by Sheila Walsh
“Come on, baby, we’ve got to go home now.” Tammy took Keith’s hand but looked toward Ann. “You call me if you need anything. I’ll be over here quicker than you can get the phone hung up. I did give you my number, right?”
“Definitely. Completely covered.”
“Right. Well, come on, Keith. We’ll be back to see Ann tomorrow. Okay?”
“Bye,” he said again, then turned to follow his mother.
Ann walked back into the house and closed the front door behind her. That’s when the breakdown began.
Chapter 7
Ann floated through a balmy sea, completely enveloped in its warmth. She couldn’t remember when she’d felt so peaceful, so happy, so loved. As she continued to float, she became aware of a vibration around her that seemed to ebb and flow with the rhythm of waves crashing in the distance—but no, it wasn’t waves. It sounded like . . . wings. Each beat whooshed in rhythm with the next, creating a music all its own. Peaceful. Filled with a love so amazing it penetrated to her very marrow. She wanted to stay here forever.
A dull ache in her back began to pull her from the scene, but she still heard the faint hint of the music. It wasn’t loud—it seemed to be coming from a great distance—but the tune was unmistakable. Ann couldn’t tell if she was awake or asleep, so she forced her body to an upright position, then flipped on the table lamp at the end of the sofa. Finally, the music faded and disappeared.
Obviously it had been a dream. Again. Her current situation was nightmarish enough without all this nonexistent tripe messing with her mind. These dreams, this music, they needed to stop. Right now. According to the clock on the wall, it was just after 2:00 a.m. She stretched her cramped muscles, picked up the remote, and spent the rest of the night mindlessly pushing buttons, never pausing long enough on any single channel to really know what was on. She couldn’t relax enough to even consider sleep—although whether it was from grief or fear of dreaming unearthly music, she wasn’t certain.
It was Keith; he was the one who was doing this to her. He was the one who had her thinking about angels and wings and songs—paracusias—that were best forgotten. Perhaps it would be better if she avoided him altogether today.
As the rising sun began to blaze through the lace curtains, she stood up to stretch. After a few nights sleeping on this too-short and too-sagging sofa, she could feel all thirty of her years, and she thought maybe she even felt a few she hadn’t lived yet.
Tomorrow afternoon, she was flying home. If she could just make it through another day and a half here, she would be away from these constant reminders of what she’d just lost. The confusing blur of faces and names that Ann could never recall. Sad smiles, tight hugs, words spoken in hushed tones. And flowers, endless deliveries of flowers. This in spite of the fact that Ann had requested donations to charity in lieu of them. She began to thumb through the stack of cards Danielle had left for her.
One card in particular drew her attention:
With sympathy, Patrick Stinson
It infuriated her that Margaret had told him. He’d known all about it when Ann had called his office yesterday, and whether Margaret’s motive in telling was to convince him to work directly with her instead, or to gain sympathy and secure the contract, Ann didn’t know. Somehow she suspected that Patrick Stinson was a man not much given to sympathy when it came to business matters. But at least this was a reminder that she had another life, with dreams within her reach, in another place, away from all this.
Sometime during the rush of yesterday’s grief she’d formulated a plan. Now she was in the driver’s seat, and now was the time to make the call to put it all into motion.
She smiled as she hit the speed dial on her cell phone, the rush of adrenaline making her feel better than she’d felt in days. “Marston Home Staging, this is Jen, may I help you?”
“Hi, Jen, I need to speak to Margaret.”
“Well, well, I always thought people spent time in the South to slow down and remember their manners. Didn’t know it worked in reverse and some people actually got uptight and rude.”
“Sorry. Not thinking. Please and thank you.”
Jen laughed. “That’s better, not particularly heartwarming, but better nonetheless. You okay?”
“Really, Jen, thank you. I’m fine.”
“Oh sure, sure. Like I’m supposed to accept that as genuine right about now. Just one second and I’ll patch you through.”
The phone clicked almost instantly. “Ann. So good to hear from you. Are you making progress on the Stinson presentation?”
“That’s actually what I’m calling to talk to you about. Margaret . . .” Ann took a deep breath. “Here’s the thing. I’ve been working for Marston Staging for six years now. I’ve worked my tail off, and I’m the one who has brought in the opportunity for the biggest job we’ve ever had.”
“You’ve worked hard, yes. You did meet Patrick Stinson, yes, but I hardly think that alone brought him to Marston Staging.”
“Funny, because when I talked to him on the phone yesterday, he implied that it was me who brought him there.” Ann paused just long enough to let that one sink in. “Did he imply something different to you?”
“I really don’t see—”
“Look, it doesn’t matter. You said you were looking for an investor, a silent partner. Why can’t I become a partner that isn’t silent?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I’ll be selling the house here in the next year; I could use that money to buy in. But in the meantime”—Ann licked her lips and took her last breath of courage—“I want a 50 percent share in the Stinson job, and I want Beka to remain on staff.”
