Angel Song (23 page)

“I didn’t realize you were so into music.” Ann couldn’t have cared less, but maybe if she kept talking, she could forestall the inevitable mental freak-out she knew was coming.

“I’m not really. In college, I wrote a paper about the serendipity of success, citing this piece of music as a major example.”

Ann looked around the room again, the uncomfortable sensation of being watched prickling against the back of her neck. Were angels watching her right now, or was this hallucination starting to develop into full-blown schizophrenia?
Hold it
together, don’t fall apart. Not here. Not now
. “You think success is more luck than hard work?”

“I think it’s both. Look at us, for instance. What are the odds we’d just happen to be on the same plane the day after I’d told my previous staging company that I didn’t plan to use them for the next project? Then I just happen to be close enough to see what you were sketching. And now, here we are, talking about a new business venture together. If you weren’t a hard worker,
and
if fate hadn’t intervened, then we wouldn’t be here right now.”

The food arrived and Ann managed to force down a few bites, but mostly moved the food around on her plate. She searched for some semblance of normal. “What made you decide to switch designers, if you don’t mind my asking?”

He shrugged. “They did some nice work for us, but it was just time to move on to something new and fresh.”

Ann wondered if he meant design-wise, or just a different woman. “I see.”

“Did you meet Meredith at the open house—Meredith Radke?”

“Yes, I met her.” Ann could still remember the perfection of both her designs and her beauty.

“Perhaps it was also serendipitous for her that our joint projects ended, because I understand that she has left her former company and gone out on her own now.”

Ann suspected it was less a “left the company” and more a “fired for losing the Stinson account.” “Started her own company? Really? She’s very brave to do that in these economic times.”

“True. But I’ve heard a rumor that she’s doing very well and, in fact, has landed a couple of my competitors’ accounts already. So see . . . once again, lady luck has worked her magic.”

“Yes, magic.” The restaurant grew hot and stuffy, making it difficult to take a deep breath. After the waiter cleared their plates, he brought back Ann’s leftover slices of roasted duck, wrapped in aluminum foil twisted to be shaped like a swan.

Patrick Stinson walked her outside and waited while the bellman hailed a cab. “Did you not enjoy the food? Next time I’ll have to let you pick the restaurant.”

“No, it was lovely. It’s just that after traveling all day, I’m never particularly hungry. Airplanes seem to do that to me.”

“Forgive me, I should not have insisted that we do this tonight; it’s just that I’m very excited about this project.”

“No, it was great, really. I look forward to seeing this project through to completion.” Ann extended her hand for him to shake, but instead he took it and kissed it.

“I think there are many happy projects ahead of us.”

The cab pulled up to the curb, and Ann had never been so happy to make an escape in all her life. Oddly enough, she found herself wishing the cab was taking her back to the house in Charleston, away from Patrick Stinson.

When the cab stopped in front of her building, Ann climbed out onto the sidewalk and stood for a moment. She looked to her right and saw a homeless man digging through trash cans, his hair unkempt, his jacket torn in several places. Suddenly, her feet were moving by themselves, and she found herself standing next to him. He shrank back when he noticed her approach. She tried to smile so he wouldn’t be frightened, but the fact was,
she
was frightened, so it didn’t work so well. “Hi, I’m Ann. I just went to dinner and couldn’t finish my meal. They wrapped up the leftovers for me, but I know it won’t be nearly as good tomorrow as it is tonight. Would you like this?”

He looked up at her, surprise in his eyes. His hair was long, gray, and scraggly, and he had a jagged scar across his left cheek. “I’ve seen you here lots of times, and you’ve never offered me nothing before.”

Ann shrugged. “Maybe I’ve changed.”

“Good to hear.” He reached out carefully, watching her the entire time as if he expected her to retract her offer. When he finally grasped the swan, he nodded. “Thanks.” He turned and walked slowly away, the foil making metallic sounds as it was ripped open.

“You’re welcome.” Ann went to the door of her building and was punching in the combination on the keypad when she heard whistling. The door latch clicked open, and she found herself humming along as she started inside—at least until reality set in. The tune—the one the homeless man was whistling . . . the one she was humming—it was . . .

