My reverie was broken by the announcement of the arrival of United Flight 2048. I imagined the big bird swooping down out of the sky, touching down, then slowing sharply before turning sedately from the runway and bumping slowly to the gate. The luggage conveyor at the far side of the big room clanked to life, and the arriving flight number began flashing above it. Excited children hopped from foot to foot and chattered as they strained to see their arriving daddies, and the women who tried to keep them under control wore bright smiles of anticipation. I hung back a little in the face of these family homecomings, uncertain of my status. Was Armando coming home, and was I part of it?
The first passengers straggled in, blinking owlishly in the unaccustomed brightness of the overhead lights. Most were Hispanic, deeply bronzed from recent sun, carrying totes and sweaters, handbags and magazines, and all of the other paraphernalia one always seems to accumulate on long flights. As the number of arriving passengers increased, the noise of joyful reunions added to the mechanical racket of the conveyor, and I watched shyly as two young men wearing TeleCom windbreakers were claimed by their waiting families.
I saw Armando before he saw me. He came into the baggage claim area a little hesitantly, waiting politely, as always, for those in front of him to find their friends and family and move out of the way. I could see him clearly, a worried expression on his face as he searched the crowd. Carefully, he scanned the faces before him, looking, looking. Instinctively, I raised a hand, and he spotted me in my red shirt, half hidden behind a column. Our eyes met, and his expression cleared immediately. He broke into a face-cracking grin, which I’m sure I returned.
The questions vanished from my mind and heart. Armando had come home. For a moment, neither of us moved, and then we both did. I was enveloped in a rib-crushing hug that left me gasping. When we finally broke apart, the bulk of the passengers were snatching their luggage from the carousel and heading out to the parking lots. We held hands fiercely as we waited for Armando’s bags. Oblivious to the crowd around us, we gazed at each other like lovesick teenagers.
“So, mija, what have you been up to while I was safely out of the way, eh? Our telephone conversations have been so sketchy, I don’t even know how your new job is working out. Has anything exciting been going on?”
I smiled into his eyes and replied truthfully, “Nothing as exciting as having you home again, Handsome. Let’s go home.”
Fourteen
Friday morning, July twenty-fifth, I greeted Charles, who was manning the security desk as usual, signed in as Lizzie Borden for old time’s sake and took my last ride upstairs in a Hellavator. I almost relished the sickening sensation of my stomach being left behind as the powerful machine surged skyward. Never again, I promised myself. I entered BGB on thirty-eight and waved to Quen as I crossed through reception to the stairs. At my pod I dumped my purse into the bottom drawer of my desk and surveyed Bellanfonte’s closed office door with amusement.
He was tenacious, I had to give him that. Two weeks ago after Margo, Strutter and I had finalized the details of our plan, I had handed him my letter of resignation. He had scanned it briefly, standing at the door of his office, then looked at me, astounded that I would voluntarily give up the privilege of serving him.
“You’re kidding,” had been his only comment.
I assured him that I was not.
He took a step backward, closed his door in my face, and did not address me directly again, limiting subsequent communications to handwritten notes, voice mails and dictation tapes.
Strutter hadn’t fared much better. When she gave Bolasevich her notice, he went straight into orbit, alternately screaming epithets at her and attempting to cajole her into withdrawing her resignation. She remained politely steadfast. Finally, although clearly beside himself, Bolasevich decided to ignore the entire situation and hope it would go away.
Simply stated, Strutter, Margo and I had decided to go into business for ourselves. The events of this extraordinary summer had sharpened our awareness of the passage of time and how important it was for us not to waste whatever days we had left in this life by working for people who did not value us. We had inventoried our skills, taken a hard look at the opportunities presented by low interest rates and a hot housing market, and decided to go into the realty business. We would specialize in nontraditional housing for nontraditional families, such as single-parent households, three or more generations living under the same roof, same-sex partnerships, and entrepreneurs who wanted to live and work at one address.
In their off hours Strutter and Margo were immersed in studying for the exam that would yield their realtors’ licenses, having completed several weeks of intensive classwork in the evenings. Margo had dipped into her trust fund to lease office space in a converted barn on Old Main Street in Wethersfield, just two miles from The Birches. Esme, whose meditation class I now attended one evening a week, had gotten a lead on the space through one of her other students. There was desk space for each of us as well as a cozy conference room.
Emma and the young lawyer with whom she worked moved into the loft area on the second floor. They had agreed to give the customers we referred to them a break on fees. I would run the office. Armando would keep the books and file all the necessary tax forms. Joey would spend his next couple of days off spackling and painting walls the beautiful sage green on which we had all finally agreed.