“I see.” Margaret remained silent for several seconds. This type of ultimatum likely would have meant termination at any other time, but with the promise of Stinson Towers out there, Margaret would not be so hasty. “Here’s what I’m willing to concede. If we land the Stinson account, since you did play a role in bringing that to us, I would be willing to agree to your having a 30 percent share. And if you can come up with the money within the next twelve months, then I would agree to allowing you to start buying in to the company, not to ever exceed a 45 percent share. I still retain controlling interest; I still retain ultimate control.”
Ann thought about that for a moment. “Okay, done.”
“As for Beka, we really don’t have the resources to keep her. Of course, the Stinson job would change that immediately. I’ll agree to keep her on until we know whether or not we get Stinson Towers. The day we find out that we don’t, she’ll be let go immediately.”
“Margaret, that’s—”
“That’s more than she would have had otherwise, and I simply can’t afford to offer more.”
“All right then. Deal.”
“Now, get busy and do what you have to do to get that job.”
“That’s my plan.” Ann hung up the phone, quite pleased with herself. She had taken the first steps toward achieving her goals. “See, Nana and Sarah? I’m already on my way. What do you think of that?”
The only answer was the roar of a lawn mower a couple of houses down, which was plenty enough for Ann. Now that she was focused on a concrete goal, she planned to crowd everything else out of her mind for good.
She padded to the kitchen and poured herself a bowl of corn flakes, slicing up a banana and adding it to the bowl before she splashed it all with milk. She took a few bites, then put the coffee in the filter and got the morning’s brew going. There were some errands that needed running today, and her plan was to leave after breakfast but before lunch, hopefully timing it just right so that she would be gone when Tammy came over to make her neighborly call.
The doorbell chimed at that very moment. Apparently she was already too late.
Ann was wearing a ratty Boston Celtics T-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants that were easily ten years old and two sizes too large, and she knew without looking that her hair was its usual first-thing-in-the-
morning explosion. Hopefully Tammy would take one look, come to the conclusion that she’d woken Ann up, and feel so guilty she’d disappear for a while—taking Keith and his dream-inducing angel talk with her. Yep, this ought to scare her off.
It wasn’t until Ann had already started to pull the door open that she realized her mistake. Tammy never rang the doorbell, because she never came to the front door; she always went straight to the kitchen door. Ann found herself face-to-face with Ethan McKinney.
There was something like a grin on his face as he rubbed his chin against his shoulder and averted his gaze. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up. I just remembered another stop I’ve got to make for work, but there is something that I wanted to talk to you about, so maybe I’ll come by later this afternoon if that’s okay with you.” He was already backing away as he spoke, still not looking at her.
“You didn’t actually wake me up. I was just eating breakfast.”
He had stepped from the portico onto the patio, so Ann had to lean out of the doorway to keep him in view.
“Oh, good. Well, like I said, maybe I’ll stop by later, maybe I’ll call first, but I’ll just go run some errands now. There’re some things I’ve got to do, don’t know why I didn’t think about it until now.”
For the first time since the accident, Ann felt a real smile emerge from somewhere inside her. Ethan and his run-on sentences could be quite entertaining—a refreshing change from the clipped and direct style she often encountered in New York. Ethan finally reached the wrought-iron gate at the side of the enclosed courtyard. He pulled at the latch, which clanked and clanked but did not open. “This thing always sticks. I don’t know why Sarah wouldn’t let me replace this stinking latch,” he mumbled, more or less to himself as he pushed and pulled and pushed some more. Ann began to wonder if she should walk out and help him, but thought it would likely embarrass him more than he was already. Finally, the gate swung open and Ethan chanced a backward look.
Ann waved at him, one finger at a time. He nodded once, his face now a dark crimson, and hurried toward his truck. Ann actually giggled as she closed the door behind her. She turned her attention back to the task of coffee making, but when she heard the sound of Ethan’s truck moving down the driveway, she had the strangest urge to pull back the curtains and peek. The fear of being caught in the act was enough to restrain her.
She finished her breakfast, then took a long hot shower. It did little to ease the strain, but at least she’d tried.
When she was ready to leave the house, she determined to do so without encountering Keith or Tammy. She slowly pulled back the curtains, just a few inches, and looked toward Tammy’s house, searching for any sign of an impending visit. Nothing seemed to be moving in that general direction, so she dashed out the kitchen door, resisting the urge to duck and roll. She hustled through the side door of the garage, then locked it behind her. So far so good. She climbed into the car, locked those doors too, and started the engine before she pushed the button on the garage door remote. Her escape must have looked like something from a grade-B spy movie, but so far, it had worked. While the door creaked open, she held her breath—uncertain if she was doing this from fear of a surprise Keith appearance, or fear of carbon monoxide poisoning—until it opened enough to reveal an empty driveway. Whew. She’d made it. This time.
Ethan parked his truck in the driveway again, a man on a mission. Today, right now, he was going to find something he could do to help Ann, do it as quickly as possible, then get on with his life. The dreams, the overwhelming compulsion that she needed his help, and his complete lack of clear thought around her ended here. Right now. He climbed from the truck and hurried forward.
