Angel Song

by Sheila Walsh

  Ann nodded and followed. She took a seat across from Margaret’s desk. Margaret walked around the desk but did not sit. She leaned forward on both her hands. “I got a call from Patrick Stinson this morning.” She looked at Ann and waited. The expression on her face did not go well with “and he told me you’ve worked everything out really great.”

  Ann shifted in her seat as a growing uneasiness began to gnaw through her gut. “What did he say?”

  “What do you think he said? Do you suppose it had anything to do with the fact that you’ve been plotting behind my back?”

  “I’ve been plotting?”

  “I would say asking him to hire you personally instead of using my company would fall under that definition, don’t you?”

  “Margaret, he’s the one who brought that up. We talked about it once. Nothing official happened. And I told him that I wouldn’t leave Marston until Stinson Towers was completed because I didn’t want there to be layoffs.”

  Margaret stared hard at her. “Well, he’s got quite a different version of events, I can tell you that. He’s coming by this morning to discuss this with me. He’s no long certain he wants to use this company for the job.”

  “What will we do? Can we survive without this contract?”

  “I don’t know, but right now, I’m not going to talk about what we are going to do. Right now I want to talk about what you are going to do.”

  Ann braced herself for the inevitable apologies and groveling that would be required of her. “And what is that?”

  “Clear out your desk effective immediately. Patrick Stinson’s due here in a couple of hours, and what I’m going to do is whatever it takes to salvage this job.”

  Ann just stared for a moment, trying to take in what Margaret had said. “Margaret, he is lying. As I said, we talked about me going to work for him after this project, and yes, it was something I thought I wanted to do. But there turned out to be too many strings attached . . . and this morning I told him as much.”

  She leaned forward, mimicking Margaret’s body posture. “Think about it. You know that I’ve been working hard on this project, designing everything around the pieces of furniture that you ordered. I’ve been doing everything I can to keep this place, your company, solvent, including taking a pay cut.”

  Margaret hadn’t moved while Ann talked. Now she sat down and said, “It doesn’t matter what I think I know. What I know is that Patrick Stinson no longer wants to work with you, and this company will go bankrupt unless we keep his business. So you will receive two weeks’ compensation as per your contract, but that’s the best I can do for you.”

  Ann stood. “I could take this to a lawyer and have a case filed by this afternoon on the grounds of sexual harassment.” She took a breath, trying to pull a new strategy out of the shambles of her mind. She needed to take the offensive. “And that’s exactly what I plan to do. Of course, I’ll have no choice but to name the Marston Company as accessory.”

  “I’d think long and hard about that if I were you.” Margaret leaned back against her chair, her left eyebrow cocked. “I’m sure Patrick Stinson has a team of lawyers who could drag that out for years. In the meanwhile, no one’s going to want to hire you because you’ll have a reputation as a troublemaker.”

  Ann knew there could be more than a little truth in what Margaret was saying, but at this point she was too mad to care. “I guess that’s a chance I’ll have to take. Are you willing to take that chance, Margaret?”

  “A lawsuit would definitely put financial stress on this company. Of course, if that happened”—she dragged a lacquered nail across the portfolio on her desk—“we would have to go ahead with our plans for layoffs. I think you know who would be the first to lose her job in that situation.” She paused long enough for the words to firmly hit their mark. “That’s not what you want, is it?”

  Ann thought of Beka and Gracie, of what they’d already been through and how much worse things could get. She couldn’t do that to them. She shook her head. “No.” She walked toward the door and stopped before opening it. “I hope you know what you’re getting into.”

  “Good luck, Ann.” The flatness in her voice made Ann doubt very much whether Margaret cared what kind of luck she had.

  Ann returned to her apartment, grabbed a pillow, then screamed into it for about five minutes.

  How could he do this? Taking away his job offer was one thing, but to deliberately get her fired—now that was something altogether different.

  What kind of person would do something like that? What kind of mean, nasty, evil person?

  The answer was obvious: the kind of person who would get what he wanted at all costs. A person like Patrick Stinson.

  The only question that remained now was, what should she do about it?

  She threw the pillow back onto the bed, opened her bedside drawer, and grabbed pen and paper. It was time to make another plan.

  The sensible thing right now would be to get a résumé in order, send it out to as many places as possible, and then get down to Charleston and get the house sold as quickly as possible. It would be hard to get a job in today’s market, but if she sold the house, that would give her enough money to keep her solvent for at least a year. And it should give her time to get back on her feet.

  The less sensible part of her wanted to return to Charleston and stay for a while. Take some time to revisit her past, hang out with Tammy, Keith, and Ethan. Do some thinking about what was important to her. This wasn’t an option, though. She’d sent Ethan packing, and he’d clearly said that he didn’t want to be around her. She couldn’t afford it anyway. Besides, now was the time to make a clean break from everything in her past that would hold her back.

  She flipped open her laptop and began the search for plane tickets. Ouch—$635 if she left tomorrow. If she waited until next week, that number dropped to $350. Okay, she’d wait a week. At this point, she needed to save as much money as possible. This would give her a week to get the résumés in the mail—something she’d better start working on right now. Her portfolio would be an asset, she knew that, but first she had to make the résumé strong enough to get her invited to an interview.

