“And you said . . .” Amanda prompted.
“Nothing.”
“If you decide to do it again, do you think you can succeed?”
“Yes. Before, we just . . . stopped. I know it sounds stupid now, but at the time, it seemed like the only option.”
“You couldn’t see the forest for the Gumps,” said Harris.
Beth and Amanda groaned. “Next time we come here, we’re not telling you,” Amanda said.
“Such a pretty face,” Harris said. “Such a black heart.”
“You want to know what I think?” Amanda asked.
“Don’t I always?” Beth downed the rest of her gin.
“I think you’ve both learned a ton and you get it now. Getting divorced and coming back together has made both of you realize how good you had it, and if you get married again, you’ll put your marriage first.”
Harris said, “Your first marriage was like a test drive—a very long test drive where you accidentally drove off a cliff. But now you’re ready to buy. Not the same exact car, because it’s at the bottom of a canyon with Thelma and Louise. But you know what I mean.”
Amanda said, “So give it some time and see what you think. You’ll know.”
Her friend was right. As annoying and frustrating as it would be to wait and see, it made complete sense. Anyway, she had plenty to do. She had Brooke to ride under Amanda’s tutelage, at least for a couple more weeks. She had to take advantage of being in Aspen with her best friend. She had to work on selling her shirt business. And most of all, she had to start learning about running a horse rescue. Her dream was closer than ever now that she had the land. The only thing that matters; the only thing that lasts. She and her procrastinating literary doppelganger, Ms. O’Hara, had something else in common, only Beth’s Tara was in Ptarmigan.
Finn missed Bethany.
He should have been thrilled to have a huge opportunity dropped at his door. He got jazzed when his education, experience, and talent were tested. He felt a rush when meeting with a potential client and convincing them he was the only man for the job. It reminded him of when his high school football team went to state, when he had a single focus and played his heart out. It was pure and simple. Not easy, but simple.
And yet, every day, despite preparing for his meeting with Mitchell Frederick, he hoped to hear from her.
He hoped he’d hear from her personally when the land transfer was complete, but he wasn’t sure how long it would take.
Of course, he really wanted to know if she’d marry him. He considered calling, but she’d told him she needed time and he didn’t want to push. If he played his cards right, the planets aligned, and the romance gods were feeling frisky, they’d share a life again.
His big presentation to Mitchell Frederick was on Friday.
Finn was still so grateful to Bethany for giving him such valuable information about Uncle Mitch’s personality and preferences. Still, he wanted to go above and beyond for this presentation, so he made a movie. He had his part-time assistant, Connor, come to his home office and help him. He put together a presentation showing his portfolio and schemes for the house. Finn could hold his own in a presentation, and although he never thought of himself as charismatic, he thought well on his feet and could answer questions and reverse objections.
Over the next four days Finn worked twenty hours at a stretch. Connor, who had four tattoos and a pet snake, was almost as tireless. On Thursday Finn flew to Cleveland and checked into a hotel.
Friday morning, Finn put on his lucky Hugo Boss suit. He brought his laptop and extra cables. If it weren’t such a ridiculous idea, he would’ve brought a generator in case of a blackout. He arrived at Mitchell’s office thirty minutes early and sat in the waiting area. He didn’t go over his notes because he had memorized them. So he thought about Bethany and how much he needed to get this project so he’d be worthy of her.
“Mr. McNabb?” It was Val, the receptionist, a woman in her midfifties with short brown hair and a pair of reading glasses pushed on top of her head. She had been sweet when he’d arrived and had almost insisted on making coffee for him.
She led him through a dark wood door and down a carpeted hallway to a conference room. “You can set your computer up right there,” she said. “The big screen is here. Call me if you have any problems.”
Finn nodded to her. “Thank you, Val.”
She smiled again. “Good luck!”
Finn set everything up. Sat. Picked a different chair. Went back to the first chair. Tugged on his lapels. Looked at the oil painting of Mitchell Frederick at one end of the room.
