A Promise to Cherish (9 page)

“This is where our draftsmen work,” he explained unnecessarily. Lee was ever conscious of him hovering a step behind her. Occasionally the soft clink of keys told her how near he was. She looked across the pleasant, orderly expanse. Wide racks of blueprints hung neatly, like sheets on a clothesline. There were no rolled, wrinkled, or torn plans in sight. There were no chunks of dried clay on the carpet, no coffee-can cuspidors. “That’s the copy room.” Sam pointed, and Lee turned her head in time to catch the vague movement of his arm before he moved through the drafting area into a separate corner office. In the doorway he turned again to her, his stance inviting her in.

“Yours?” she asked.

He nodded.

Just inside the door she stopped, tingles of appreciation running along her arms. The room was neat and orderly, and Lee couldn’t help comparing it to Floyd Thorpe’s pigpen. A modest-sized executive desk stood to one side, a credenza under the window. There was a game table, surrounded by rich leather armchairs on ball castors, which was obviously used as a conference table. The floor was carpeted in rich chocolate, the windows treated with vertical blinds of a lighter shade. Here again, plans and blueprints hung on neat racks. A tall schefflera plant stood in the corner where east and south-facing windows met.

Lee crossed to the south window and looked out. A moment later her nostrils were again filled with Sam’s scent as he stepped behind her and pointed past the treetops. “That’s where we were.” From here she could see only the tip of the Carriage Club’s main building. “Most of the time I move in a rather confined area.”

“But a very pleasant one,” she noted, turning and laying her fingertips on the polished surface of his desk. Her eyes met his, but there was no hint of teasing in them this time. “I like it very much.”

The expression on his face told Lee it was one thing he’d wanted to hear. His fingers relaxed and the keys clinked softly.

“Would you like to see the estimating area?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

A smile broke on his face like sun over the horizon, and he led the way to another wide expanse much like that where the drafting tables were. Here the tables were flat and of desk height. The southern exposure gave the estimating area the same view as that from Sam’s office. Lee looked out, thinking again of the three years she’d worked in Floyd Thorpe’s office, wondering if she could possibly be wrong about Sam Brown’s character, knowing it was fast losing importance in light of his fantastic offer and this enticing office.

“You’re the first full-time estimator I’ve hired for the new portion of the business, so there’s no designated area for you,” Sam explained. “You’ll just work in here with the plumbing estimators, if that’s all right with you.”

“Oh . . .” She turned from the window. “That’s more than all right, as I’m sure you’re well aware. I’ve never seen a contractor’s office as plush as this. But I’m sure you’re well aware of that, too.”

“Just because you dig in dirt for a living doesn’t mean you have to live in it.”

“No, not at all. Somebody should tell that to Floyd Thorpe.”

He turned and indicated a desk across the way. “That would be yours.”

The desks were placed in herringbone relationship to one another, giving the room an even more spacious aspect. Beside the desk Sam was pointing to stood a potted orange tree that seemed to be thriving.

Lee crossed to
her
desk, pulled out
her
chair, and touched
her
orange tree. The chair rolled silently on a large slab of clear vinyl that protected the blue carpet. She sat down, and placed her palms flat on the desk top as if to test its temperature. A feeling of imminent excitement tightened her chest. My God, it was like a dream come true. She looked up at Sam, standing some distance across the room, watching every move she made.

“I think it fits.” Accepting his offer, she was filled with anticipation.

“Agreed.” He raised a hand and beckoned her over to him. “Come on, I’ll drive you back to your car. You’ll be spending enough time in that chair without staying in it now.”

She pushed the chair back beneath the desk and moved to him. This time he didn’t touch her, but before they rounded the corner she turned back, taking one last look at her desk.

 

 

B
ACK in his car she didn’t hear the music, didn’t feel the plush seat, didn’t watch his wrist on the wheel. She was too excited.

“My God, Brown, did you do all that or did your father?”

“He made it possible for me to do it. We didn’t have that office until after he died.”

She paused. “I imagine he would have loved it as much as I do.”