“Hey, what’s that—?” She let go of the door and whirled around.

He was gone.

Chapter 25

Beka’s studio apartment always smelled like warm rolls and Christmas spices. Tonight was no exception, in spite of the fact that dinner had consisted of brown rice and stir-fry chicken. It was as if the teriyaki understood that its fragrance was not homey enough for the traditional décor and chose not to intrude. Ann couldn’t help but admire her friend’s ability to so completely capture her own essence in her home, down to every last tiny detail.

“Mama, I think Ann needs therapy.”

Ann was too stunned to say anything at first, but finally managed, “Huh?” She looked across the small kitchen table, her focus shifting from Gracie to Beka—who had burst out laughing.

Beka laughed for a solid minute before she put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Oh, sweetie, you’ve got to watch how you word those things.”

“Why? What’s funny about it?” Seven-year-old Gracie looked up at her mother with gigantic brown eyes. “You like to do therapy, don’t you, Mama? Wouldn’t Ann like it too?”

Beka stood, picked up her daughter, and swung her in a circle, then stopped and hugged her tightly to her chest. She looked at Ann, a mischievous smile on her face. “Now that I think about it, Ann needs some therapy worse than just about anyone I’ve ever known.”

“Great. I’ll get the stuff.” Gracie wriggled down from her mother’s embrace and skipped toward the refrigerator.

Ann folded her arms and looked at Beka. “I think I’m supposed to be offended right about now?”

Beka started giggling again, which erupted into another all-out laughing fit. Ann couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her friend like this, so lighthearted. After years of being married to an emotionally abusive hothead who finally—and mercifully as far as Ann was concerned—left her for another woman, and the past year of Gracie’s medical problems, well . . . it had been a long, hard journey for Beka.

“Here we go.” Gracie handed her mother a large silver mixing bowl covered in aluminum foil, then turned to rummage in the cabinets.

Beka removed the foil, revealing a large blob of white dough. She looked at Ann then. “Occupational therapy. She’s supposed to be keeping her fingers exercised so the arthritis doesn’t cause them to stiffen up and lose flexibility. One of the ways she can do that is with play dough. We’ve just discovered it’s a lot more fun to do it with cookie dough. So . . . most nights after dinner, we spend some time working our dough into a fun shape; then we bake it up and eat it for dessert. Our therapy.”

Ann tussled Gracie’s hair. “Well, I feel a lot better now. And I’m downright thrilled that I’m getting some therapy tonight. Cookie making is exactly what I needed.”

“That’s what I thought.” Gracie’s voice was very serious. “You have to go wash your hands first. That’s the rule.”

“Let’s get washing, then. I’m ready for my cookie.”

A few minutes later Beka put a cloud, a dog, and a pony into the oven. She looked at Ann. “Before she started on Enbrel, she could never have done any of this. That drug has been life changing for us. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost my job and couldn’t afford to get it for her anymore. I just don’t know.”

Ann started to say something like, “You could let her father find a way to pay for it,” but she didn’t. It took great restraint, but she tried not to bad-mouth Richard in front of Gracie. Besides, she knew he had lost his job on Wall Street over a year ago and he and the new wife were rumored to have filed for bankruptcy. “Well, I . . .” Ann debated about whether to come clean about how precarious the deal was. When she looked at Beka’s smile, though, she decided right then she would not add one more burden to her friend’s shoulders. She reached over and hugged her tight. “Keep your head up. I can’t give you details just yet, but I think things are about to get even better. There’s an opportunity on the horizon that can change both our lives.” Why had Ann ever doubted whether she wanted to work for Patrick Stinson? “It’s far from certain yet, but I will tell you that it doesn’t include Margaret.”

“Say no more. I’m on board.” Beka laughed as she opened the oven door. “Mmm, everything looks perfect.”

Ann sure hoped so.

On Friday, Margaret and Ann met Patrick Stinson at the Marston warehouse. A lot of home staging companies rented furniture from specialty companies, and the Marston Company did some of that, but Margaret had decided long ago it was better to own as much of it as possible. Then, not only could she earn the rent money, but she controlled who got it, when, and for how long.

