Conundrum

by Susan Cory

  “It’s my signature look. And you, Ms. Gardenia-smell, what’s the status of your model?”

  “Actually, I’m done. I came by to gloat on my way home. I’ll be thinking of you as I drift off to sleep. Ta, ta.”

  “Why has it taken me three years to recognize your mean streak?” she called to Ellie’s retreating back. Iris turned back to her work in despair. Why had she changed her floor plan last week? Would it really be so bad if it wasn’t done? It looked okay the way it was. She’d rest her head on her arms. Just for a few minutes…

  “Aaaaagh!” an ear-splitting scream rang through the open studio.

  Iris shook herself awake and raised herself up to peer out above her wall. Classmates were running toward the commotion several cubicles away.

  Carey, the class superstar, whose voice never rose above a raspy whisper, was staring wild-eyed at his cardboard model. “Who did this?” he screamed, his waving arms still holding a bottle of lemonade from the nearby vending machines.

  The circle of students gaped first at him, shocked that he was capable of shouting, then down at the large, brown coffee stain bleeding over a village that Carey had spent the last week constructing. Even some of the tiny trees had coffee dripping from their branches.

  “What happened?”

  “Someone spilled coffee on Carey’s model. Do you believe it?” got whispered through the crowd.

  Iris waited for a sleep-deprived classmate to mumble an embarrassed apology while Carey began pacing his cubicle like a caged lion, wordlessly jabbing his finger toward the model as if he were conducting a silent argument. His face was becoming splotchy with suppressed rage and Iris worried that his brain might start to bubble.

  She couldn’t take her eyes off him. For three years this guy had been like her younger brother. She had helped him find his classrooms first year. She’d reminded him of his upcoming exams. She had even tried to diffuse the growing swirl of jealousy around him by pointing out his obliviousness to his own talent. In all that time, Carey had never shown any emotion but enthusiasm or his default dreamy half-smile. Certainly never rage.

  “Isn’t someone going to at least admit they did it?” Iris appealed to the heads lined up along Carey’s wall.

  “This really sucks,” someone volunteered.

  “Yeah, sorry, man.”

  “I didn’t see anyone, did you?”

  Heads shook, shoulders shrugged, then people drifted away to finish their own projects, relieved that this hadn’t happened to them.

  Iris grabbed a roll of paper towels from a nearby desk and started dabbing at the stains. She knew there was nothing to be salvaged, and the final critique was the next day—that day actually. Displaying their models and pinning up their boards to be analyzed would be the culmination of three years of total immersion. Well-known architects had already flown in from New York and Berlin to be on their studio’s jury. This time, there was no way that Carey could dazzle them with his presentation.

  The two of them stood looking down at the site of destruction. A luxo lamp aimed in close on the model released the acrid smell of scorched coffee. Arms wrapped around his skinny chest, rocking back and forth, Carey emitted a long visceral moan. Iris wanted to put a reassuring arm around his shoulder, but knew he didn’t like to be touched. A stillness came over him, followed by a subtle shift in his stance, a straightening. Iris watched him look around his cubicle as if returning from a trance. He moved to his second desk and stared for a minute. Then he began to roll up his drawings, shove them into his backpack, and dejectedly slide it onto a shoulder. He looked up at her. “I’m going home now, Iris. Thanks for trying to help me.”

  “Good idea. Get some rest,” she said, unable to think of any encouraging words.

  Iris watched him grab his ruined model and trudge away.

  She couldn’t help wondering who would do such a mean thing.

  ***

  Three days later, at their graduation party, Iris congratulated Carey on the triumph of his final crit. “You had those critics eating out of your hand. When you started talking about those glass roof tiles I thought that they were going to offer you a job on the spot.”

  Carey looked at his feet. “One of them did. But you really saved me, Iris, when you came over in the middle of the night with that spray paint. I’d thought that my model was a goner.”

  Iris smiled at the memory of her brainstorm.” I had a can left over from painting a chair I’d found put out on the street. Sorry about waking you up.”

