It Takes Two

by Judith Arnold

  Chapter Two

  WTF?

  One minute he’d been stacking glasses on a shelf, and the next minute he’d felt swept into a vortex, sucked into a black hole. Going down, lost.

  The song wasn’t something you’d get lost in. It was loud and brassy, a man and a woman singing back and forth, serenading each other about how two people together can accomplish more than one alone. Light and romantic and orchestrated with strings and horns, it was a cute dance song, nothing more.

  Yet while it played, he’d been unable to do anything but gape at that woman in the corner.

  He had no idea who she was. His mother had brought her a glass of wine ten minutes ago, and it looked as if she’d taken only a few sips; the glass was still pretty full. Did she live in town? Was she a regular at the tavern? If she was, he saw no indication that she and his mother recognized each other. She was all alone, and dressed too formally for the joint, as if maybe she’d simply stopped in for a quick drink on her way to dinner at the Ocean Bluff Inn.

  She was attractive, if you liked that sort of formal look: long hair held neatly back from her face by a pair of clips, a light touch of make-up, posture so straight she could balance books on her head. Simple gold beads adorned her ears. Her suit was charcoal gray and conservative. The only daring thing about her appearance was her blouse, the top two buttons of which were undone, exposing her graceful neck.

  Ordinarily, Will wouldn’t look twice at a woman like her. All right, maybe he’d look twice, but not three times. Not a full three minutes, as that cheerful tune blasted from the jukebox. She wasn’t his type. In fact, she reminded him of the bankers and venture-capital executives he’d had to kiss up to over the past few years—other than the fact that they’d nearly all been male.

  Even after the song ended and a new tune took its place—“Mr. Tambourine Man,” the Dylan classic sung by the Byrds, about as different from “It Takes Two” as a song could be—Will had trouble looking away from her. Her cheeks darkened slightly and she jerked her head down, studying her sleek tablet as if its screen was displaying a great work of art, or perhaps the meaning of life. She lifted her wine glass, but her hand trembled slightly and she lowered the glass without drinking.

  How could he see that faint tremor in her fingers from all the way across the room? Had his eyesight suddenly developed super powers?

  “You okay, Will?” his mother’s voice broke through his stupor.

  “Huh? Yeah. Sure.” He dragged his attention away from the woman and busied himself running a cloth over the bar, wiping up non-existent spills. He had to do something. He couldn’t just gawk at that woman.

  Who was not his type, he reminded himself.

  He felt his mother’s eyes on him for a long moment, assessing him. She’d always been able to see right through him, knowing when he’d done something wrong, when he’d gotten in trouble at school or broken one of his brother’s toys, or even just when life was dumping on him. She’d also been skilled at keeping her mouth shut, refusing to probe, waiting until he was ready to open up to her. That was the kind of appraisal she was giving him now, as if she sensed something was wrong but wasn’t going to ask him.

  Yet he had no idea if anything was wrong. He just felt…odd. Uneasy. A little bit out of control. Inexplicably drawn to the wine drinker who wasn’t his type.

  “You should probably get something to eat before the meeting,” his mother said. “Go grab some food in the kitchen. I can manage out here. One of the waitresses should be showing up any minute.”

  “Okay.” The kitchen seemed safer than the tavern room, where that woman was still sitting, staring glassy-eyed at her tablet.

  Tossing aside the cloth he’d been using to wipe the bar, he strode past his mother and through the swinging door into the kitchen. It was much more brightly lit than the tavern; no need for atmosphere and ambience here. Two Industrial dishwashers filled one wall, and two equally large ovens filled another. Fluorescent fixtures above and a linoleum floor below gave the space a chilly, sterile feel.

  Manny slid a stainless-steel tray of barbecued wings out of one of the ovens and smiled at Will. “What happened to you?” he asked.

  “My mother told me to eat something,” Will said, realizing as soon as the words were out how stupid they sounded.