The threesome walked the rows, which in better times were all but empty. In this current housing market, the aisles were filled to capacity. People were trying to sell for less, no one could afford to buy, and paying for a stager sounded extravagant, regardless of the statistics Ann knew by heart. She wondered if Patrick would see the large inventory for the sign of trouble that it was.

Yes, of course he would. Undoubtedly he would smell in that trouble a way to talk down prices.

Ann touched a particularly high-end Danish sofa, one of their nicest pieces. “What do you think of this?”

He paused and put his fist under his chin, looking at the furniture as if pondering. “That is a nice piece. This would be fine for one of the smaller units, but for our deluxe models, I want all custom furniture.”

Margaret’s face remained calm, but her pinky was tapping on the clipboard she carried. “We can do that. Of course.”

“I particularly like the pieces at Blazes.”

Ann held her breath. As a designer, she had to admire his taste. Blazes carried the most exquisite pieces of modern furniture she’d ever seen. In fact, their inventory was more like pieces of art that you could sit on, if you chose to do so. But since they were all one of a kind, the prices were outrageous.

Margaret continued to write without looking up. Ann knew that she was thinking through her options. If they were really low on capital, where would they find the funds to buy these pieces? Finally, she looked at him and said, “I’ve been meaning to purchase some stock pieces from Blazes anyway. Thank you for giving me the excuse that I needed.”

“Good,” he said, more to confirm their agreement than to offer a compliment. “Now, I’m considering doing something a little different in a few of the kitchens. Keeping it modern, because I think we all agree that there can never be too much sleek and beautiful”—he quirked his eyebrow slightly as he looked at Ann—“but I’d also like to warm it up a bit. Do you have any suggestions?”

“My suggestion”—Ann stopped herself from the retort she really wanted to give—“is to combine Swiss pear cabinetry with anodized aluminum. The horizontal lines of the long-grain forms could work well. Natural quartz countertops would make a nice juxtaposition.”

He smiled broadly, then turned to Margaret. “I’m not one to lead from a distance. I like looking at all these things and keeping my fingers in the pie, so to speak. But . . . I think with Ann here, I might be able to relax a little. She’s been simply amazing so far.”

Margaret nodded. “I told you she wouldn’t disappoint you.”

“I sure hope she doesn’t.” He winked at Ann, then pulled a piece of paper out of his coat pocket and handed it to Margaret. “I took the liberty of writing down some of the model numbers of the pieces at Blazes I particularly like. Would you do me a favor and call them up, make certain that those pieces will be available? I like to know exactly what I’m getting into when I sign with a new partner.”

“Of course. I’ll give them a call this afternoon.”

“I really hate to ask, but would you mind calling now? Just so we know?” He looked from Margaret to Ann and back to Margaret, his expression so painstakingly embarrassed that Ann knew it was an act. “In fact, I’d really like it if we could go ahead and get some of the major pieces in stock. I’m a visual person. I like to see what I’ve got to work with.”

He nodded toward Ann and smiled. “Don’t worry about leaving me alone to make the call; with Ann here I’m sure I’ll be in the best of hands.” Once again Ann reminded herself that she needed to proceed with extreme caution where he was concerned. Proceed, definitely—but with both eyes open.

“Of course. I’ll call right now.” Margaret pulled her phone from her purse and walked to the far end of the aisle.

Patrick put his hand on Ann’s elbow to lead her forward. “So, I’m thinking maybe next week we might take in a show and some dinner? Maybe a weekend in the Hamptons in the near future? You’ve been working so hard lately, and I don’t want you to burn out and quit on me. I want to see you get out and have some fun.”

“Oh, I have plenty of fun; don’t you worry. I am looking forward to spending more time with you; it’s just that I’m leaving the last part of next week and heading back to Charleston for the weekend.” Another surprise Charleston trip planned spur of the moment, thanks to Patrick Stinson.

“With all these trips to Charleston, I’m starting to feel a little neglected.”

Ann shrugged. “Taking care of business.”

“What if I meet you down there for the weekend? I think the Spoleto Festival is still going; we could take in a concert. Even though my mother retired there a couple decades ago, I’ve never really spent much time there. You could show me around like a real native, hmm?”