Mr Right, Next Door!. Barbara Wallace
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computer, he would say.
“Thank you,” he said. He took the report while shooting David a look.
“I was just on my way out.” The lawyer rose to his feet. “If you need any more information regarding that due diligence research, Sophie, let me know.”
“I will.” Silently, she added a “thank you.” Another point in David’s favor: his discretion. When it came to their outside relationship, he understood her desire to maintain a low profile.
Meanwhile, Allen was skimming the figures Sophie just handed him. Irrationally—because she’d double-and triple-checked the numbers—Sophie held her breath. There was an edge to the man’s demeanor that made her perpetually worry she’d screwed up. To compensate for her nervousness, she fished through her papers again. “I also have the revised model figures you asked for.”
“Never mind that.” He tossed the report on her desk as though it were a meaningless memo. “I have a new project for you. Franklin Technologies is planning an IPO. I need an analysis for my meeting in Boston tomorrow morning.”
“Of course. No problem.” She and her staff could pull together a couple days’ worth of research in a few hours.
And so began another typical Monday. She was going to need a whole lot of coffee.
Turns out, coffee wasn’t enough. From the second Allen walked out of her office, Sophie found herself rushing around like a headless chicken, without about as much sense of direction, too. Every time she turned around someone needed something else, and she was asked to be the go-to girl. She missed lunch and dinner. Come to think of it, she decided while wolfing down a protein bar and a couple aspirin, having her head cut off might be preferable. At least then her neck might not be so stiff.
Finally she broke away for her nightly run thinking the endorphins might improve her mood. Wrong. All the forty-minute treadmill simulation did was add hot and sweaty to her already gigantic list of complaints. What the heck happened to the air-conditioning in the club anyway?
“Hey, where you heading?” someone hollered out as she made her way through the locker room to the showers. “Didn’t you see the sign? The showers are closed.”
What? Sure enough, a sign hung next to the door advising patrons that the club would be painting the showers and therefore shutting down the facilities early for one evening. “We apologize for the inconvenience,” the note chirped at the bottom.
Her head sagged. Fat good an apology did her. She was a sweaty, frizzy-haired mess who still had several hours of work ahead of her when she got home.
And of course, since she was eager to get home, the trains weren’t running on schedule. Meaning the crowd waiting just grew larger and larger so that when a subway car finally did arrive, she was forced to stand pressed into a horde of commuters as ripe and sweaty as she was. Naturally, the air-conditioning didn’t work on the subway, either. And did the guy standing behind her, the one with all the shopping bags, really need to bump into her backside every time they lurched to a stop? Lurch, bump. Lurch, bump. No way was that a French baguette in his bag.
By the time she reached her front door, all Sophie could think about was stripping off her clothes and dousing herself with water. Maybe disinfectant, too, she added, thinking about shopping-bag man with a shudder. The water didn’t even need to be hot. So long as she got clean.
Sliding her key into the front door was a little like greeting a long lost friend. Home. David and others, they could never truly understand the pleasure the word gave her. Or why she was so stubborn about spending her weekend here. That’s because they’d been coming “home” their entire lives. They’d grown up in homes with normal parents and permanent addresses. For her, the term was still a novelty. True, since graduating college, she’d had apartments, luxury apartments in fact. Some in far better neighborhoods. But none had been hers. The day she signed her name to the mortgage, she’d achieved a goal she’d had since she was a teenager. She owned her own home. No more checks to landlords, no more temporary locations she could decorate but never really lay claim to. She could paint the living room neon green and it wouldn’t matter because the place was hers.
With a welcome sigh, she tossed her gym bag on the bed and made her way to the shower. White-and-green tile greeted her when she switched on the light. When she bought the co-op the Realtor told her the previous owner insisted on keeping the original fixtures so, like the entranceway, the apartment had a very Old World, nineteenth-century look. David, of course, thought she should completely modernize the place and give it a sleeker look, but Sophie wasn’t so sure. She’d clipped out a few sample photos from design magazines but nothing had truly captured her eye yet. Part of her liked the Old World feel. Again, it was that feeling of permanency. Knowing the building withstood the test of time. Kind of like her.
Then again, if she were using herself as a metaphor, modernizing made sense, too. A statement to the world that Sophie Messina had finally and truly arrived and was in control of her own destiny. Either way, she wasn’t in a rush. She much preferred to take her time and develop a plan.
Right now, she’d take a hose and spray handle if it meant getting a shower. She reached past her green plaid shower curtain and turned the faucet handle.
Nothing came out.
Frowning, she tried the other hand. Again, nothing.
No way. This couldn’t be happening. She checked the other faucets, including the small guest bath next to her second bedroom. All dry. Someone had shut off the water supply.
No, no, no! This couldn’t be happening. An overwhelming need to pout and stomp her feet bubbled up inside her. Where was her water? Had she missed a notice about work here, too? Just to be certain, she peeked outside to see if a note had been stuck to her front door. Nothing.
The pouting urge rose again. Of all the days to suffer her first home-owner problem. Why couldn’t the water wait until tomorrow to fail? Or better yet, this past weekend.
Weekend. Of course! As the realization hit her, Sophie did stomp—all the way to her front door. She knew exactly what happened. And it involved a claw-foot bathtub.
CHAPTER TWO
“WHAT do you mean you said no?”
Grant ignored the incredulous tone of his brother, Mike, opting instead for taking a swig of beer. On the wall, the latest edition of the Boston–New York baseball rivalry played out in high definition. That’s where he focused his attention. As far as Mike was concerned, he knew what was coming next.
“What heinous sin did the potential client commit this time? Choose the wrong paint color?”
Predictable as ever. “He wanted to go modern.”
“Oh, well that explains everything. God forbid someone might like contemporary design.”
“It was an original Feldman. Do you have any idea how rare those buildings are?” Scratch that. His brother had no idea. “There’s maybe a handful of them left and this guy wanted to gut the place and turn it into two-bedroom condos.”
“Better have him rung up on charges then. He’s obviously committing a crime against humanity.” Neither of them mentioned the fact that not so long ago, Grant would have committed the exact same crime.
“I hate to remind you, little brother, but there are people in this world who actually like living in buildings designed for the twenty-first century.”
Grant didn’t need reminding. “Then let them move into one built in the last twenty or thirty years, not rip apart an Art Deco gemstone.”
“Says the man ripping up his own apartment.”
“I’m not ripping apart anything, I’m righting a wrong.” In more ways than one. He raised the bottle to his lips. “Somewhere my historical architecture professor is pulling out his hair.”
“Give him a call, you two can ride