  “Mothers do that.” Manny pulled a plate down from a shelf and handed it to Will. “Help yourself.” He emptied the tray of wings onto a platter and carried the tray to the sink, setting it down with a loud clatter. “I’ve got to go downstairs and get that vodka.” He hesitated near the door to the storage room in the basement, studying Will, frowning. “The jukebox got you, didn’t it.”

  “Got me how?”

  “You know the legend about it, don’t you?”

  “That it’s magical?” He’d heard silly stories about that, not from his mother but from friends in town. He’d asked her about it once or twice and she’d always answered vaguely, claiming some people believed the jukebox had supernatural powers and some didn’t.

  Will was a science guy. A techie. He believed in the things he could see, the things he could grasp mentally, the things he could translate into code. Magic belonged in fantasy movies with special effects, and in stage shows featuring top hats and rabbits and pick-a-card-any-card playing decks. Magic meant someone was pulling a trick on someone else.

  That old jukebox couldn’t pull a trick on Will.

  It was a pretty jukebox, sure. It played oldies, and he liked oldies well enough. But…the thing was an antique. A relic from the past. Will was a forward-thinking guy, a man who believed in the future, not the past.

  Definitely not a man who believed in magic.

  ***

  A half-hour later, Brianna still hadn’t finished her glass of wine. Which was probably for the best. She needed to be on her toes this evening, clear-minded, ready to rumble. She’d arrived in Brogan’s Point early, too nervous to eat but hoping for a little liquid courage. A single glass of Chardonnay would have provided just the right amount.

  But then that song had come on the jukebox.

  It was an odd, lovely jukebox, resembling a prop from an old movie. The veneer was polished wood, the stained-glass peacocks decorating the front were vibrantly colored, and she’d assumed it was just a decorative piece when she’d settled at the table next to it and ordered her wine. She hadn’t expected anyone to slip money into its slot. That exuberant gang of men on the opposite side of the room had clearly enjoyed the first song that blasted through the speaker after one of them had, in fact, inserted a coin into the machine. But the second song…

  Why had it clouded her mind so much more than the wine had?

  And why had that bartender gazed at her with such magnetic force?

  He was fine looking, no doubt about that. But she couldn’t afford to waste a single ounce of gray matter on him. She had to be on her mark tonight, on her toes. She had to win. Too much was at stake.

  She checked her watch. The bartender had vanished into a back room somewhere, and the rambunctious men were feeding more coins into the jukebox, cheering and singing along with whatever songs the machine played.

  The meeting was scheduled to begin in twenty minutes. She supposed she might as well head over to the Brogan Point Town Hall now, to get settled, review her notes, and take a few deep breaths. The wine had been tasty, but she’d probably be better off if she didn’t drink any more of it.

  She tucked a ten-dollar bill under the glass, shut off her computer, and stuffed it into her tote. Without glancing toward the bar to see if the good-looking bartender had returned, she hurried out of the tavern.

  The early spring evening was chilly, but she’d left her coat in her car—“where it’s doing a fine job keeping the car seat warm,” she could imagine her mother saying. Brianna had grown up in Massachusetts, and anyone who grew up in Massachusetts believed they didn’t need coats, even though their mothers were always nagging them
to bundle up before they went outdoors. Brianna’s coat had kept a lot of car seats warm over the years.

  The drive to the Brogan’s Point Town Hall building took less than ten minutes. She parked in the lot behind the building—that lot would have to be reconfigured if North Shore Design won the contract—and took a few deep breaths. Then she popped a breath mint, used the mirror in her car’s sun visor to check her hair and lipstick, and squared her shoulders. Given how little liquid courage she’d consumed, she would have to rely on the courage she carried with her all the time. Backbone. Gut. Heart.

  She could do this.

  Even if she had to defeat Rollie to do it. Especially if she had to defeat Rollie.

