Draw Me A Picture (32 page)

In her hotel room once more, Michelle felt like dancing. Certainly she missed William, almost painfully so but plans buzzed around her head like a swarm of bees. Pleasant bees... dressed in sheer ribbons and pink roses. Smiling to herself, Michelle forced herself to unpack before sitting down at the desk and opening her notebook. Smiling, and laughing softly, Michelle wrote careful notes, occasionally crossing a line out and starting over. It would be lovely, but very simple.

As she wrote, Michelle's eyes strayed to a small business card on her desk; her uncle's card. Laying her pen down, Michelle smiled; he should be informed. Perhaps it was not an immediate necessity, but Michelle wanted to tell someone her happy news. Dialing his cell number, Michelle listened to the ringing with baited breath.

"Speak," came her Uncle's voice. She laughed a little.

"Hello Uncle Oscar," she said, smiling. "It's Michelle."

"Hey there," he said, cheerfully. "How are you?"

"I'm… I’m getting married," Michelle blurted out; she noticed her fingers  

There was a pause.

"He proposed?" her uncle inquired. It was difficult for Michelle to read his voice. Was he happy? Did he not approve? She remembered that he'd not even met William yet and calmed herself down.

"Yes," she answered. "And I said 'yes'. I love him." She heard a low chuckle.

"I gathered that," her uncle said. "Well, congratulations. I take it his family's alright with it."

"Oh, yes; his mother, Margaret, is ecstatic," Michelle said, smiling fondly. "I do hope you'll be able to meet William soon."

"Oh, I will," her uncle said. Michelle detected a note of humor in his voice. "Don't worry about that." Michelle felt relieved, for some reason. "We should have lunch," he continued. "How 'bout tomorrow?" Michelle beamed.

"That's sound great," she said sincerely.

"Good," Oscar said. "Why don't you come by the main office tomorrow… say, 11:30 and we'll go from there? The address should be on the card."

"I'll be there," Michelle told him. She said goodbye and hung up, feeling light and surprisingly worry-free. If there were any possible doubts she yet possessed, she knew she could ask her uncle about them. Smiling, Michelle took up her pen again and scribbled away blissfully.

THE MIDNIGHT chime found William still awake. He paced around his dark living room relentlessly, holding a mug of herbal tea in one hand. Normally, he dropped off to sleep around ten o’clock, but tonight he found himself unusually wound with up with doubts. None of them question whether asking Michelle was a good idea. William smiled as he thought about how well the proposal and subsequent acceptance had gone. He did not mind his life changing to accept Michelle into it. The doubts and feelings he experienced now were completely normal, though William did not know that.

"What if she changes her mind?" he wondered, finally sipping his tea. William made a face; he'd walked around so long with it the liquid was no longer warm. Walking into the kitchen he pushed it into the microwave and waited while it heated.

"Will she think I'm a good husband?" he mused, to himself. He thought of having kids around and wondering if they should move, or if this would be a suitable place for children. The microwave dinged and he took out the warm cup.

Walking around his kitchen William wondered if he should offer to help Michelle with the wedding, or if she would be offended by that. "Where would she get the money to put it on?" he thought, frowning. He felt like he should have brought it up during the tree-talk. Michelle had just looked so happy that he didn't want to cast shadows on the moment. Sighing, William raked his hand through his hair.

A small chuckle sounded out from across the room. Turning slightly William saw Alfred standing there, in his housecoat and slippers; a sympathetic smile dressed the elderly man’s face.

"I recognize that look, Master William," he said, kindly. "I wore it too, after proposing to Helene." William gave him a weak smile.

"Tea?" he offered. Alfred chuckled again as he nodded; William got out a clean mug and filled it from the hot water dispenser.

"Have you doubted your husbanding abilities yet?" the elderly man asked, opening a canister; he put a spoonful of fragrant leaves into the steaming cup. "Wondering if she'll jilt you at the altar?" William sighed again and sat down on a bar stool, leaning his elbows on the counter.

"Yes, to both," he admitted. Smiling, Alfred leaned back against the counter.

"Don't think me laughing at your expense, sir," he explained. "It is merely odd how every man goes through this, even if they love their new fiancée ardently. Each and every one of us went through at least one, haranguing night of doubts, questions and 'what-ifs'."

"How long does it last?" William asked, feeling rather juvenile. Alfred smiled.

"Generally, the doubts leave when you say 'I do'," he said in an amused tone. William grinned and drank his tea. "You have a level head, sir," Alfred continued. "I have no doubt you'll treat her well. As for Michelle, she's made of rather tough material to have survived what she has... she is also quite clever and has her humor intact."

"And she’s beautiful," William said, more to himself than anyone. Alfred chuckled.

"Yes, well that doesn't hurt," he remarked. William stood, setting his cup in the sink.

"Thank you, Alfred," he said, earnestly. "I appreciate the advice."

"Anytime, sir," the valet said. "I meant that. I thought you would be the night owl tonight. If you don't mind, sir, I'll just take my tea and head on back to bed."

"Of course," William said, smiling. "Goodnight."

Once Alfred shuffled off, William had to admit he felt much better. Just knowing many other men throughout history had shared his same pains and doubts comforted him a little. Washing the cup, he set it on the drain board and shut off the kitchen light. Ambling back through the den, he paused at his favorite couch; he could almost see Michelle sitting there, alongside sitting with him, snuggling and talking, or laughing. The little scene calmed his mind substantially he headed to bed, hoping to dream of his pretty minx.

CHAPTER TEN

A yellow taxicab pulled up outside Brownstone & Peters building. From the cab emerged a tired-looking William Montgomery. He handed the driver money and turned around. Looking up at the building he steeled himself for yet another day at the office. He was running very late; William hadn’t been tardy for anything since University. The almost-sleepless night caused him to doze right through the alarm.