Mitchell Frederick himself appeared in the doorway. Mitchell didn’t seem to recognize Finn, but he’d hardly seen him while he had been Bethany’s husband. Uncle Mitchell had an army-issue gray crew cut topping a round, florid face punctuated by a knobby nose that belonged to a 1940s character actor. He was several inches shorter than Finn, several pounds heavier, and wore a dark pinstriped suit and tie.
Finn got up and limped to him.
“Hullo there, I’m Mitch!” The man was loud. And he didn’t so much shake Finn’s hand as pump his entire arm.
“Good morning, Mr. Frederick.”
“No ceremony here. Call me Mitch. And any friend of Beth’s is a friend of mine. She’s a glorious gal, isn’t she?”
“Good morning, Mitch and, yes, she certainly is.”
Mitch dropped his gaze. “What in the Sam Hill d’you do to your leg?”
“A bunch of guys fooling around playing football.”
“You don’t say. I was All-American fullback. Notre Dame, class of sixty-eight.”
“Wow,” Finn said, impressed. “Ara Parseghian. What was it like to play for a legend?”
Mitch’s face lit up the way Bethany’s did when she saw bacon. Finn gave himself a mental high-five.
Mitch said, “He was tough, he was fair, and we all woulda crawled through fire for him. You play ball?”
“High school, in Cincinnati. We went to state. I wasn’t fast enough to play college ball.”
Mitch laughed, which was a wheezy, full-blown affair. “Doesn’t matter. You know what it’s like to be a team player and I need a team. And I like new ideas, especially from young people like yourself. Let’s see whatcha got.”
Mitchell leaned back in his chair.
“I’d like to start by thanking you for this opportunity. I’ve been studying your requirements and specifications, and I have the experience, expertise, and talent to deliver the house of your dreams. I started my own firm so I could take on only the projects I’m passionate about and personally oversee each one. I got licensed in Colorado and moved there so I could specialize in designing structures that would work well in the harsh mountain environment, as well as being functional and beautiful. If you decide to go with FTM Design, you have my word that this house will be the only project I’ll take until it’s built to your satisfaction. I’ll be at your beck and call. And that’s not because you’re Bethany’s honorary uncle. That’s just how I do business.”
“You always talk like a commercial?”
Finn couldn’t stop his smile. He liked Uncle Mitch. “Sorry. You got me.”
Mitch grinned. “What’d you call Beth? Bethany? Ha! Never heard anyone call her that except her grandmother.”
“Yeah. I’ve just always called her that.” Finn needed to get back on track. “So, Mitch, I put together a video to show you my portfolio and then I’ll go over some schemes, or options, for your new home. If you’ll indulge me . . .”
Finn moved to his laptop and typed. He moved the cursor around and clicked. Typed some more. Moused. Typed. Clicked.
Nothing was happening.
He closed and opened the presentation and . . .
Yes! The FTM Design logo appeared on the screen. It was on the big screen as well. Okay. Good. He
clicked to start the video.
Music filled the room. Finn watched the video while surreptitiously watching Uncle Mitch. Was the big man entranced? Hard to tell. Yes, McNabb, it’s too much to ask to hope he weeps.
The portfolio section of the video began and Finn used the remote to pace through the plans, blueprints, renderings, photos, and descriptions. He commented on each, tailoring his explanations to Uncle Mitch.
Then came the schemes. Finn took a deep breath and plunged in. This is what he loved. This is why he’d become an architect—to literally provide shelter, a basic need of the human race. It was also an artistic expression, but functionality and livability were key. He talked about the rooms and why they were the way they were, how roomy or cozy they would be, how welcoming the space would be, and how Finn would alter the design to adapt to the land Mitchell bought.
“As you can see, this is an old-fashioned rec room, where a good poker game might crop up,” Finn said, knowing Uncle Mitch was a card player. “As you can also see, there’s access to the exterior from this room—in case you don’t want cigar smoke in the house.”