I ran up the stairs to thirty-nine, giddy with impending freedom and excitement about our new venture. I found Margo exactly where I had found her during my first week at BGB, making coffee in the kitchenette. We enjoyed a leisurely chat over mugs of surprisingly good coffee. “Did you really think I couldn’t do it right, Sugar?” Margo giggled as she refreshed my mug. As we reviewed all that had happened in the past few weeks, it seemed as if it had been much, much longer.
We spent the rest of the morning saying quiet goodbyes to the staff people we would truly miss. Everywhere we went we left attractive new business cards for Mack Realty, the best acronym we could make of our initials. Paychecks were distributed shortly after 11:00, and as soon as they were safely in our hands, we prepared to leave. Bellanfonte had gone out to a client meeting sometime earlier, so I was spared the necessity of a farewell scene. Margo just picked up her purse and left, promising to wait for us downstairs in the main lobby. Strutter, though, wasn’t so lucky. Just as she was packing up, Bolasevich steamed out of his office with a stack of filing and dropped it on her desk.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he stormed as Strutter started the process of shutting down her computer for the last time.
“This is my last day, Victor, remember? I’m leaving early. As a matter of fact, I’m leaving right now, so I’m afraid I won’t get to that filing.”
“Goddamn it! How can you just walk out on me and leave this mess after everything I’ve done for you?”
Strutter smiled, her fingers deftly closing out her e-mail and other open programs. “I’ve had more than enough of what you’ve done for me, Victor. For me? To me, is more like it.” She straightened up and regarded him levelly. “I’ve had enough of your arrogance and your high-handedness, Victor. I’ve had enough of your unreasonable demands and ingratitude. Most of all, I’ve had enough of your bad manners and foul mouth to last me a lifetime.”
Bolasevich gaped at her, his mouth working like a fish flopping on the beach. Then he totally lost it. “You smart-mouthed black bitch!” he screamed. “Don’t you dare walk away from here until you’re shut that computer down properly!”
Strutter froze. Then she picked up her purse and joined me where I waited in the aisle. We smiled broadly at each other and headed for the elevator lobby. As we reached the corner, she looked back over her shoulder at Bolasevich. “Shut it down yourself, you honky jackass.”
~
In a spurt of bonhomie following our decision to go into business for ourselves, I decided that it was time for the ridiculous bickering among The Birches’ residen
ts to come to an end. As Emma had so wisely reminded me, it’s hard to stay mad at people you know and like, so I decided to give everyone an opportunity to get to know each other by throwing an open house and inviting the residents of the entire complex.
To encourage cool thoughts and tempers, I decided on a theme of “Christmas in July.” Mary, a bemused draftee, zoomed crazily from mailbox to mailbox in her old Chevy, delivering invitations to the other households. From time to time she even nodded civilly to the pedestrians she encountered. Their astonishment was evident.
On Sunday, July twenty-seventh, I put the final touches on a gallon of a particularly potent Swedish punch called glögg, which consists of port wine in which orange rinds, cinnamon sticks, whole cloves, raisins and other good things have soaked overnight. Margo improved upon this base by adding a pint of excellent bourbon and heating the resulting mixture just to steaming. I then sprinkled it with sugar and touched a match to the edge of the pot. We allowed the brew to flame briefly, then smothered it with the lid.
Strutter did magical and aromatic things in the kitchen. Emma and Joey dug boxes of garland and red bows out of the basement, and Armando strung hundreds of little white lights on a tree in the middle of the great room. It was all very festive, but despite the medicinal effects of a cup of punch, I was every inch the nervous hostess.
I need not have worried. By four o’clock, the house was filled to capacity with my neighbors, many of whom I had never met before. Having shown up out of mere curiosity, they stayed for the excellent munchies. After a couple of rounds of glögg everyone, including me, was having a perfectly swell time. Despite the high decibel level, Jasmine and Oliver left the sanctuary of my bedroom to observe the scene from beneath an end table, while Moses was the hit of the party. As cute as a fat button, he was passed from admirer to admirer and plied with bits of cocktail frankfurter until I was sure he would be sick, but apparently, he was made of sterner stuff.
Perhaps half an hour later, the doorbell rang yet again. Moses, sated at last with food and attention, snored in the crook of my arm as I opened the door. There on the porch stood Edna Philpott. After a moment during which I gaped at my unexpected guest, I remembered my manners and fumbled to open the screen door.
“Come in, come in! How very nice of you to join us!” I exclaimed, nearly dropping Moses in my flustered attempt to usher Philpott into a room in which conversation suddenly ceased.
