Look Closely - Laura Caldwell [41]
“Who is it?” I called, strangely afraid to open the door.
“Ty.”
He stood outside, holding a tray covered in white linen, and sitting atop that, a basket of rolls, a white ceramic pot of coffee and a plate of neatly sliced cantaloupe.
“I thought you should eat something before you leave.” He gestured with his head toward the tray, his copper hair falling over one eye. “I would have brought you cold pizza, but we were out.”
“You’re a sweetheart,” I said, giddy that it was him, not…Not who?
Ty brought the tray into the room, put it on the desk and poured me a cup of coffee. “Let me guess, skim milk?”
“I’m that predictable?”
Ty poured a little milk into my cup. “I don’t think I would ever use the word predictable to describe you.” He turned and handed me the mug.
“Will you stay and have one with me?” I smoothed my wet hair with my hand, aware that I was wearing only a robe.
“Nah. I know you have to get going.”
I took a sip of the coffee. It tasted like warm, roasted hazelnut. “Thank you,” I said. “This is a treat.”
“So was meeting you.”
We both smiled awkwardly. My grin felt stupid and too big for this time of the morning.
Ty glanced at his watch. “Well, I know you wanted to be gone by six. Let me know what happens, okay? And let me know if I can do anything else from this end.”
“Great. Thanks.”
Ty took a step forward, leaning toward me, until he kissed me softly on the cheek. “I’ll see you,” he said, and then he left.
I stood there, holding my coffee, wanting to call Matt in Portland and tell him I wouldn’t be coming, to call McKnight Corporation and tell someone else to check with the arbitrators. I could just stay here for a few more days, maybe longer.
But that wasn’t going to happen. I had work to do, obligations to fulfill, both in Chicago and in New York, and I had to get to Portland to see Matt. He was the only link to Caroline. Except for my father. The thought hit me like a slap. When I got back to Manhattan, I would have to face him.
Fifteen minutes later, I drove away from Long Beach Inn and headed out of Woodland Dunes, trying to ignore the feeling that I was leaving something behind.
12
At 7:30 a.m., I reached the Chicago branch of Gardner, State & Lord, a cozy suite of rooms, so different from the huge, impersonal office in Manhattan. I used a spare office to log on to the firm’s network and check my e-mail. Immediately, I saw one from my father.
Hi, Sweetie,
I hope your arb went well, and you’re enjoying Chicago. It’s funny how I’ve been at this firm for nearly forty years, but now it doesn’t seem the same without you here. Give me a call and let me know when you’re returning. Love, Dad.
I read it over a few times. I searched for any hidden meanings, any hints that he knew what I was up to, but I only saw the words of the man who had raised me by himself.
When I was done checking e-mail, I called my secretary, Amy, who happened to be the most efficient twenty-year-old on the planet.
Amy had started working for me six months out of high school, after finishing a short secretarial course. Some evil person in Human Resources, who was irritated at having to give me my own secretary, when most associates had to share one, foisted Amy on me, figuring she would be horrid. She wasn’t. She was conscientious and funny and detail-oriented. And after I had trained her on my terrible shorthand and all my anal-retentive work habits—like diarying every court date five times (in my personal book, the firm book, the secretary book, the computer and my Palm Pilot)—Amy was secretarial perfection. I always encouraged her to go to college, but I secretly hoped she wouldn’t follow my advice. I would be lost without her.
“Well, you’ve got a million things here,” Amy said, “but three biggies.”
“Hit me.”
“Numero uno—Werner wants to know where your essay is.”
I groaned. Lev Werner was the head of the partnership-election committee, and he had been calling for weeks, asking me to write an essay on what it would mean to make partner. I thought that this