  Somewhere during her third draft, she was interrupted by a pounding on the door. She opened it and found Beka, her eyes tinged red. “Tell me what happened.”

  Ann opened the door to let her friend inside. “First, tell me what you heard.”

  “When we came in this morning, Margaret told us that you had resigned effective immediately. I know better than that, Ann. There’s no way you quit like that, especially without even telling me you were thinking about it. What really happened?”

  Ann sat down on a white bar stool and motioned for Beka to do the same. “Did she tell you anything else?”

  “No. She’s been in a meeting with Patrick Stinson all morning and not allowing interruptions.”

  “Well, Patrick Stinson . . .” Ann thought better of what she was about to say. If she told Beka everything—well, there was just no reason to do that. “I missed several meetings with Patrick Stinson because of all the time I’ve been spending in Charleston, and to be honest, my heart just wasn’t in the work. It was decided that, under the circumstances, I would likely be happier working somewhere else.”

  “I see.” Beka folded her arms. “Am I to understand, then, that this truly was your decision?”

  “It’s the best decision for all concerned.” And one of those concerned was Beka. Ann made a show of looking at her watch. “Now you’d better get back to the office, young lady. You know how Margaret feels about long lunch hours.”

  “I would think by now you would realize that you cannot hide things from me. There is more to this story. You’re taking the fall for something, aren’t you?”

  “Your sixth sense has finally failed. I’d think by now your common sense would tell you that ‘taking the fall’ is something I don’t do.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Beka reached over and hugged her tigh
t. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m heading back to Charleston next week, and I’ll likely stay there until the house is ready to list. Meanwhile, I’m sending out résumés here and hoping for something new and exciting.”

  “I see.” Beka clearly wasn’t buying it, but she had never been one to push. She’d let it go. For now. “How about dinner tomorrow night at my place?”

  “Sure. I think I could use a little therapy right about now.”

  They both laughed as Beka walked into the hallway. “See you at seven?”

  “Sounds good.” Ann closed the door, then returned to work on her résumé.

  Somewhere during the process, she remembered a conversation she’d had with Patrick Stinson in what seemed like a lifetime ago. A conversation that just might have the answer for her.

  She fired up her laptop and began searching the listings for Meredith Radke. It didn’t take long to find Superior Staging, Meredith Radke, head designer. The contact number was listed, and a few minutes later she had Meredith Radke on the phone.

  “My name is Ann Fletcher. We talked a few weeks ago at the open house for your Stinson project.”

  “Yes, I remember.” Her voice wasn’t welcoming or harsh.

  “Well, it seems that I find myself without a job, and . . . I’m wondering if you have space for another designer.”

  “That didn’t take long, did it?”

  “No. No, it didn’t.”

  There was nothing but silence on the line for a few moments. Finally, Meredith said, “To tell you the truth, I am in need of help around here. I was hoping to diversify rather than hire another modern specialist, but why don’t you send me your résumé and then we’ll talk?”

  “I’ll put it in the mail today.”

  “I’ll be in touch.” The line went dead.

  Sometime later Ann pulled a business card out of her wallet and punched in a number. “Hi, you’ve reached Eleanor’s voice mail. Leave me a message and I’ll be in touch soon. Thanks.”

  “Hi, Eleanor, just letting you know I’ve had a change of plans. I’ll be back in Charleston next week. I’m going to spend enough time to get the place ready to go on the market. We need to talk seriously about price point, because I need to sell this place. Fast.”

  Ann folded a sleeveless white T-shirt into her suitcase, preparing for tomorrow’s flight. She still wasn’t sure what she was going to do. Meredith Radke had called her in for an interview two days ago. She’d looked through her portfolio, making polite comments, but she hadn’t called back.

  As Ann zipped her suitcase closed, the phone rang, and before Ann answered, she saw the caller ID: Superior Staging. Ann pressed the talk button, prepared for the worst. “Hello.”

  “Hello, Ann, it’s Meredith Radke calling.”

  Ann held her breath. “Hello, Meredith.”

  “As I promised I would, I checked your references.” She didn’t continue.

  Ann knew what was coming, it was best to get it over and done. “And?”

  “Your former employer wasn’t overly complimentary, but then again, given what little I know of the situation, I didn’t expect her to be.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  Meredith laughed. “I then called several of your clients, and they couldn’t say enough good things about you. In fact, they all say they would use Superior for their next staging project if you worked here.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “Yes, it is.” She paused. “I wouldn’t be able to pay what you were making before.”

  “I know. I’m willing to take less.” All she needed to do was sell the house and she could make it.

  “All right. I know you’re about to leave town. When can I expect you to start?”

  “Two weeks?”

  “I look forward to it.”

  “So do I.” Ann hung up the phone and danced around the room. “Yes.” Finally, something in her life was working right.