“I see you’ve already talked to my wife!”
Good. Finn had pegged Uncle Mitch correctly, based on what Bethany had told him. He played it folksy as he took Uncle Mitch through each scheme. He’d always been amazed at architects who talked over their clients’ heads or alienated them with too much jargon. Finn could read people pretty well—which was how he’d known Bethany’s father disliked him from the outset—and it helped in presentations.
When he finished, Finn made it clear that he could change the design depending on the site, and how he’d make sure it complemented the environment.
Mitch asked questions and Finn answered. Then they talked money. Finn outlined the scope and estimated cost of each scheme. He tried to gauge Mitch’s reaction, but the man had a Texas Hold ’em half smile firmly in place. Finn answered all of Mitch’s questions confidently, but with just enough good ol’ boy attitude to convince Mitch he was trustworthy.
“I tell you what,” Mitch said. “Those were some houses you built. Nice job . . . what was your name?”
“Finn.”
“Finn, right. Beth knew what she was talking about when she sent you my way.” The man stood. “I’ll make a decision in the next coupla weeks. Impressive presentation.”
“Thank you, sir,” Finn said.
Mitchell Frederick shook Finn’s hand in his Manwich way and left.
Finn disconnected cables from his laptop. A closed-lipped smile spread across his face. He had been neck deep in the zone. If he didn’t get the project, it wasn’t due to a lackluster presentation. For the first time since it had happened, he didn’t feel hindered by his broken leg.
He passed through the reception area on his crutches, laptop in his backpack.
“Good-bye, Val. Thank you.”
“Good-bye, Mr. McNabb.” She beamed at him.
Two men and two women—all impeccably dressed—sat with laptops, hip briefcases, and a large aluminum case. His competition. He nodded to them as he made his way to the door. One of the men got up to open it for him.
“Thanks,” Finn said.
May the best architect win. And may it be me.
Beth had resisted doing a drive-by for one entire week. She had also resisted calling, texting, emailing, writing a letter to, or stalking Finn, or selling Amway so she’d have an excuse to visit. Unfortunately, she hadn’t resisted thinking about him early and often.
But now that the week was up and she was leaving Aspen soon, she succumbed to a Monday afternoon drive-by.
Like a teenager, she chided herself. With Mingo for company, she wound her way up the switchbacks to his compact mountain house. If he looked out, there was no way he’d miss her truck. There were pine trees, but the road was narrow and ran right in front of his house.
She couldn’t see his car, but there was a garage. She couldn’t tell if he was home. Stopping right in front, she could see why he couldn’t return here after his break. She knew there were a lot of stairs rising from the road to the house, but she didn’t realize how treacherous they were. There was no way he’d have been able to negotiate the steep slope when his leg was first broken without breaking his neck. Frankly, she wondered how he did it now, even with the lighter brace and weeks of practice.
“Whaddya think, Ming? Should I talk to him? Or let sleeping dogs lie, take the land, and run? I figured you’re an expert on sleeping dogs.” She scratched his velvety chin and he groaned. He was no help.
“Frederick Associates” showed in the window on Finn’s cell phone on Wednesday morning as he was shaving. He was just out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist. He wiped shaving cream off his face, cleared his throat, and answered.
“Finn McNabb.”
It was Mitchell himself. The “how are you” portion of the call was brief, and Finn was grateful. He wanted to know—yes or no?
“I’ll get to the point,” Mitchell said. “I’m sorry, son, but I’m going with another firm. You had some great ideas, but I’m just not convinced you have the resources to build the house I want the way I want it. I went with a bigger outfit.”
A bigger outfit? That could be almost any other architect in Colorado.
Finn felt his heart beat faster as adrenaline surged in his blood. His fight-or-flight response kicked in, and his go-to was always “fight.” He needed this project. He was the best architect for it; he knew that. He knew what other firms in the entire state could do—and nobody would be as good a fit.