“He was content at the old location,” Sam said. “My mother was the one who encouraged me to move into the new building and add a touch of class to the operation. It turned out we’d made too damn much profit one year. The overhead became a healthy tax write-off after we rented this new place. Meanwhile we enjoy the surroundings.”

“You know what I want to do the first day of work?” Lee rested her head back against the luxurious seat and closed her eyes.

“What?”

She rolled her head toward Sam and opened her eyes to find him studying the curve of her arched throat. “I want to bring my sack lunch and sit by that fountain and eat at high noon.”

He laughed pleasantly, and she watched his lips change with the sound. “Whatever turns you on. There are several good restaurants in the complex—”

“Restaurants! Where’s your sense of . . . of nature!”

“I get all the nature I need during the day. I spend more than half my time at jobsites. My old man taught me that’s the only way to run a business—by keeping your eye on what’s happening instead of leaving it up to someone else. At noon I like to go where it’s cool and not dusty and let somebody serve me a decent meal on a plate.”

Lee couldn’t help wondering if he went out on the job dressed like that. His brown shoes certainly didn’t look like they’d scuffed any dust today.

Just then, the Toronado turned into the horseshoe driveway of the Carriage Club, and Lee straightened in her seat. Brown swung the car into a parking spot, and before she could protest he was out his side and heading around to open her door. She beat him to the punch and met him beside the car.

He turned and together they ambled across the lot. “When do you want to start?” he asked.

She stopped him with a hand on his sleeve. “Brown, there’s just one thing I have to ask for even before I say I’ll take the job.”

“What’s that?”

She swallowed, knowing that what she had to ask was presumptuous. “I . . . I have to have the last week of August off.” This was the last week of July—she knew it was a lot to ask. Nobody in the construction industry took time off during the busy summer season. As she stood waiting for Sam’s response, she feared, too, that he might demand the reason for her request and sought frantically for a white lie. But in the end she had no need to produce one.

“Shouldn’t be any problem,” Sam said, “but usually we take vacations during the cold months when there’s not much going on.” He began moving on, but Lee grabbed his arm.

“Oh, I didn’t mean I expect it off with pay! It’s just . . .” She grew self-conscious holding his arm and dropped her hand.

“It’s okay. As far as I can remember, there won’t be any important bids around that time, so you can plan on it as yours.”

“Thank you. In that case, back to your original question.” She braved a sheepish smile. “Would Monday be too soon to start?”

He chuckled, came back to where she trailed along behind him, and lightly pressed a palm against the small of her back. “Are you that eager to work for this . . . reprobate?” he teased.

Moving toward her car, she admitted artlessly, “I need to make the house payment next week, just like you do.” She was far too aware of the warmth of his palm through the thin knit of her top, but then it disappeared.

“I don’t make house payments. I live in the old family rattrap with my mother.”

This was the second time he’d mentioned his mother, and Lee couldn’t help but wonder. Another case of apron strings? Though she’d never have thought it of Sam Brown, she’d learned her lesson once with Joel. Furthermore, Sam wasn’t the only one who’d done some calculating after reading an address on a suitcase. The family “rattrap” of which he spoke was on exclusive Ward Parkway. She didn’t have to see the house to imagine what it must be like.

“Speaking of rattraps”—they’d reached her Pinto—“this one is mine.”

He gave it a cursory glance, then returned his attention to her. “Is there anything else you need to know about the job?”

“Nothing I can think of. Oh, what are office hours?”

“On a normal day I usually come in around seven and knock off at five.”

There seemed little more to say, and while she studied Sam Brown’s expression, it ceased to say “business” and took on the distinctly alarming look of “pleasure.”

A slow hand reached for the silver arrowhead necklace that rested against her chest, still warm from her skin, and his eyes followed. His fingers closed around it, and she thought she felt the thong tighten at the back of her neck.