  After a light dinner, Ann sat on her balcony and wondered about all of the things that had happened since Sarah’s death—the music; the blinking light; Ethan, Tammy, and Keith; the car that wouldn’t start; the plane that was delayed. All of it. She stood up and leaned over the rail to do a little people-watching, one of her favorite pastimes in New York City. Tonight, though, she envied the people walking past—couples holding hands, a woman walking her dog—who were leading normal, happy, sane lives.

  She looked farther to her right and watched a family make their way across the street. The father held an obviously sleeping toddler on his shoulder. The mother held the hand of an elementary-school aged girl in a dress and tights. A big night at the theater, perhaps?

  When she turned her attention below her, she saw the stooped back of someone digging through the trash. That’s when she knew what she needed to do. The homeless man who had whistled the angel tune, maybe he could tell her something that would clear things up—or at least prove to her, once and for all, how ridiculous her imaginings had been.

  Before she even stopped to think about it, she grabbed a paper lunch bag, stuffed it full of peanut butter and granola bars, then flew out the door. Thankfully, the elevator was on her floor, and in less than a minute she found herself on the street, on the other side of the trash can from the homeless man. “Please, do you mind if I ask you something?”

  “Ask me?” The man looked up from his task. He was African-American, probably sixty, with long gray dreadlocks. “Ask me what?”

  “Oh, sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

  “I’ll bet. What you got in the bag? You got some booze?”

  Ann looked down at it. “Oh no. It’s food. You want it?” She held it out.

  The man eyed it warily for a moment, then snatched it from her hand. “Who you looking for?” He was already ripping the wrapper off of a granola bar as he asked the question.

  “I don’t know. I think his name might be Uri. That’s what another homeless woman called him. He’s a man who comes around here sometimes. I thought that maybe . . . well, I don’t know what I thought.” Ann turned to go back inside.

  “Wait a second. You helped me. I’ll see if I can do the same for you.” The man had an affable demeanor that made Ann wonder how long he’d been homeless. “What you want to know from this man?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s just crazy.”

  “Crazy’s something I do pretty well. Give it a shot.” He tossed the remainder of the granola bar into his mouth.

  Maybe because he was so nonchalant, or maybe because she thought she’d lose her mind if she didn’t tell someone, Ann started talking. “He whistles a tune that I’ve heard a couple of times before, okay? And, I don’t know, maybe there are angels around sometimes when I hear it. I just wanted to know what he knew about it.”

  He ripped open the second granola bar. “That’s an easy one to figure out. Maybe he is one.” He took a huge bite, but sort of grinned at her as he chewed.

  “One what?”

  “An angel.”

  Obviously this had been a waste of time. Once again, Ann didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but this was definitely not it. “I hardly think an angel would walk around like a homeless person in the middle of New York.”

  “Girl . . .” He slapped his thigh and laughed. “It’s obvious you haven’t been hanging ’round the right places. Haven’t you never read the Bible?”

  Ann shrugged. “A little. I’ve never read anything about angels being homeless.”

  “‘Don’t forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it.’ It’s from the Bible. Maybe your friend’s an angel too. I hope you were nice to him.”

  “What?”

  Again the man slapped his thigh. “Just messing with you, girl. A friend of mine taught me that verse nearly ten years ago. It’s one of my favorite angles to play when I’m asking for handouts near a church. Reciting it at the right time, well . . . it can be real goo
d for business.” He smiled and nodded his head. “Yep, real good. This tune, what’s it sound like? I haven’t heard that one before; maybe I’ll use it next time and see if it helps.”

  “Oh, never mind.” Ann walked over to a bench and dropped onto it, covering her face with her hands. “You’re right—none of that’s real.”

  The man groaned as he came to sit beside her. “Didn’t say that exactly. Who knows? When you hear this music, something good happens? Maybe it’s real.”

  “No, usually I hear it when something bad happens. Like my sister dying, or letters I wish I’d never found buried in walls, or my car not starting.”

  “Car not starting, huh? Didn’t sound much like angel work to me neither.” The lid of the peanut butter made a swishing sound as he unscrewed it. “Real nice of you to put a plastic spoon in here for this. Most people don’t think of little things like that.”

  “You can thank one of your homeless sisters for that.” Ann stared at the dirt between the joints of the sidewalk at her feet. She wondered how many feet had walked over this place just today. How many of those people felt as lost and alone as she did?

  “Mmm. This is real tasty.” The man made a smacking sound. “When your car didn’t start, maybe it kept you from a wreck or something. Or from going somewhere you had no business going.”

  Ann thought about her meeting with Patrick Stinson. She looked up at the man, his left cheek now smeared with peanut butter. “It sort of did keep me away from something. Of course, when it got started again, I still had to face it.”

  “You do something different than you would’ve if your car had started the first time?”

  What would she have done? Sent Patrick Stinson packing like the philanderer he was, or gone along with him and landed the career of her dreams? “Probably.”

  “There you go. Maybe them angels was just giving you a little more time to reach the right decision. They didn’t make it for you. They just kind of gave you a little more time to think about it so you could figure it out for yourself.”