Remodeling The Bachelor. Marie Ferrarella
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off-hours. Trouble, mostly, Philippe thought fondly. Probably instigated by Henri and Joseph, first cousins and two of the more silent members of the weekly poker game.
It was still early by his old standards. But his old standards hadn’t had to cope with deadlines and program bugs that insisted on manifesting themselves despite his diligent attempts to squash them. Program bugs he needed to iron out of his latest software package before he submitted it to Lyon Enterprises, his software publisher. The deadline was breathing down his neck.
He didn’t have to work this hard. He chose to work this hard. Philippe had made his fortune on a software package that he’d designed five years ago, a package that had become indispensable to the advertising industry. Streamlined and efficient, it was now considered the standard by which all other such programs were measured. There was no need for him to keep hours that would have only gladdened the heart of a Tibetan monk, but, unlike his late father, he had never believed in coasting. He liked being kept busy, liked creating, liked having a schedule to adhere to and something tangible to shoot for every day. He wasn’t the idle type.
His mother’s second husband, Georges’s father, had been a self-made millionaire, owing his fortune to a delicate scent that lured scores of women with far too much money on their hands. André Armand was a man who slept late and partied into the wee hours of the morning. It was because of André that they had the lifestyle they now enjoyed.
Even before André had married his mother, the man had taken to him. The moment the vows were uttered, he’d taken him under his wing, viewing him as a protégé. But Philippe quickly learned that although he really liked the man, the life André led was not one that appealed to him at all, even as an adolescent. It was because of André that Philippe had come to the conclusion that no matter how rich he was, a man needed a purpose.
He’d never forgotten it, nor let either one of his brothers forget it. He’d made sure that his brothers did their lessons and excelled in school, even when they said they didn’t need to.
“You need to make a difference in this world,” he’d told them over and over again, “no matter how small. Or else all you are is a large mound of dust, just passing through.”
As he slipped his hands into his back pockets, the tips of the fingers of his right hand came in contact with what felt like a piece of paper. Drawing it out, Philippe stared for a second before he recalled where he’d gotten it and why.
The contractor.
Right.
Well, if he didn’t make the call right now, he knew he wouldn’t. Life had a habit of overwhelming him at times, especially whenever his mother was in town and rumor had it Hurricane Lily was due in soon. Details tended to get buried and lost if he didn’t attend to them immediately.
Do it now or let it go, Philippe thought with a half smile.
Making his way to the nearest phone, Philippe glanced at his watch to make sure it wasn’t too late to call. It was a little before ten. Still early, he thought as he began to tap out the embossed hunter-green numbers on the card.
The phone on the other end rang three times. No one picked up.
Philippe was about to hang up when he heard the receiver suddenly coming to life.
And then, the most melodic voice he’d ever heard proceeded to tell him: “You’ve reached J. D. Wyatt’s office. I’m sorry we missed you call. Please leave your number and a detailed message as to what you want done and we’ll get back to you.”
Obviously this was either Wyatt’s secretary or, more likely, his wife. The sensual sound of her voice planted thoughts in his head and made him want to request having “things done” that had nothing to do with renovating parts of his house and everything to do with renovating parts of him. Or his soul, he silently amended.
He was currently in between encounters. Encounters, not relationships, because they weren’t that. Relationships took time, effort, emotional investment; all of which he’d seen come to naught, especially in his mother’s life. There’d been some keepers in his mother’s lot, most notably Alain’s father and a man named Alexander Walters. But as much as his mother loved being in a relationship, loved having a man around, she had always been the restless kind. No matter how good a relationship was, eventually his mother felt the need to leave it, to shed it like a skin she’d outgrown. She’d left all three of her husbands, divorcing them before they’d died. Remained friends with all of the men she’d loved even years after she’d moved on.
His mother couldn’t seem to function without a relationship in her life, especially when it was in its birthing stages. She loved being in love. He had never seen the need for that, the need for garnering the pain involved in ending something. He’d never wanted to be in that position, so he wasn’t. It was as simple as that.
Feelings couldn’t be hurt if they weren’t invested—on either side. After a while, it seemed natural to have female company only on the most cursory level. To enjoy an encounter without promising anything beyond tonight and then moving on.
He didn’t know any other way.
The beep he heard on the other end of the line roused him, bringing him back from his momentary revelry. “Um, this is Philippe Zabelle.” He rattled off his telephone number. “I got your name from a friend of a friend. I need some remodeling work done on two of my bathrooms. I thought you might come by my place at around seven tomorrow night if that’s convenient for you.” He recited his address slowly. “If I don’t get a call from you, I’ll be expecting you tomorrow at seven. See you then.”
Philippe hung up. He absolutely hated talking to machines, even ones with sexy voices. As he went up the stairs to his bedroom, he thought about how people were far too isolated and dependent on machines to do their work for them.
And then he smiled to himself. It was a rather ironic thought, given the nature of what he did for a living. His smile widened. The world was a strange place.
Chapter Two
The next morning, Philippe hit the ground running.
Usually reliable, his inner alarm clock had decided to go on strike. Instead of six-thirty, the time he normally woke up during the work week, Philippe rolled over and stared in disbelief at the digital clock beside the bed.
Burning in bright, bold red shone the numbers 7:46 a.m.
The second his brain registered the discrepancy between the time he intended to get up and the actual hour, Philippe tumbled out of bed. He then proceeded to race through his shower and decide not to bother shaving. He was down in the kitchen at exactly one minute before eight o’clock.
He would have made himself toast and scrambled eggs if he’d had bread. Or eggs. Instead breakfast consisted of the last of his coffee and a couple of close-to-stale pieces of Swiss cheese, the latter being part of what he’d served last night along with beer, junk food and conversation.
Leaning a hip against the counter as he finished the last of the unexceptional cheese, he shook his head. It was time to surrender and give in to the inevitable: he needed a housekeeper. Someone who stopped by maybe once a week, did the grocery shopping and gave the house a fast once-over. That was all that was really necessary. As the oldest and the one who often was left in charge, Philippe had learned to run a fairly tight, not to mention neat, ship. The only thing in utter disarray was the desk in his home office.
Actually, if he was being honest with himself, most of the office looked that way, what with books left open to pertinent sections and a ton of paper scattered in all four corners of the room, covering most of the available flat surfaces. He supposed, in a way, it was a statement about the way his life operated. His private affairs were neatly organized while his work looked as if he’d recently been entertaining a grade four hurricane on the premises.
Finished eating, Philippe wiped his fingers on the back of his jeans and made his way over to the telephone. Ten minutes later, he’d placed an ad in the local paper as well as on the newspaper’s Internet site