating ideas—window treatments, wall color, plants, that kind of thing. Needs to look professional, but we want our clients to feel welcomed. Just take a taxi to the Aon Center downtown. Here’s the address if you need it. Okay?” He handed me a brochure with a picture of a ramrod-straight building on the front. Peck on the cheek. “See you at two.” He disappeared into the gallery, and I heard the front door open. And close.
So Henry wanted my decorating ideas, did he? I groaned. I couldn’t imagine anything I’d rather not do than decorate the offices of Fairbanks and Fenchel with Mona Fenchel. Maybe I’d call in sick . . . plead female troubles . . . a migraine . . . a death in the family. Something! Let Mona do it.
Sighing, I embraced the inevitable. Stiff upper lip, Gabby, I told myself, tossing dishes into the dishwasher helter-skelter and heading for the bedroom to get dressed. Think of it as a way to support Philip’s new business venture. Besides, I had all morning to go online and familiarize myself with commercial decorating terms, ideas, and color schemes . . .
Which I did, feeling pretty smug as I gripped my briefcase and wheeled through the revolving doors of the Aon Center—second-tallest building in Chicago after the Sears Tower, the brochure had informed me. In the elevator I faced the bank of floor buttons. Wait a minute. No button for the sixty-second floor.
Noticing my bewildered expression, a woman in an oxymoronic “business” suit—tailored jacket, masculine tie, tight short skirt—said, “This elevator is only for odd-numbered floors. What floor do you want?”
Well, duh. I got off, feeling stupid, and found the even-numbered elevators. This one did have a button marked “62” . . . and “72” and “82.” I felt dizzy even thinking about eighty-two floors. Oh, Lord, help me, please. “Sixty-two.” I nodded to the person closest to the panel, and hummed like Pooh Bear trying to fool the bees until the bell dinged, the door slid open, and there I was.
Sixty-second floor. I followed the numbered signs pointing this way and that until I found the suite number Philip had given me. Company name wasn’t on the door yet, but when I turned the knob, I could hear Mona Fenchel whining. “Well, of course, you have a view. But couldn’t you get a suite facing east toward the lake? Or even south would give you more of a grand sweep of the city. North is so . . . well, not the best parts of the city.” She turned as I closed the door, and the whine turned to sugar. “Don’t you agree, Gabrielle?”
Philip, as usual, had a phone to one ear, finger in the other to shut out distractions. Henry stood in the middle of a mishmash of polished cherry office furniture, a plastic smile attached to his face. I ignored the question. “So this is it!” I said brightly. “Wow, right downtown. Very exciting. How many rooms do you have in the suite?”
Henry’s smile widened. “Aha. I knew you’d be impressed. This is the reception area, natch. Two offices—that one’s mine.” He pointed. “Conference room is bigger than we need, but we’re going to divide it, make half into a drafting room. Of course, heh-heh, it’s a mess right now. But once we get painters in, finish ordering the furniture, and hire a secretary, we’ll be in business.”
Philip turned, flipping his cell phone shut. “We’ve got business right now, Henry. Robinson’s people want to meet us at the Sopraffina Market Caffe in the lobby in half an hour.” He gave me a nod. “Glad to see you made it, Gabrielle. You two okay for an hour or so? Give you time to come up with some ideas about the décor.” He was halfway out the door. “Come on, Henry. Robinson could be a really big client. Oh, grab those sample spec sheets.” And they were gone.
I stood face-to-face with Mona Fenchel, who seemed to be sizing me up, trying to make up her mind if I was a worthy opponent. I didn’t blink. She wasn’t a natural blonde, I decided, though the color was good. But I had her beat. My kid-red hair had darkened over the years to a nice auburn-brunette, all mine.
“Well!” she said, tossing her head. “They expect us to do some-thing with this mess? What do they want, for crying out loud?”
I cleared my throat. “I think what they want is ideas. I came with a few color photo samples”—I snapped open my briefcase and withdrew the pages I’d printed out from the Internet—“but obviously I hadn’t seen the space yet.”
Clearing a place on the desk in the middle of the room, I spread out some of the color pictures of various office décors I’d found. Mona gave them a glance. “Obviously.” She sounded bored.
I counted to ten. Then made it twenty. “All right. Where would you like to start?”
She didn’t answer, just walked into the office Henry had indicated was his. She went room to room, then back to Henry’s office. “A theme. An eye-catching theme, carried from room to room . . . something bold. Daring.”
Oh brother. “Well, um, that’s a thought. I was thinking of using neutrals, which can actually be very alluring if done right.” Ha. What did I know? But I blabbered on, determined not to go down without a fight. “I’m not talking beige. Rather, sandstone, with browns and ochre reds—here, take a look at this photo.” I pushed a sheet of paper at Henry’s wife. “What I read suggested adding contrasting or seasonal colors with plants and fresh flower bouquets. I think that would go well with the cherry furniture Philip and Henry already ordered.”
