Draw Me A Picture (29 page)

Across the hall, William returned to his own room. Michelle’s surprise view of him shirtless affected him more than he was willing to admit. She seemed shy but impressed, he thought, smiling. Maybe there was even a spark of desire in her gorgeous eyes; something has made her blush and retreat. Grinning, William resigned himself to the icy streams of the shower, not able to escape thought of his lovely fiancée and what she might be thinking.

“Good heavens,”
he thought, letting out an exasperated breath.
“I pray to God she marries me soon.”
 

CHAPTER EIGHT

The moment the man stepped through Brownstone & Peters elevator doors, all standing in the lobby knew that he didn’t belong. In a sea of lawyers, he clearly wasn’t. He wore a faded plaid shirt which appeared to have sawdust on it; his feet were shod with paint-flecked construction boots and his legs encased in denim. A red hard-hat perched on his head, the word 'The Boss' written in bold, black marker across the back.

From his mustache to the stained canvas rucksack the man carried, all eyes took in the figure and were inclined to dismiss him without a second thought, but the riveting expression in his eyes provoked a rather universal interest. Hued a keen, flint gray, the stranger’s eyes took in all movement at once like a hawk searching for prey. Moving with purpose the man in plaid walked right up to the wide reception desk. Five men in hard hats--carrying bags of tools--followed him, along with a smartly-dressed blonde woman. The receptionist sat with her back to the elevator.

Spying a little bell, the man in plaid rang it, hard. Startled, the receptionist whirled around. Seeing the crew standing there, she pursed her lips at their unprofessional attire.

“Can I help you?” she said, frowning.

“Yes!” the man in plaid boomed. “I’m here to see Peters. Is his office this way?” He pointed past the desk down a wide corridor. The receptionist’s eyes widened and she gave a short laugh.

“You must have the wrong office,” she said, snidely. “We don’t have any handyman work scheduled.” The plaid-wearing man narrowed his eyes a little.

“I beg to differ, ma’am,” he said, evenly.

“Miss,” the receptionist snapped back. The man in front of her smiled.

“That’s apparent…” he said. A few chuckles came from the crew standing behind him. Hearing the laughter the receptionist glared up at them, flaring her nostrils.

“Sir, do you have an appointment?” she hazarded; her right hand gripped the phone.

“Yeah… I’ve been appointed,” the plaid-wearing man said, nodding once. “I have to say the customer service here is way below par.”

Punching the intercom button, the receptionist cleared her throat.

“What is it, Miranda?” came Peters' irritated voice. “I’m in the middle of lunch...”

“Sir, a construction man is here to see you, with some… people,” she explained.

“What? Who?”

The receptionist looked up at the plaid-wearing man expectantly; she still held the intercom button.

“We’re here to demo an office,” the newcomer said, clearly.

“Demo? Who’s office?”

“Maclane’s office,” the plaid man said, with a smile. The crew of workers behind him exchanged grins.

“Maclane? That SOB isn’t supposed to take over for two weeks!” Peters was yelling now. Hearing the man’s words, members of the construction crew openly chuckled. “Call security and have them escorted out of my building!”

At this, the plaid-wearing man walked resolutely past the reception desk down the corridor; his crew followed, all except the blond lady in glasses.

“You can’t go back there!” the receptionist shouted after the plaid-wearing man. Seeing she was being ignored, she pressed the intercom button again. “They are coming back there anyway sir.”

“Call security dammit!” Peter yelled through the intercom. “I’m not having some dumb-ass construction crew running around my building!”

Nearby, the blond woman in the glasses waited patiently for the receptionist to get off the phone with Security; she held up a clipboard, her pen ready.

“Miranda Kincaid?” she asked, pleasantly.

“Yes?” the receptionist snapped. “What about it?” The blond woman wrote something quickly and ripped it neatly off, holding out a bright, pink form to the puzzled receptionist. The woman snatched it and read; her jaw dropped. “What is this?!”

The elevator door opened and four security guards stepped out into the lobby. The receptionist waved them over.

“Down there, there a man in plaid and a whole pack of construction guys! Peters says get them outta here.” She looked at the blond woman in glasses narrowly. “... And her, too.” The blond woman raised her eyebrows, slightly but otherwise did not appear rattled.