“Sir, what are your specific concerns? I’d like to address them.”
“You’re just one person. I need a team. I told you how I want a team. I want things to go as quickly as possible, and I just can’t figure how you’ll do better than the other firm.”
“Mitch. If I could have a moment of your time. At your convenience. Today? How about lunch or dinner?”
“I appreciate your eagerness, son. You remind me of me at your age. But my mind’s made up.”
And that was that. Finn ended the call, then pounded the counter of the bathroom sink with his fist. There has to be a way.
He thought of Bethany, but he wasn’t going to use her. He had to do this on his own. Think, McNabb!
17
Four hours later, at eleven o’clock mountain daylight time, Finn was flying to Cleveland. If he didn’t make every effort to get this project, he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself. And instead of staying angry and giving in to his urge to destroy something, he channeled his emotion into positive action.
The plane landed, and Finn took a cab from the Cleveland Hopkins International Airport straight to Frederick Associates’ offices. He felt he had been there five hours ago instead of five days ago.
Val the receptionist was there, smiling. He smiled back, grateful that women found him appealing, because he needed it now. After some charming banter, he said, “Val, I have a problem, and I wondered if you could help me.”
He was so not comfortable with this, but he forged ahead.
“Yes?” Val looked up at him with big blue eyes.
“I have some news about Bethany—Beth—Fanelli. I’m afraid it has to be delivered in person. Is he in?”
“Oh dear. I’m afraid he’s not. He left early for dinner.”
“He’s gone for the night?”
“I’m afraid so, yes.”
“Is there any way you could find out where he went? It’s . . . important.”
Val regarded him. “Is Beth okay?”
“Yes. But it’s still important.” And it was. And it had to do with Bethany.
The restaurant on Fourth Street pulled off a sleek, yet warm decor and served bistro fare. It had tall foods and pretty sauces, which Finn didn’t think suited Mitch, but then again, maybe Mitch’s wife had chose
n it. He was thrilled to see Mitch alone at the bar with a scotch. Good. He would make his case, then leave. It would be clean and fast.
He took a deep breath and caught his reflection in a mirror near the door. He wore a white shirt and black jacket and jeans, mostly because this pair of jeans fit over his brace. It all looked okay. He yanked on his lapels and went in.
“Mitch, excuse me for interrupting.”
“McNabb? What the hell are you doing here?” Mitch absentmindedly shook Finn’s extended hand.
“Sir, I got on a plane as soon as we got off the phone. I think you’re making a mistake. This isn’t hubris; it was my fault for not conveying the facts more accurately.” He gestured to his leg, the first time he’d played the sympathy card, but he was pulling out all the stops. “Mind if I sit?”
“Go on,” Mitch said, and nodded to the barstool next to him.
“I understand that any other firm will have a bigger staff. However, all that means is they have more overhead, more people to pay, more approvals that will take longer, and all that trickles down to your cost. I run lean. I’ll put together a team specifically for your house. It’s like bringing in specialty teams. I also worked in construction for years. I know firsthand how to build a house with my hands.”
The bartender asked Finn if he wanted anything.
Finn asked for one of the beers on tap.
“Go on,” Mitch said again.
“I’ll give your house exactly what it needs. Nothing more for you to pay for, but nothing less, where I can’t deliver what you want.
“I’ll listen to you. You’re the coach—I’m the quarterback. I’ve worked at larger firms, and they handle so many projects, they can’t give a client the kind of attention I can. While I’m working on your house, I’m only working on your house. I don’t take on anything else. This is selfish on my part, too—for one thing, I want to establish a reputation for personalized customer service. For another, I don’t want to work twenty hours a day. I used to do that and it—” He almost mentioned Bethany, but stopped himself. “I didn’t perform at my best. And finally, I don’t want to miss anything that needs attention. I’ll be on site every day. I’ll treat it as though it’s my house.”
Jumped Page 23
