Despite their having worked together for eleven years, Maura had never taken him up on his repeated invitation to call him byhis first name. Others in the office, even higher-ups, she referred to as such. Like his manager, Charles Glenelg, whom Maura mystifyingly called Chuck. As if they were neighbors!
When they first started working together, Perry had considered Maura a rather formal person. Indeed, she was older than him by at least fifteen years. She was fond of tailored suits and sensible square-heeled shoes, unlike some of the other assistants who dressed far more casually. Some of the younger ones in jeans!
She maintained a sense of order that extended beyond her wardrobe and desktop. She didn’t flinch over $50 million umbrella clauses or the grainy naked image of a drunken pop star who’d fallen offstage during his after-party. Maura was as unflappable as the starched collar on her blouse. Perry sometimes wished he could take her home to talk to Emma. He imagined Maura setting a piece of Bundt cake between them on the dining room table and leaning in conspiratorially to dissect the dresses worn at the homecoming dance, like a grandmother would.
Now she set his cup of tea on his desk, another thing he knew none of the other assistants did, and waited for him to run through the morning schedule. “Thank you, Maura,” he said. “I emailed you that draft I was working on yesterday for De Beers, if you’d please give it a once-over before finalizing. And I’ve got a claim from underwriting I’d like you to review before mailing out.”
“Certainly. You have a ten o’clock conference upstairs, don’t forget.”
He reached for the file on his desk to hand her, then hesitated. Her dignified air was what he’d always liked about Maura, in addition to her no-nonsense attitude and the lemon she added to his herbal tea. But lately he’d begun to wonder if it was something about him that had triggered the formality between them.
“May I ask you something, Maura?”
She nodded curtly.
Perry was not accustomed to asking Maura anything outside of the realm of office business. But he realized he spent more time with her than he did his own family. And he trusted her judgment. “Am I fun?”
Maura blinked. After a moment, she recovered. “Mr. Goodwin, I have enjoyed working with you for many years. You are always punctual and fair.”
Perry considered these two traits. Both positive. “Anything else?”
This time she did not hesitate. “You are predictable.”
Perry sat back in his chair. “So,noto fun?”
Maura gave a brisk shake of her head before sweeping the file from his hand.
Perry waited until she had left to spin his chair around to the large plated windows. His office afforded him a sliver of a view.
Perry worked hard in the city so his family could live well in the countryside. He thought of his lake club, where Emma could have a wholesome childhood. There he knew all the members and their kids. He knew where Emma was, and who she was with, and what she was doing. How often did he hear his colleagues complain about their teenagers; how distant they were, how mixed up. Theirs were at boarding schools, unseen and doing God knows what. Or they were loose in this city of strangers, free to roam the boroughs like little adults; riding subways, sneaking into nightclubs, and growing up too fast. The world was a crazy place to be raising a young girl. Thank God Emma didn’t have access to that nonsense. Despite the fact they were only a little oa little under a two-hour drive from New York City, his life back home on the lake might as well have been a world away. Sure, he had little freetime to enjoy much of it. Or the Chris-Craft he’d finally bought last year that his family liked to tease him about. He couldn’t remember the last Club event he’d attended outside of a board meeting. But you couldn’t put a price on peace of mind, and he’d happily make those sacrifices all over again, no matter what his family thought.
Outside the sky was a vigorous blue between the buildings. Cars crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. Perry let his gaze rest upon the bridge. Over the years he’d heard it referenced in different respects:A symbol of unity. An engineering masterpiece. The longest journey in the world.But at the end of the day, Roebling’s creation was just that: a bridge. An unshakable structure built to span obstacles. Perry sat back in his chair and sighed. No one expected it to be fun.
Phoebe
The cool recess of the dimmed Fairfield Designs interior was a balm to the hot summer day outside and the trail of perspiration snaking its way down her back. Phoebe entered the foyer and breathed in relief. The sound of rippling water emanated softly through the showroom, though she could not locate the source of it even as she meandered through the sleek displays. Dave, her general contractor, had sent her there on a mission to get kitchen design ideas. He’d called her that morning to say he’d scheduled the kitchen design guy to come out to the cottage later that week. Phoebe had balked. “But we don’t know what we want to do with the kitchen yet! Rob and I haven’t agreed on anything beyond the fact there will be one.”
Dave let her finish, pausing for her to catch her breath. “Well, it’s time. I suggest you visit some local showrooms.”
Immediately she’d thought of Fairfield Designs. Her best friend, Anna Beth, had redone her master bath with many of their fixtures, and the finished product was jaw-dropping. But Phoebe didn’t have that kind of money to spend on just one room; she had an entire house to renovate. Dave concurred. “You’re just there for ideas! I know you. You’re going to drool when you see the displays, but remember we’re on more of abig-box-store budget.”
Phoebe was up for the challenge. Her aesthetic may have been out of proportion to her budget, but she’d watched enough HGTV to have a few tricks up her sleeve.
She passed through a farmhouse kitchen, slowing to admire a deep apron sink. Oh, the dirty pots and pans she could hide in its ceramic depths. The backsplash over the Viking range caught her eye: a wall of creamy subway tile dotted with diminutive square bas-relief tiles. Phoebe leaned in for closer inspection. Dragonflies and bumblebees! She traced their glazed wings with her finger and something inside her fluttered like the winged creatures themselves. When the twins were babies, she’d decorated their nursery in bumblebees. This had to be a sign. She snapped a photo.
A small display rack on the counter showed the different glaze finishes with which the insect tiles could be customized. They probably cost a small fortune, but the charm was irresistible. She picked up a crackle-finish bee tile and continued on.
The quaint farmhouse display spilled into a gleaming contemporary in absolute black. Phoebe snorted to herself. The tiny handprints that would show! She continued on into a spacious commercial-grade kitchen with stark industrial contrasts. Here she could breathe. Phoebe meandered between the alabaster-white cabinetry and towering appliances, seduced momentarily by the gleam of stainless steel. At the Calcutta island Phoebe halted, running the palms of her hands over its veined surface. So inviting, so clean. So un-lived-in! She considered the sweeping island top, and her Friday night family routine flashed in her mind like a small detonation: How could anyone in their right mind deign to roll out sticky pizza dough and splatter this pristine surface with marinara sauce? But she did like the commercial-grade faucet atop the sink. She was about to snap another photo when a salesperson appeared.
“May I help you?” Phoebe hadn’t noticed her coming, but the salesperson had already noticed the bumblebee tile in Phoebe’s hand. “Ah. The Summer Flight series. One of my favorite custom pieces.”
Phoebe examined the tile in her hand. Custom was good. Personal. Meaningful. More expensive, probably, but this was where Rob failed to understand her approach. Everyone was doing the white subway tile he favored, and she was happy to go that route, too. But it needed something unique to make it hers.Theirs, rather. Poor Rob. She had to stop doing that. “So, these are custom tiles?”
The woman nodded. “It’s one of our best sellers.” She was pencil thin, dressed head to toe in black. Even her hair was dark, pulled into a sleek low ponytail. The effect was monochromatic. Phoebe wondered if the store had a dress code: “Dress like a curator in a gallery. Blend in so that the custom tiles stand out. Let their tiny ceramic voices be heard!”
“Would you like to step into our design center?”
Phoebe glanced at her watch. She didn’t have much time, but she also didn’t want to leave the showroom. The lighting was dim and sexy, and that waterfall sound was as lulling as an Ambien. Surely they had some kind of leather chaise she could curl up on while she perused finishes. But she had to focus. “Well, I’m on a tight time frame.”