  Leaving her coat in the car yet again, she circled the building and climbed the majestic stairway to the pillars flanking its front door. It was a classic Georgian Revival building, the white of the pillars contrasting with the aged red brick of its walls. The symmetrical roof formed a neat triangle atop the building, and the front double-doors were massive. She had no trouble picturing colonial revolutionaries entering the building and plotting how they were going to drive the British out of Brogan’s Point.

  The building wasn’t that old—it dated back to the early twentieth century—but it had been designed to resemble the colonial-era buildings that filled Boston. It was truly a beautiful structure. Brianna couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to tear it down and replace it with a sprawling modern steel-and-glass monstrosity.

  Modern buildings had their place. But in her opinion, their place wasn’t the Brogan’s Point town green.

  Although huge, the front door opened easily and she stepped inside. The Town Hall’s interior wasn’t anywhere near as charming as its exterior. It was strictly utilitarian—straight hallways painted beige, wooden doors with transoms above them and simple placards designating various town departments fastened to them. The lighting was fluorescent, the floors covered with rugged gray carpeting as tough as Astroturf. North Shore Design could work wonders with the building’s interior while preserving its classic exterior, at least in front.

  She’d make her case. She’d give it her best. Courage, she whispered to herself.

  The jukebox song that had captivated her filtered through her head as she strolled down the corridor to the meeting room. One could have a dream, the song had said, but two could make the dream come true. Something like that.

  She was only one, but North Shore Design comprised both her and Michael, and they’d both worked on this design. It had taken two of them to create their proposal. And it was a good proposal, an excellent proposal. It was one of only two finalists.

  Courage, she whispered. You can do this.

  As the song lilted through her mind, however, she couldn’t picture Michael, peering over her shoulder as she sat at her drafting table. She couldn’t hear his voice, making suggestions, pointing out features of the design that he particularly admired. She could think of only that bartender in the Faulk Street Tavern, who had somehow shared the song with her from across the long room.

  Her dream was to win the Town Hall contract. She could imagine no way a tavern bartender could make her dream come true.

  She had spent a fair amount of time in this building, researching what it had, what it lacked, and how best to renovate it. She knew her way around it pretty well. Specifically, she knew where the restroom nearest the meeting room was. Ducking inside, she used the facilities, inspected her reflection in a mirror much bigger than the one in her car’s visor, and popped another breath mint. Then she strolled across the corridor and entered the meeting room.

  For big town meetings, Brogan’s Point made use of the high school theater, which could seat almost a thousand people. Unlike that theater, this room had a level floor and movable chairs which could hold perhaps fifty people. To her surprise, nearly every chair was taken.

  A small platform at the front of the room held a rectangular table occupied by the five members of the town’s Board of Selectmen, two of whom were in fact selectwomen. Beside them sat the town manager, a square-faced woman whose lips shaped a grim line and whose chic dark hair appeared to have been styled with a machete, all edges and angles. A rostrum stood across from their table, and a screen had been lowered from the ceiling to enable PowerPoint presentations. Beside the rostrum were two wooden armchairs. Rollie was seated in one.

  He rose to his feet as soon as he spotted Brianna. Dressed in a suit but lacking a necktie, his wavy hair neatly combed and his smile beaming brighter than an LED bulb, he watched her as she approached the front of the room.

  She would behave civilly toward him. Courtesy came naturally to her. But her smile was a lot chillier than his.

  The selectmen and selectwomen hadn’t yet taken their seats. They hovered by their table, chatting and laughing among themselves. Most of the town residents filling the chairs set in rows through the room chatted, too, the air resonating with a din of cheerful voices. When Brianna reached the front of the meeting room, the selectmen and selectwomen greeted her with introductions and handshakes.

  Finally, lacking an excuse to avoid him and the armchair waiting for her, she drew in a deep breath and approached Rollie.

  “Brianna!” he said, startling her with a friendly kiss. She did her best not to recoil. “How are you? You look terrific.”

  “Thank you.” You look like the bastard who nearly wrecked my life, she thought.