  “Did it look okay? The trees were a little gloppy.”

  “It looked perfect. Everyone was blown away.”

  “Your crit went well too. I love how sculptural your designs always are. And making all the walls either stone or glass was pure poetry.” Carey stared around at the large loft. The high-ceilinged space had a streamlined kitchen open to a living room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along one side.”Whose place is this? Oh, yeah, G.B.’s. It’s really cool.”

  Gilles Broussard had started teaching three years before, in tandem with their class starting the Master of Architecture program. For that reason, or perhaps due to the high percentage of cute young men on the roster, he had become sentimentally attached to their class. He enjoyed swanning around the design studio, well-tailored jacket draped over a shoulder, stinking Gauloise stuck between thumb and middle finger, complaining—”Where are the new ideas?” Students prayed that he wouldn’t make this comment while staring at their slaved-over project.

  “So, you’ve never been here before either?” Iris asked.

  Carey looked confused. “You mean students get invited here?”

  Iris could have kicked herself. She hadn’t meant to underscore that Carey hadn’t been in the inner circle of overly ambitious, catty students who had clustered around G.B. Her boyfriend, Will, had been in that group. He had often been invited over with his roommate, Adam. The two of them made a photogenic pair—Will Reynolds with his pierced ear and hip charm and Adam Lincoln with the clean, chiseled looks of an astronaut.

  “I think so. At least Will said he’d been here before.” It had seemed uncool for Iris to ask Will what had gone on here. Her relationship with him had blazed along, on-and-off during third year, until Iris’ vague sense of distrust wore away the connection. They had broken up the week before, when gearing up for their final reviews and Iris still hadn’t had a chance to process it. Now she searched the room for him.

  “He’s over there by the windows,” Carey said, reading her mind. They both spotted Will, who must have been telling an amusing story. The group around him were laughing. Iris shivered, then wondered why Carey, whom the inner circle despised for showing them up, always seemed so fascinated with their members.

  “Hey, Iris, there you are!” Ellie elbowed her way through the crowd. She tipped her head towards the tall, friendly-looking man following close behind her. “You remember Mack, don’t you?” Carey drifted off like fog.

  Of course Iris remembered Mack. She was thrilled that her best friend had found such a nice guy. Ellie had met him, a med school student, in the laundry room of their apartment building. They hugged in greeting.

  Ellie gave her a once-over and whistled. “I didn’t know you owned a dress. Why haven’t I seen this before?”

  “It took three years of forgetting to eat to fit in it again. It’s from high school. Getting a chance to finally shower made me feel like dressing up.” Iris knew that the short, tight dress showed off her long legs, and the neckline displayed a tease of cleavage. The green color intensified her hazel eyes. She even had mascara on. Her almost-black hair was piled in a loose, sexy chignon. She wanted Will to have this final impression of her burned into his memory-bank when they went their separate ways.

  “So, Iris, has it sunk in yet that you’re done with boot camp? Ellie seems to be in shock still.” Mack sent Ellie an affectionate look.

  “We’re done?” Iris said in mock-surprise. “We never have to go back to the studi
o? YES!” she shrieked, pumping her fist in the air. A few people looked over and grinned.

  “We’ve stopped in to say good-bye to a few people on our way to the Turtle Café for dinner. Want to join us?” Ellie asked.

  Iris did want to, but said “No, you guys go. I’ve got to get home to finish packing. My train leaves for New York first thing in the morning.”

  Ellie grabbed her hands. “Now, you’ve promised me, girl, that you won’t disappear into your new life in the big city. New York is only a few hours from here.”

  “Are you kidding? We’ve been watching each other’s backs for so long, I won’t be able to function without you. I’ll probably have to come back every weekend. You’ll be begging me to stay away.” Iris bent down as the two friends folded each other in their arms.

  After they left, Iris wandered over to the kitchen island to pour herself a Coke. She wanted wine, but needed the caffeine to stay awake to pack. As she drank, she peered over at the bookshelves in the living room. Seriously? She crossed the space. Pulling a book out, she confirmed that it had been dust-jacketed in white vellum. Every single book had gotten this treatment. You couldn’t tell a book’s title until you opened it to inspect the real jacket below. Now here was an example of form over function. And it belonged to a professor training her in her profession?

