"Yes, I'll be there day after tomorrow. Let's meet on the site at seven-thirty, sharp." Michael switched off his cell phone and slid it back into the inside pocket of his tailor-made suit that showed off his tall, athletic body. Brown hair framed his slightly long face and his green eyes highlighted his shrewd, intelligent expression. He walked briskly into the entry hall that was paved with beige marble and headed to the lifts. As he waited, he adjusted the strap of his briefcase on his shoulder and the tube carrying blueprints. When he finally reached the tenth floor, he walked across the light parquet of the architectural and design studio of Barclay & Wayle.
"Good morning Mr. Barclay!"
"Good morning Kristin. Messages?"
His young secretary stood up and followed him, trying to stay close behind despite her pencil-slim skirt and high heels. "Mr. Feller of the Hotel Galène called about the lighting fixtures for the lobby," she said, referring to her notes. "And Mr. Bererson called. He'd like to speak with you about the plans for his apartment and, finally, Mr. Dean wants you to call him about Mr. Dundee's furniture."
Michael nodded and walked into his office. "Fine," he said, setting his briefcase on an armchair. "Is Roger here?"
"No, not yet. He called to say he would be late."
"When he gets in, tell him I'm waiting."
"I will, Mr. Barclay," Kristin said as she set the post-it with her notes on his desk. She stepped back and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Michael walked around his large crystal desk and sat down on the high-backed chair with a sigh. Two thousand things to do and so little time to do them! He took Kristin's post-it and began dialing the first number.
When Roger knocked on the door, Michael gestured for him to come in and have a seat. His friend settled himself in the Le Corbusier chair and waited. "So, how'd it go with Riley?" Michael asked when he hung up the phone.
Roger Wayle was a charming thirty-six-year-old. Tall and with a fit body, he had short blond hair and brown eyes, as well as a dazzling smile that made more than a few women weak in the knees. He was wearing a grey tailored suit and a regimental tie. "All taken care of," he replied with a grin. "We're not going to install the glass-block wall, but rather a sliding panel that I've commissioned from Randal. I showed Riley some of his projects and he loved them."
"Good. I've put the updated agenda files and the work plan on the server."
"Take it easy, Michael. You're only going to Oldgrove. If I need anything, there are phones and the Internet."
Michael nodded and his face widened into a smile. "I was counting on having these projects finished."
"You know that in construction things never go according to schedule."
***
When the train stopped at Oldgrove station Michael looked out the window. It was raining heavily and the weak light that filtered gloomily through the thick clouds gave a uniform grayness to everything. His eyes shifted to the familiar shapes of the station: the platform with the dark iron beams and columns, the walls that were once white but now covered with graffiti. It had been years since he'd been back to Oldgrove. Michael picked up the case with his laptop, put the strap over his shoulder, took hold of his duffel bag, and stepped off the train then headed quickly out front. He shivered in the cold, damp air on his way to a taxi that had just pulled up. He tossed his bag onto the back seat, got in and closed the door. "17 Stone Street," he told the driver as he smoothed back his wet hair, stuck to his forehead.
After a short while, the taxi driver stopped in front of a building with a large, dark wooden door. The number seventeen was barely visible to one side, obscured by years of smog.
Once inside, Michael searched for the light switch with his hand. When he found it, the spacious foyer with its high vaulted ceiling brightened and he approached the steel and glass lift.
He got off at the second floor, opened the mahogany door, and turned on the light. Everything was shiny clean—just as his mother liked it—even if the house had been unoccupied for years.
Michael stepped inside, set his bag on the floor, and hung up his wet raincoat. He opened the windows and let gray light stream into the rooms. At least it gave them some life. He hadn't been back to the house he'd lived in as a teenager for years. He wandered through the somehow familiar spaces, touching the furniture and memories with his eyes. Running through the rooms as a child; laughter; his parents' big, elegant parties; people dressed in dark colors coming and going as they paid their final respects to Evelyn's inert body. He squeezed his eyes shut and sent those final images away from his mind. He picked up his briefcase and went into what had been his father's study. The walls were paneled with dark wood, the same as the large table in the center of the room. Michael sat in the leather armchair and set his computer on the table. He caressed the inlay of the tabletop and remembered when he was a child, playing with a brass letter opener. His phone suddenly rang and his mind was brought back to the present.