It was almost two o’clock; surely Ann was up and going by now. Even though he was relatively certain she would be, it took every bit of his courage to press the doorbell. How many times could he mess up with her? He listened for the telltale sound of footsteps approaching the door but heard nothing. He turned his attention to the golden oak surface of the door. It was worn and scraped. Definitely needed a good refinishing. He rang the bell one last time and followed it up with a loud knock. Still nothing.
He’d just have to stop by later. He turned to leave and saw Annie’s rental car parked on the street and Ann walking up the driveway carrying a large box. She was leaning back, arms stretched taut, face flushed with exertion. He ran out to meet her. “Oh, there you are. Oh man, did I block your driveway with my truck? I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking, I just assumed you would be parked in the garage. It never occurred to me that you weren’t here, and that you would come home and then couldn’t get into your garage, and that you would be carrying something heavy—”
“Not. A. Problem.”
“Here, let me get that,” Ethan said, already reaching for the box. Apparently there were still a few ways he could mess up.
“It’s fine. Really, you don’t have to do this.”
“Of course I do.” When the full weight transferred to his hands, he grunted. “Man, this is heavy. Now I feel really bad. I wouldn’t have blocked you out if I’d known, because the last thing I want to do is make things harder for you.”
“I know.” She sort of sighed when she said it. What did that mean? That she was tired? Or tired of him? Or just sad?
She led him to the kitchen door and unlocked it. “You can just set it on the counter.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He followed her inside, taking in the scene around him. There were piles of paper in neat stacks all over the kitchen table. He put the box down, then nodded toward the papers. “This looks like a lot of work.”
Ann nodded. “Yeah, I guess it’s going to be. Apparently you don’t have to have a lot of money to have lots of estate things to sort through.”
Ethan looked toward the box he’d just set on the counter. It was some sort of fireproof, flood-proof, earthquake-proof file holder. He almost laughed at the overkill, but he supposed that after all that had happened to her, Ann wasn’t willing to take chances with anything. He needed to help her in some way, he just had to. “Actually, that is one of the reasons I was stopping by. Is there anything I can do for you? I’m glad to pitch in.”
“I’ve got it covered.” She shrugged. “Most of the paperwork is something I’ve got to do, as the last survivor of the family.” The words sounded so final, so heavy, in Ethan’s ears.
This wasn’t getting him anywhere. “What about your front door?”
“My front door?” She said each word slowly as if clarifying she’d heard him correctly.
“It . . . needs refinishing. I could do it for you, fix it up nice.”
Ann stared at him, her mouth slightly agape. “My front door.” Then she kind of smiled and started pulling the tape loose from the box on the counter. “It probably does need some work, but I can do it next time I’m in town.”
“The floors need refinishing too.” What was he getting himself into here? “The walls could use a fresh coat of paint.”
“All of which I’m perfectly capable of doing myself.”
Man, this girl is stubborn. Independent way beyond the point of sensible. “Capable, no doubt. But don’t you have more important things to do with your time?”
She stopped what she was doing and looked up from the box. “Now that I think about it, I have lots of work to do on this place before I can put it on the market. If you know a reputable local handyman who could help with some things around here, that would probably be a good thing.”
Ethan put his hand over his heart and tried to assume an offended expression. “How could you even ask that question? A local handyman you can hire? That has gone to the edge of insulting. I think that I might be wounded beyond repair. How can I bear to even have that question asked of me?”
Ann leaned back on the counter, arms folded, an almost smile on her face. “What’s wrong with that question?”
“I, dear madam, am a contractor extraordinaire. I would never dream of allowing a frien
d of mine to hire a handyman for assistance.”
“Well, I don’t know if I can afford a contractor’s rate.”
He put his hand to his forehead and threw his head back in an imitation of a damsel in distress. “Now I am downright offended.” He raised his voice an octave and thickened his accent. “In a situation like this, I would never be for hire. I shall likely swoon if this conversation continues.”
Ann actually smiled at this, but it quickly faded as she crossed her arms and leaned back against the counter. “Well, I’m not taking charity.”
“Your sister always said the same thing. In fact, some manual labor was going to be my graduation gift to her; that way she would have to graciously accept. I kept telling her, and now I’m telling you, helping a friend is not charity. Helping a friend is what makes a friend a friend. In fact, what kind of friends would we be, if we couldn’t even help each other? That’s what friends do, after all, help other friends, just because they’re friends.” Ethan began to wonder how much longer he was going to have to continue before she would interrupt him. It was coming—it always did, but he was fast running out of friend-isms to say. Still, he was determined to push on until she cracked. “What would be the point of the friendship? Friends are—”
“Even if it’s a friend you haven’t even seen for ten years?”
He tried hard to keep a straight face after his hard-earned victory. “Well, all right then, you’re an interior decorator, right?”
Ann shrugged. “Yes.”
“Well, how about a barter deal? If you’ll help me put the best face on a property or two, then I’ll help you in turn. It’ll be an even trade, your specialty for mine.”
“Could be fair enough. Are they your properties or someone else’s?”
“Oh, they belong to other people. Most of the houses I work on have had a previous owner or two . . . sometime over the last hundred years or so.” He smiled. “I’d like your opinion on a couple of places that I’m renovating so the owners can sell.”