She took the sheet of paper reluctantly. “Mm. Nice . . . if this was New Mexico. No, I’m talking seascapes, greens and blues. Not pastels, either. Emerald and azure, flowing in curves to represent waves and movement . . .” She waved a hand to indicate a tsunami-sized wave rising from one side of a wall to another, ending at the windows�
��the very, very high windows—looking out over the north end of Chicago with the ever-present Lake Michigan far, far below.
My stomach lurched.
“Excuse me . . .” I bolted. I needed the bathroom . . . fast.
chapter 9
Philip glared at me over dinner that night—baked catfish, wild rice, steamed broccoli—which we ate in the formal dining room. The room was large enough to seat all Twelve Days of Christmas. Made me feel like the lonely partridge in the pear tree. At least we were eating at the same end of the table.
“Why didn’t you override that crazy ‘wave’ idea, Gabby? For crying out loud, we’ll look like an aquarium.”
So this fiasco was my fault? “I tried, Philip. Really I did! I suggested neutrals—sandstone, with red ochre and brown accents. Mona just turned up her nose.”
“Whatever.” He attacked his fish. “Henry loves it, but it’s not going to happen. Not if my name is Philip Fairbanks. My mother would throw a conniption . . .”
Let your mother do it, then. I swallowed my smart remark and adjusted my attitude. He needed encouragement. “Look, Philip. You need a professional decorator, an impartial third party. Don’t pit Mona Fenchel and me against each other. We don’t know each other well enough to buddy-buddy over decorating your offices. I backed off because I know it’s important to you that we get along.” And besides, I had a sudden date with the toilet. But I wasn’t about to tell Philip I got seasick in his new restroom.
He brooded over his glass of chardonnay. Philip was not a drinking man, but he did love good wine with his dinner. However, I couldn’t help but snicker at the glowing description of the Italian brand he’d brought home. “The nose reveals bright pear, apricot, and fig aromas with hints of cinnamon, allspice, and vanilla.” Give me a break.
Finally he set down his glass. “Well, we’ll just have to get a professional decorator. Henry was sure you two women would get a kick out of decorating the suite together. Would have saved us some big bucks too. I should have known you weren’t up to it.”
I strangled the hot words that flared up on my tongue. So the professional decorator was his idea now? Wasn’t that what I just said? And did anyone ask me if I wanted to decorate the offices of Fairbanks and Fenchel?
Standing up abruptly, I stacked my dishes and marched into the kitchen, dumping my plate and silverware into the dish-washer without rinsing or scraping. The fancy-smancy dishwasher could clog up for all I cared. Clog up and spill soapy water all over the penthouse . . . out the door . . . down the elevator . . . flood the whole building . . .
The TV news came on in the living room. “—attacked a Tel Aviv restaurant today, killing nine people and wounding many more. The group calling itself Islamic Jihad claimed responsibility for the suicide bomber, who . . .”
I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, suddenly feeling small and selfish. What was a spat with my husband over what color to paint his new offices compared to families who’d just got-ten word that their son or daughter or husband or aunt had been blown to bits while eating out in a favorite restaurant? And what about the suicide bomber? Dead too. What would make someone do something so drastic, so utterly bloody and violent?
Glancing into the dining room, I noticed Philip’s empty dishes still sitting there . . . and for a nanosecond, I felt an urge to do a little jihad myself. Good grief ! Was it really too hard for the man to bring his own dishes to the kitchen?
How Philip talked Henry into hiring a professional decorator, he never said—and I didn’t ask. But at least I wasn’t the one who had to stand up to Mona Fenchel. Underneath all the tension of the past few weeks, I knew Philip was worried about the launch of his new business. He’d chafed at Fairbanks Brothers, Inc. back in Petersburg, frustrated when his fresh design ideas had been turned down by the conservative philosophy of his father and uncle, the “Fairbanks brothers” who’d started the commercial development company back in the late sixties. Mike Fairbanks had been twenty-nine then, was sixty-six now. His motto was, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” The commercial buildings he and Matt Fairbanks had designed and built over the last thirty-odd years had a reputation for quality, durability, and function—and they weren’t about to tinker with that formula just to stand out in the crowd with some funky design.
I knew leaving the security of a position in a stable family company was a risky leap for my husband. To his credit, he didn’t want to start a competing company in Virginia, so he chose Chicago. But that left the question of who would inherit his father’s share in the company when Mike Fairbanks retired. Philip’s two sisters were married and settled elsewhere and had no inter-est in running the business. His father had threatened to sell out when the time came, “. . . since you don’t want to help me build it up,” he’d told his only son.
