Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [2]
Eventually the whole thing had blown over. Her father’s well-known name had helped.
The reception area for the administration offices of the mall wasn’t very big. Three comfortable chairs and pots of brilliant Christmas poinsettias took up most of the space. A girl slightly older than herself sitting at an undersized desk completed the small cubicle.
“I want to talk to Heather,” Angela said boldly as she stared down at the young, fresh-faced receptionist.
The girl set her face in a smile and pressed a button on the phone. She spoke quietly then nodded at Angela. “Let me ask if she can see you. Take a seat, please.”
Angela slumped down in one of the chairs and idly picked up a booklet from the round glass table. She blinked as she looked at an architect’s drawing of the Timberwoods shopping complex, noticing the small type at the bottom. Steinhart Associates. Architects.
The receptionist had to speak twice before Angela heard her. “Miss Andrews said you can go on in.”
“Thanks.”
Pushing open the door to Heather Andrews’s office, Angela was greeted by a young, attractive brunette wearing a dove-gray suit. “Hello.”
“Hello—ah, I’m Angela Steinhart. You probably don’t remember me, but we met a few years ago when—”
Heather Andrews looked at Angela with recognition and gestured for her to sit down in the chair opposite her desk. “I do, but don’t worry about that unfortunate incident. Over and done with.”
Unfortunate incident. Nice way of putting it, Angela thought with relief. “I have to talk to you,” she said, letting the past go.
Heather closed the office door and sat down at her desk. “What can I do for you, Angela?”
Angela looked at Heather’s wide blue eyes fringed with thick, dark lashes; her smooth, pink cheeks and her bright, pretty smile beneath the short crop of dark, glossy hair. She wondered vaguely if her own life would be different if she were as pretty as Heather Andrews.
“Miss Steinhart—Angela,” Heather repeated softly, “what can I do for you?”
Angela had crossed her right leg over her left and was fiddling with the frayed hem of her jeans. “I . . . I came to you because I didn’t know where else to go, or who else I could . . . I could tell.” She took a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.
Heather watched the young girl with a mixture of emotions. Here goes another lunch hour, she moaned silently. With a patience she found remarkable under the circumstances, she said, “I can see that you’re upset. Why don’t you start at the beginning?” She took a covert glance at her watch. Angela was obviously agitated, and there was an emotion in her eyes that Heather couldn’t quite read.
It looked like fear. But what on earth did someone as privileged as this girl have to be afraid of?
Angela fished in her bulky shoulder bag. Heather noticed her bitten fingernails and ragged cuticles, and a few tiny spots of paint on her jeans. She reminded herself that creative types didn’t care too much about personal appearance, envying Angela just a bit. It would be nice not to have to conform to a professional-dress code.
“I hope you don’t mind my showing up like this,” Angela said. “But I had to talk to you. It’s about the mall,” she added, her tone slightly shaky and unsure.
Heather was taken aback. “Your Christmas displays are beautiful, Angela. The customers love them—we’ve had nothing but positive feedback.”
“Thanks, but this has nothing to do with my displays. And I know that they’re popular,” she admitted. “I was just at the Victorian one—it’s working fine. Your technical crew is great.”
“Glad to hear it from you,” Heather said cheerfully. “Those skating mice are totally adorable. And the angels are spectacular. So what’s on your mind?” Given the girl’s nervousness, she wasn’t going to say that she’d monitored Angela in the crowd around both displays.
“Look, I’ll start at the beginning. Before I came here, I tried to talk to my mother, but she didn’t have time to listen, and she didn’t really want to. I’m going to try to catch her again when I go home.”
Heather raised an inquiring