Panic clawed its way up to her throat. She wanted to say “Brown, don’t!” for she thought he was going to kiss her and, since he was about to become her boss, she couldn’t let him set such a dangerous precedent. She wanted his job, but no other complications. Besides, he lived on Ward Parkway in the family “rattrap” with his mother . . . and . . . and . . . oh God, Brown, you smell so good . . . let go . . .

But she was never to know Sam Brown’s intentions, for a moment later he dropped the arrowhead against her chest and turned away before an enormous sneeze erupted from him.

Lee was laughing before the second sneeze clutched him. He tugged a hanky from his hip pocket, rubbed his nose, and stepped back three feet.

“You and your damn Renaldo la Pizzio!”

Even though she jammed her hands on her hips, Lee was still amused as she scolded, “Oh, you had yourself a regular heyday with my private belongings, didn’t you?”

“I could order you to get rid of it before you show up at the office.”

“You could, but you won’t. After all, they write exposés in Washington about orders like that.”

But even as she chuckled, her body felt weak with relief, for if he
had
tried to kiss her, she wasn’t sure how long she’d have resisted.

T
HE night before her first day of work, Lee slept in that tenuous half-conscious state she often experienced before a day promising something special—a thin, filmy kind of sleep during which the excitement somehow managed to keep her so nearly alert that the morning alarm was stifled before its bell gave out more than a ting. She lay staring at the ceiling, which was tinted pale pink by the rising sun, and said in amazement, “Forty thousand dollars a year, can you beat that?”

Then she was on her feet, eagerness in every step as she switched on the radio, showered, washed her hair, took a sinful amount of time styling it, then applied her makeup. Her head was tilted back, a mascara wand darkening her stubby lashes, when she suddenly straightened, stared at her reflection, smiled, and told the woman in the mirror, “An orange tree . . . You have an orange tree by your desk!” Then the woman in the mirror replied, “Damn fool, Walker, finish your primping or you’ll be late on your first day.”

Lee considered long and hard before deciding between a warm rose slack outfit and a white slim skirt with a matching peplumed jacket. She chose the skirt in deference to the classy office, the white in deference to her own deep coloring. It complemented her dark skin and black hair so strikingly that Lee felt thoroughly pleased with her appearance when she was all dressed. The straight skirt added to her height and the peplum added to her hips—an altogether flattering combo. After adding a single white bangle bracelet that matched white hoops in her ears, she was satisfied.

But as she smoothed the skirt one last time over her hips, she confronted her reflection in the mirror again and a worried frown formed between her eyebrows. Had she dressed so carefully to please Sam Brown? The possibility was disturbing. She dropped her eyes to the photographs of Jed and Matthew in a hinged frame on her dresser top. The familiar stab of loss cut through her momentarily, then she was removing the black combs that held her hair behind each ear, replacing them defiantly with others that trailed small, bronze feathers to the backs of her jaws.

In the office Sam Brown seemed to scarcely notice what she was wearing. The sleeves of his plaid shirt were already rolled up past the elbows, and he held a set of plans in his hand. Though he greeted Lee with a pleasant, “Good morning . . . all set to meet the gang?” it was all business with Sam Brown.

Three others were already there when Lee arrived. Sam immediately introduced her as “the first permanent employee of the sewer and water division.” Rachael Robinson, the office’s gal friday, was efficient and energetic. She wore a pale yellow dress that looked smashing against her black skin and conveyed a very
now
look.

Immediately Lee could tell Frank Schultz was Sam Brown’s right-hand man. Schultz was the head estimator of plumbing and had been working with Sam on the few sewer and water jobs they’d bid so far. A bull-headed Irishman named Duke was head superintendent of the outside crews, and under him worked several foremen who remained voices on the radio much of the time. Ron Chen was head bookkeeper, a small Chinese man with thick glasses and an ingratiating smile. His second in command was his own twenty-year-old daughter, Terri, who worked part time and attended the University of Missouri at Kansas City the rest of the week. The computer was manned by an older, portly woman named Nelda Huffman, who looked more like a cleaning lady than a payroll clerk. The pictures on Nelda’s desk proved to be of her grandchildren.