  “I take it you’ve been doing well since you left?”

  “Yes.” Since I left? You mean, since you pushed me out.

  “Such a coincidence that we’re both going after this project. Who would have thought you and I would end up the finalists?”

  Not really a coincidence. They’d worked on similar projects when Brianna had been with Cahill and Associates, so it figured they would both submit proposals for this project. Brianna had worked under Rollie at Cahill, and she’d learned a great deal from him—like how to reimagine the design of a public structure, and how to submit a brilliant proposal. She ought to be grateful to him.

  She was grateful to him. She’d been fresh out of architecture school when she’d been hired by Cahill and Associates, and he’d mentored her. He’d helped her to transition from student to professional. She’d admired him, practically revered him. And fallen in love with him.

  Big mistake.

  The board’s chair, a petite, slate-haired woman wearing a bright red cardigan and horn-rimmed eyeglasses, gaveled the meeting to order. “Let’s start with the Pledge of Allegiance,” she announced, which drew all the attendees to their feet. They faced the American flag hanging from a polished brass and wood pole behind Brianna’s and Rollie’s chairs, placed their hands on their hearts, and recited the pledge. Then everyone resumed their seats. As she settled into her chair, Brianna caught a glimpse of Rollie’s sharply chiseled profile, his angular jaw and arrogant gaze. Her abdominal muscles tensed and she looked away.

  The town residents filling the room were a blur of faces—except for one. What was the bartender from the Faulk Street Tavern doing here?

  Well, obviously, he lived in Brogan’s Point. Like everyone else in attendance, he wanted to hear about the final proposals for the community’s Town Hall. He wanted to know what they would look like, how long they would take to build, and—perhaps most important to a taxpayer—how much they would cost.

  That was one thing Brianna had going for her proposal: it would cost a lot less than Rollie’s.

  The woman in the eyeglasses banged her gavel again. “Thank you for attending this special town meeting,” she said, leaning toward the microphone that stood at an angle at the center of the table. “As I’m sure most of you know, our Town Hall is no longer up to snuff. We’ve postponed addressing the problem for several years, given the expense, but we really can’t put it off any longer. There are legal as well as practical issues at stake. Parts of this building are inaccessible to people with mobility challenges, whic
h means we’re in breach of the Americans with Disability Act guidelines. We’re cramped for space. The building isn’t well insulated. It’s energy-inefficient. The roof leaks during downpours. The town has grown significantly in the past century, and this Town Hall, much as we love it, hasn’t kept up.

  “We received seven proposals for replacement or renovation, all of which were on display at the town library. We listened to suggestions and recommendations, conferred with the town engineer and other agencies, and narrowed our choices down to two proposals, one for an entirely new facility and one for a renovation of this facility. We’ve asked the architects of these two proposals to come and explain their designs to the town. They will both make presentations and take questions. Those of you watching on local-access TV at home—” the woman gestured toward a video-camera on a tripod next to the PowerPoint projector “—can text in your questions.

  “We’re very grateful that both Roland Davenport of the Cahill and Associates architecture firm and Brianna Crawford of North Shore Design have traveled here this evening to share their ideas with us. Mr. Davenport, why don’t you start us off?”

  Rollie stood, adjusted his jacket, and turned his megawatt smile toward the audience. He crossed to the projector, inserted a flash drive into the computer, and then glided to the rostrum, as cool and calm as a movie star accustomed to the spotlight.

  “Thank you so much for your consideration,” he began, his smile never faltering. “I’m delighted that Brogan’s Point is looking toward the future. This is a beautiful and dynamic town, and it deserves a beautiful and dynamic Town Hall.” His first slide appeared—a drawing of swooping, soaring building of glass and steel. Brianna was familiar with Rollie’s style, and she’d known what to expect. Even so, she was stunned by the daring of his vision.

  “Citizens entering this building would find themselves in a sun-filled atrium—”

  Unless it’s raining or snowing, Brianna silently argued.