“You have your form,” she said, still sounding pleasant. “Your services are no longer required and are terminated as of this minute.” Two security guards stood behind the blond woman in glasses, looking grimly at the receptionist.

“I’m sorry, Miss Kincaid,” one of them said. “You need to come with us.” Shocked, the receptionist gripped her phone, her knuckles white.

“Listen, you stupid rent-a-cop!” she hissed. “The intruders went that way!” She waved towards the office corridor. “They’re wearing hard hats!”

“I may be a rent-a-cop but I have a taser and a license to use it,” the guard said, coolly “Now, please come with us; we will escort you from the building.” The two guards led her away without a word.

Walking resolutely down the hall, the plaid-wearing man turned into a break-room, his entourage in tow. Two junior partners were standing by the coffee machine, their backs to the door. They failed to notice an odd individual standing behind them as they chatted.

“So, she called me in for a ‘consultation’,” one of them said, smirking. “That was a wild two hours.”

“You billed for it, right?” the other inquired, sipping his coffee.

“You better believe it,” the first man said. Both men seemed to feel the glare of someone behind them and turned. “Can I help you?” asked Mr. ‘consultation’.

“Yeah,” the plaid-wearing man said, looking disgusted. “You’re both fired.” Aside to the blond woman he said, “Get them their pink slips and have Security escort them out.” He swept past the two lawyers, who stood with their mouth agape. One began to object, but stopped as Security approached.

The plaid-wearing man continued his crusade; eight paralegals and eleven junior partners got the Axe, including one young intern whom was playing a fantasy role-playing game on a company computer. Rumors spread like wildfire through the firm; lawyers, paralegals and office staffers alike assembled in the halls and corridors drawn forward--as if by some macabre tractor beam--to face their new boss.

The plaid-wearing man trudged grimly through the firm until a closed door bearing a brass nameplate caught his eye. Halting in his stride, he looked at the door a moment; through a window he could see an older secretary inside, typing at her desk. Opening the door, he walked in. The woman raised her head; she looked at the stranger for a moment, and then continued her typing.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Whose office is this?” the paid-wearing man asked, smiling.

“Mr. Montgomery’s office,” she answered, typing quickly. “Contracts & Negotiation.” The plaid-wearing man considered this information for several seconds; large manila envelopes of papers sat on the woman’s desk; she typed rapidly while looking at a binder of handwritten notes. The nameplate on her desk read ‘Mabel Arken’.

“If you don’t mind my asking, how is he to work for?” he asked. The secretary did not look up.

“Good, sir,” she said, taking out the page and laying it on top of a large stack of typing. “We're both kept extremely busy.” As the plaid-wearing man watched, she put in a new page of blank and began typing once more.

“I see. Is he here?”

Mabel paused in her task; she looked the plaid-wearing man square in the eye.

“He is not, sir. He’s taking his first vacation in six years,” she quipped. “I’m busy because he’s busy. For the work they give him they need four more like him and eight more like me.” She resumed her typing as if her life depended on it.

The plaid-wearing man’s eyebrows rose a little.

“I’m looking for Mr. Peters’ office,” he said. “Would you be so kind as to tell me where it is?”

“Down the hall, ten doors to your right, sir,” Mabel said. The plaid-wearing man smiled a little and left the office, closing the door quietly behind him.

“This way,” he said to his entourage, pointing down the hall.

Spying a conference room, the man in plaid breezed in, stopping just inside the doors. A janitor in a faded blue jumpsuit was leaning over, replacing trash-can liners and saw the strange group enter; he stood up, a waste bin in his hand. Nearby, a woman in an expensive suit sat at the conference table, her briefcase open; she talked animatedly on her cell phone while touching up her makeup. Striding over to the janitor, the plaid-wearing man smiled at him.

“Greetings,” he said. “You the janitor here?”

The maintenance man smiled back and stood a little straighter.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “I’m in charge of these four floors.”

“How long you been with the company?”

“Six years,” the janitor answered.

“How’s the pay?” the plaid-wearing man wanted to know.

“Not great; I got four kids,” the janitor replied, with a rueful smile. The plaid-wearing man seemed to like his answers.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Bill from Brooklyn,” the janitor said, with pride. The plaid-wearing man stuck out his hand.