Andy Williams crooned “The Christmas Song” from the Bose. Otherwise, there was silence. Philpott stood calmly surveying the crowd. Then her eyes lit upon Moses, sleeping soundly in my grasp.
“This is Moses,” I blithered. “My son found him in a brook. I took him in,” I added unnecessarily.
“I see that,” said Mrs. Philpott. “I believe you already have two cats, Ms. Lawrence?”
Okay, I thought, cuddling Moses defiantly to my chest. Do your worst. I can sell this place in a week and be on my way. Armando came to stand beside me. Strutter and Margo materialized behind Philpott in the hall. “Oliver and Jasmine, yes,” I replied.
She reached out a hand and scratched the sleeping kitten under the chin. Moses stretched out his neck and squeezed his eyes shut tighter in bliss.
“May I?” Philpott held out her hands. Our eyes met. I handed him over. She glanced around for a seat, then sank gently onto the sofa with the kitten on her lap. “Is there anything cozier than a sleeping kitten?” Philpott wondered aloud, then looked at me once again. “That punch looks absolutely delicious, Ms. Lawrence. Do you suppose I might have a cup?”
Exchanging grins of amazement, my other guests heaved a collective sign as they sensed that the crisis was passing. Renewed conversations burbled around us.
Joey, who had been leaning on the loft railing above our heads throughout this exchange, spoke up. “Let me get you some, Mrs. Philpott.” He thumped down the stairs to the punchbowl, then placed a steaming cup on the table next to her.
“I don’t believe you’ve met my son Joey, Mrs. Philpott. He’s a long distance trucker. He makes a run to Atlanta once a week. Perhaps you’ve noticed him coming and going.”
Margo snorted unattractively into her glögg, and Emma rattled plates in the kitchen, no doubt to cover a fit of the giggles.
“Yes,” said Philpott, injecting maximum irony into the single syllable. She took a sip of punch and blinked, then took a second sip more cautiously. “You’re quite a good looking young man, aren’t you?” she said to my astonished son, then to me, “This is really very good, Ms. Lawrence.”
Joey winked at me before heading back upstairs to the loft and his video game. “Just let me know when you need a refill,” he called over his shoulder.
Armando headed for the hors d’oeuvres table and returned with a plate bearing an assortment of goodies. He placed it on the table next to Philpott’s punch cup. “Allow me to introduce myself, Armando Velasquez,” he said in his sexiest baritone. He scooped her right hand into his own and made a lot of eye contact as he touched his lips to her knuckles. “Señora Philpott, I believe?” I thought he was laying it on a bit thick, but what the heck. It was Christmas, sort of.
Philpott melted visibly. “Edna, please,” she murmured.
“Edna,” Armando repeated, releasing her fingers with apparent reluctance. “It is a great pleasure.”
Behind his back I rolled my eyes at Margo.
Philpott returned her attention to the kitten sprawled across her lap. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, taking another swig of punch, “it’s a definite violation of the regulations for you to keep a third cat in this unit, Ms. Lawrence.”
Mary immediately bristled, causing Roger to place a cautionary hand on her arm, and conversation in our corner once again faltered as my neighbors exchanged worried glances.
“However, I think I have a solution.”
Everyone within earshot leaned closer. Well, I thought, our Edna certainly knows how to take center stage.
“Do you think, um, Moses …” She looked at me questioningly, and I nodded. “… might like to come to live with me? You could visit him anytime at all, of course.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Mary, never at a loss for words.
“Very likely, Mrs. Feeney,” Philpott countered drily, “but not before I have another cup of this excellent punch, I hope.”
Relieved laughter rippled through the room, and Andy swung smoothly into a chorus of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”
I’m pleased to say, we did precisely that.
Meet Judith K. Ivie
A lifelong Connecticut resident, Judith Ivie has worked in public relations, advertising, sales promotion, and the international tradeshow industry. She has also served as administrative assistant to several top executives.
Along the way, Judi also produced three nonfiction books focusing on work issues, as well as numerous articles and essays. In 2006 she broadened her repertoire to include fiction, and the Kate Lawrence mystery series was launched.
Whatever the genre, Judi strives to provide lively, entertaining reading that takes her readers away from their work and worries for a few hours, stimulates thought on a variety of contemporary issues-and gives them a laugh along the way.
Please visit www.MainlyMurderPress.com to learn more about all of the Kate Lawrence mysteries, which are available in trade paperback and e-book versions. Judi loves to hear from readers at [email protected].
Waiting for Armando (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) Page 18