“Aw, he’ll come around,” Philip had boasted to me. “Then we can merge the two companies, and do twice the business.” But after fifteen years of being married to the man, I suspected all that bluster hid a smidgen of insecurity, though he covered it up with all the fervor of a Rottweiler burying a bone.
On Tuesday, Philip went to work with no instructions for me to carry out, so I spent the day exploring the environs around Richmond Towers. Ohh, it felt good to walk. The sun was out, and the temperature hiked to a comfortable sixty-five . . . though at Mr. Bentley’s suggestion, I went back for a small umbrella “just in case.” Well, not a suggestion exactly. He just said, “Goin’ out, Mrs. Fairbanks?” while turning the pages of his newspaper as if I wasn’t standing there. “Chicago weather has a way of sneakin’ up on you.” I took the hint.
I spent the morning checking out the shops along Sheridan Road, asking if Tedino’s Pizzeria delivered, chatting up the staff of Curves—though I felt a bit dizzy by all that spandex going great guns on those exercise machines—and familiarizing myself with the local Dominick’s grocery store two blocks away, bringing home two top sirloin steaks and a movie I rented at their kiosk. Philip would like that.
After putting the steaks to marinate in some olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and minced garlic—lots of garlic—I topped off my day with a brisk walk through the pedestrian underpass to Foster Beach, took off my sneakers, and wiggled my toes in the damp sand. The soothing sound of waves lapping on the shoreline drained the last of yesterday’s tension out of my spirit. I just needed to work harder to adjust to our new life here in Chicago, I told myself. Find ways to be supportive, take care of things so Philip could give his full attention to developing the new business. And after all, P.J. and Paul would be here in six weeks. There should be lots of fun things to do in the city during the summer. We’d explore, take in the ethnic festivals, go to the beach. I was just lonely for them, that was all.
That’s what I told myself. I only wished I believed it.
I might go crazy before the boys even got here.
On the way home—my feet safely ensconced in my gym shoes this time—I passed the bush where I’d met Lucy . . . did she frequent this part of the park? I wandered up and down the jogging path both ways, but didn’t see anyone except a few mothers pushing strollers and talking on their cell phones, and an older Asian man sitting perfectly still on a bench. The yuppie joggers must all be at work this time of day.
But this was Tuesday . . . didn’t Lucy say the nurse came to Manna House on Wednesday? And that she might come to get her cough “checked out”?
I walked this time. Two miles straight down Sheridan to the north edge of Wrigleyville. Weatherman had said thunderstorms later in the day, but I could return by El if I needed to. I knew I was getting close to the shelter when I passed the Sheridan El Station, where the El crossed over the street, then passed Rick’s Café, a few other eateries, and the Wrigleyville North Bar, which was obviously a sports bar for die-hard Cubs fans.
Took me forty minutes to walk the two miles, though. Turning the corner by the Laundromat, I gratefully dragged myself up the steps of the church-turned-shelter and pulled open one of
the large oak doors. Man oh man, I couldn’t wait to sit down.
“Hello again, Mrs. Fairbanks. Welcome!” Angela’s sweet voice, carrying only a slight trace of a Korean accent, met me in the cool foyer. “Everyone is downstairs. Mrs. Enriquez the nurse is here.” She laughed behind the open window of the reception cubicle and went back to her computer.
“Thanks.” I smiled. For some reason, a sense of—of what? well-being?—settled over me as I headed into the multipurpose room. Maybe it was just familiarity. After all, this was the third time I’d been here in less than a week.
Well, everyone wasn’t downstairs. A thin person, covered by a gray trench coat, was sacked out on one of the couches, a brown hand hanging limply over the side. The ponytailed woman named Carolyn and another resident with a big, loose Afro were hunched over a game of chess near the coffee carafes. I gave Carolyn a wave as I headed for the stairs, but her attention was obviously on how to slaughter her opponent with her knights and pawns.
Downstairs, the dining room resembled a Greyhound Bus Station waiting room. Fifteen or more women sat scattered around the tables, chatting or talking in a loud voice to someone across the room. Several were filling out forms, while two or three jiggled a young child on their knees. A bored-looking young black woman sat in a corner, leg crossed and swinging, filing her nails. Another, lighter-skinned, maybe Latino, tight-lipped and nervous, paced back and forth. She probably needed a cigarette.
I pulled out the closest chair, hoping to see someone I knew by name, but came up zero. A “privacy booth” had been created in one corner of the dining room with a simple room divider. Nearby, an array of medical supplies had been stacked on the closest table. A fifty-something African-American woman wearing a food worker’s hairnet sat at the end of the table, knitting something blue and bulky from a bag of yarn at her feet, her elbow resting on a clipboard.