“Oscar from Brooklyn,” he responded. They shook hands, grinning. “Well, Bill from Brooklyn... how’d you like to double your pay?”

“You bet your life!”

“Then grab some garbage bags and follow me,” the plaid-wearing man said.

Complying quickly, Bill from Brooklyn let the can he held fall on the floor; it tipped over and noisily rolled on the ground. The lawyer at the conference table whipped her head around, covering the mouthpiece of her phone.

“Would you keep it down?!” she hissed. “Some of us are working here!”

“I’m glad you brought that up,” the plaid-wearing man said. “I’m working too.” The blond lady in glasses moved forward, her clipboard ready.

A few minutes later, Mr. Peters burst out of his office.

“Where the hell’s Miranda!” he yelled, his face red. “Why isn’t she answering the damn phone?!”

“I fired her,” came an ominous voice. Peters turned on his heel and saw the plaid-wearing man standing there. His face quickly transformed from red to gray.

“Oh, Mr. Maclane...” he stuttered. “You... aren’t supposed to take over for two weeks.”

“I decided not to wait,” the plaid-wearing man said, crossing his arms.

“You can’t do that,” Peters said uncertainly; his normal bravado seemed cowed. The plaid-wearing man chuckled.

“You really should read the contract again.” He looked at the blond lady and pointed to Peters. She walked forward, the piece of paper already in hand. Without a word, the plaid-wearing man walked past the astonished Peters, right into the former boss’ office. Security stayed with Peters, already steering him back down the corridor.

Oscar Maclane strode into the large office, right over to the paper-covered desk; sitting down, he put his feet up comfortably on the pile of papers. Taking out a cigar, he clipped it and lit it without ceremony. The crew followed him in and stood around, grinning.

“That was fun, Boss,” one of the men nearby said. “… as always.”

‘The Boss’ sat for a moment, smoking thoughtfully.

“Bill from Brooklyn,” he intoned, looking at the janitor.

“Sir?” The man was all smiles.

“Please feel free to pack up your former employer’s personal stuff in those garbage bags and bring it down to him in the parking garage.”

“With pleasure, sir,” Bill said. He hastily scooped up Peters’ items into the bags and headed for the door, even grabbing the old employer’s coat on his way out.

“Gentlemen...” Oscar Maclane said, suddenly. “This is by far the ugliest office building I’ve ever seen. It has ‘dung’ shui.” Some of the men in his crew chuckled. “Now, listen close. This is what I want to do...”

CHAPTER NINE

Mornings in Vermont seemed to agree with Michelle very well.  When the dawn's light crept into the pink room, she woke up as if shaken. A slow smile spread over her face as she sat up.

“It’s not a dream…” she whispered. She wanted to squeal with delight but did not. “Not good to wake the future in-laws in the wee hours of the morning,” she thought, smiling. Hoping out of bed, she ran to the shower, ready to start the day. Michelle did not know what to expect but knew even the most mundane activity would be bliss if William were near.

Twenty-two minutes later, she opened her door, half expecting William to be hovering outside; not seeing him, Michelle smiled.

“He’s sleeping in,”
she thought.
“He’s human after all.”
The notion pleased her. Ducking back in her room, Michelle wrote a small note on a pad of paper on the vanity and closed the door on it so it stuck out by the handle. Smiling and inwardly giddy, Michelle walked quietly down the hall. Passing his door, she blushed, thinking of the previous night's ‘bat’ incident and William's semi-undressed state. “Don’t go there...” she silently admonished herself.
 

Downstairs no one stirred; it was still very early. Michelle intended to walk a bit, feeling if she didn’t get out the happy-angst-excitement within, her brain and heart would simultaneously explode. Locating her coat in the foyer closet, Michelle pulled on her hat and gloves; she found a side door out the kitchen that wasn’t locked and slipped through it.

A cold, gray mist greeted her; just enough light tinged the sky that she could make out the brick walking path. Stepping onto it, Michelle trekked along, a wide smile decorating her face. The cold air filled her lungs and calmed her. The brisk pace of her walk slowed to a stroll; she enjoyed the quiet and the mist-shadowed trees. Various emotions deluged her still but the mingling of feelings proved pleasant.