  She made a sweep of the room, looking for Carey. She wanted to say a final farewell, but before she could spot him she got caught in the headlights of a look from Alyssa, the class Queen Bee. Iris steeled herself as Alyssa strode over, cashmere cardigan knotted just-so around her neck. Even atop high heels, Alyssa barely reached five feet, but in her mind, she commanded attention.

  “A little bird tells me that you and Will have finally broken up.”

  Iris winced at Alyssa’s little-girl voice, then at her words.

  “You’ve got to stop talking to birds, Alyssa,” was her only response. Given Iris’ eight-inch height advantage, it was easy for her to see over Alyssa’s head, as she willed the busybody to go away. She saw G.B. huddled in a corner in deep discussion with one of his acolytes.

  As Alyssa’s voice chirped on, Iris saw a tableau over by the living area’s exposed brick wall. Carey had moved to the refreshment table and Will was offering him a plate of brownies. Bizarrely, her mind flashed on an image of the witch from Hansel and Gretel offering sweets to the children. Or maybe Carey resembled an eager puppy more than Hansel.

  But when Iris caught the words “would have sewn his zipper shut at the beginning of the year,” her attention snapped back to Alyssa.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said it’s about time you broke up with Will. His affair with Sharon Abramson must have been tough to ignore.” Alyssa casually poured herself a plastic cup of Almaden chablis from a green glass jug.

  Iris felt an impact, as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. She leaned against the island counter. So her feeling had been right. Will had been cheating on her. What kind of guy is that lacking in a sense of decency? What a scum-bag! Alyssa was studying her. Iris conjured up a bored mask and tossed off “Thank god he’s not my problem anymore. Now I’ve really got to go pack for my train to New York.”

  She grabbed her purse and said over her shoulder “exuse me, Alyssa,” as she aimed toward the fire stairs. Her self-control wasn’t going to hold out long enough to wait for the elevator to rise to the seventh floor. The sound in the space seemed to crescendo into a cacophony of laughing shrieking voices, but got chopped off when the fire door swung closed behind her. She felt the heat rising in her cheeks as she crumpled down onto the landing, letting tears flow until her eyes stung.

  After the time it took to catalog all of Will’s suspicious late-night absences and to progress from despair to anger to resignation, she wiped her eyes and plodded down the remaining flights to the exit door. Out on the sidewalk, she blinked in the hazy afternoon glare, disoriented until a startled cry pierced the suffocating stillness. Lifting her head, she saw a blur. What was that? It was huge. It looked like it flew off the balcony on the top floor—a dark silhouette against the sunlit brick. She shielded her eyes. Oh, my God—it was a person! It was falling straight toward her, but she couldn’t move. She began to hyperventilate, her eyes were riveted on the torpedo hurtling at her. It was going to land on top of her. Oh, no! Not him! She recognized Carey right above her—arms outstretched as if flying, eyes wide as if startled, mouth open as if caught in a scream. His body thudded on the sidewalk before her, an empty, hollow sound. She stared down in mute horror, watching as the rivulets of her friend’s blood pooled around her sandals.

  Chapter 5

  This was ridiculous, Iris thought. She had the concentration of a gnat. Positioned at her favorite window table at the Paradise Café, the one with the view of frustrated drivers backed up at the Porter Square traffic light, she had read and reread the same paragraph in her Architectural Record for the last 20 minutes. It was early May, the tail end of New England’s mud season, and the café’s heavy wood door was propped open to allow the earthy spring air to waft in.

  She glanced over one more time at the subject of her distraction: Luc, the café’s owner and chef who was perched on a stool behind a long, mahogany coffee counter. He was tapping on an i-Pad as his barista, a guy with a goatee whose name Iris couldn’t remember, worked the espresso machine. The cheerful space was humming with the post-nine-a.m. crowd of the self-employed. Iris inhaled the aroma of strong coffee mingled with the smell of freshly baked pastries.

  How old did Ellie say she thought he was? Mid-thirties? Iris herself was forty-four but still managed to draw appreciative looks from men. She’d never seen a girlfriend hovering around Luc in the four months since he’d opened the place. Then again, she and Ellie had never been here for lunch or dinner. Mornings were when they used the café to transition from private life to work life in their home offices.

  Luc was wearing a thick, black, ribbed sweater with a zipper that angled diagonally down from his Adam’s apple about nine inches. She was fascinated with that zipper and its asymmetry. With his head bowed, she could also study the different yellows in his hair—from pale pinot grigio to deep, buttery chardonnay. He had it scraped back into a ponytail that was looped around like a snail.

  Maybe she could buddy up to Louise, the waitress with the stud in her nose. Louise might know if Luc was involved with someone. Iris watched his lips form private little smiles which appeared and disappeared. He was adorable. What was she thinking? Of course he had a girlfriend. Why hadn’t she paid him more attention when he’d drop by her table from time to time? But then again, if they ever did get into a relationship and it crashed and burned, as most of hers did, she and Ellie would be out of a perfect breakfast spot. Ellie would be pissed. Was it worth the risk? She sighed and swept her magazine into her tote, giving him a final regretful look just as his head rose to scan the room and he noticed her gaze.

  She busied herself refolding the Boston Globe, returning it to the basket by the door and slipping on her black leather jacket.

  “Are you leaving already?” Luc had materialized at her table. “I was finishing writing up the menu for tonight and wanted to join you. You looked so sad just now.”

  He sat down and she sank back into the seat facing him. “Oh, no—I was just thinking… about something. I guess I could loiter a bit longer.” She pulled her eyes away from the zipper. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

  Luc looked slightly alarmed. “Okay.”

  “How come you don’t wear clogs? I thought all chefs were required to wear them? Isn’t it in a contract somewhere?”

  He let out a deep laugh. He had a wonderful laugh. “I hate clogs. They’re so ugly. Chefs wear them because they’re comfortable when you’re on your feet all day.” He displayed a foot shod in supple, brown calfskin. “I had these boots made in Italy, and they give me much more support than clogs. Besides, one of the perks of owning this place is that I get to set the dress
code. Gee, is that the most personal thing you want to know about me? I’m crushed.”

  She started to blush. “You can ask me something now if you want. Fair’s fair.”

  He looked down at her left hand. She thought he was going to ask about the man’s watch she always wore, but instead, with a finger, he traced over a one inch scar near her thumb.

  “How’d you get this?”

  She looked down too. “Ah, that’s an architect’s tattoo. We all have them. It’s from an x-acto knife slicing me instead of the cardboard model I was working on in school. If you don’t have at least one hand scar, you’re not a real architect. Don’t chefs have knife scars?” She reached for his hands to look.

  “If they do, it means that their knife skills seriously suck.” He displayed his unmarked hands with their long, elegant fingers, pinning her with his blue eyes—the quiet blue-gray kind, not the intense shade that jumped out at you. She liked that his nose was wide at the bridge, saving him from being conventionally handsome. It roughened his edges a bit.

  “The other day when I stopped by your table, you and Ellie were talking about a class reunion. Did you guys decide to go?”

  “So far we’re only signed up for the Friday night dinner. It’s being held at a house that I designed for the reunion chairman.”

  “That’s right—you’re an architect and Ellie writes books about architects. Who’s this client?”

  “A guy from our class, Norman Meeker, who went into business instead of architecture.”

  “Isn’t he that billionaire who invented all those eco building products?”

  “That’s him. I forget how famous he is now; I just think of him as my irritating client. Last year he hired me to build him a trophy house to show off his inventions.”

  As she talked about Norman an inspiration struck her. “As the reunion chairman, he asked me to find a good caterer for the opening night party. Does the Paradise do that?” Actually she had been in talks for a week with two catering firms neither of which were being particularly accommodating.