The night before still very fresh in William’s mind, he walked towards the building. In spite of his tardiness and general sleep-deprived grouchiness, a small glimmer at the end of the tunnel existed; perhaps Michelle would call him at lunch or leave him a sweetly hesitant, rambling message on his cell. Even before stepping though the building door, William was thinking of swinging by her place after work and taking her out to eat at Marie’s. It occurred to him that it was wonderful to have someone to look forward to seeing at the end of the day. Riding the elevator up, William noticed swirls and speckles of white powder on the floor.

“Curious,”
he thought.
 

As the elevator stopped, he could hear the muted sounds of power-tools and voices. The elevator doors opened; William walked out and then stopped, his eyes open wide. The lobby was completely different. The carpet was changed to sleek, dark gray flooring, the walls an earth-toned rust color. A new, modern reception desk stood across the lobby; behind it on the wall a new name hung on the wall in black letters: 'Felix-Maclane, Attorneys at law'.

A blond lady in glasses seemed to suddenly appear beside him.

“Hi,” she said, brightly. “Name please?” William looked down at her.

“William Montgomery,” he said, looking back at the new sign. The woman smiled.

“Oh, yes… Contracts & Negotiation, right?” she asked, holding up a clipboard.

“That’s right,” he said. He looked back down at her. “I suppose the rumors were actually true.” The lady kept her pleasant smile.

“Yep,” she quipped. “Please follow me, sir.” The woman walked towards the reception desk. “I’m Laurel Ecland. Mr. Maclane’s assistant.”

“A pleasure, Miss Ecland,” William said, walking after her. “I suppose the new boss is somewhere around?” Laurel turned and gave him a smile.

“Mr. Maclane is in his office,” she said. “This way, please.” She took off down the hall at a brisk pace. Gripping his briefcase, William jogged after the speedy tour guide, still feeling a bit bewildered.

“First vacation in six years,” he thought. “Three measly days and we now have a new boss... and the whole damn office is being redone.”

Some minutes later, William found himself outside Mr. Peters' old office. There was a new nameplate on a new, polished wooden door; it read: 'Oscar Maclane - Senior Partner'. William smiled, a little.

“The man works fast,” he commented. The blond lady smiled.

“Mr. Maclane will see you now,” she stated, pointing at the door. Thanking her William walked forward, wondering what to expect; he put his hand to the handle and pushed.

The door opened onto a surreal scene. The office itself was not surprising, though its appearance had changed greatly. The room had been enlarged considerably and enhanced with quality wood flooring, rust-colored walls and modern lighting; sleek cabinets and top of the line computers sat along one wall; the windows were larger and let in natural light.

However, the eye-catching portion of the room was not its décor but rather the figure at the office’s desk. The chair was pushed aside and a tall, stocky man stood behind the desk; he appeared oddly dressed, for a senior partner of a law firm; the man wore a green Hawaiian-type shirt and khaki shorts. As strange the man’s appearance, what he was doing as equally weird. Newspapers had been spread out on the man’s desk; Mr. Maclane was busily carving a large watermelon upon the papers with what appeared to be a battery-powered, hand-held saw.

The man wore goggles, which proved to be a wise move; pink liquid splattered up into his face every time he cut into the melon. William walked forward, doing all he could to keep his face straight; he’d never seen anything like this. Every once in awhile Mr. Maclane would glance up at a flat-screen TV on an adjacent wall; a popular cooking show could be seen on the screen; a middle-aged blond woman described to her audience how to carve a watermelon in to a basket for one’s fruit salad.

Looking at the mangled mess on the desk, William could see the ‘basket’ the man had created would probably interest Picasso, but no one else.

“A watermelon sculpture in November...” William mused silently; he watched the man hack off another piece.

“Come in… come in,” the new boss instructed, still watching the television screen. William walked
closer; he stood as near to the desk as he dared.
 

“And now you should have a lovely basket for your salad!” the woman on the TV said, proudly displaying her perfectly cut melon-sculpture. William and the man both looked at the handiwork before them. The ‘basket’ looked positively grotesque; shiny black seeds floated in little pools of pink liquid on the wet newspaper. The smell of melon hung heavy in the air.

The man in the green shirt looked at William.

“Well, I think she’s a little overrated,” he said, jerking his thumb at the TV. Wiping his hands, he pointed a remote at the screen; it shut off without a sound. William studied the man before him, his face expressionless. Appearing stoic was an essential talent in his trade; it had served him well through many a volatile negotiation. Mr. Maclane appeared to be in his late forties; he possessed keen gray eyes and a mustache, dark hair with a little gray in it and an air of confidence that did not seem put on. Looking at the garish shirt, William could see it was not actually green but white, printed with a pattern of small, green limes. The man cut off a large slice of the melon-basket monstrosity. He held it out to William.

“Care for some melon?” he asked. Seeing something in the pink mess, the man paused and picked out a small, white chunk. “Drywall...” he said, smiling.

“Maybe if I were starving,” William thought, eying the melon’s remains. “No, thank you, sir,” he replied, politely. The man put it the piece back on the newspapers.

“You can call me Mr. Maclane,” he said. “That ‘sir’ thing is better off in the military.” He surveyed the watermelon again. “Yeah, it doesn’t look too appetizing,” he admitted, wiping his hands again. Reaching over, he pressed an intercom button. “Bob! Get in here...”

A few seconds later a man in a hard hat breezed through the office door.

“Boss?” he queried; the newcomer stopped short at the sight of the desk and its melon. “What the hell...”

“Hey,” Oscar interrupted. “Take this over to the crew. They might like some… watermelon.” At his words, ‘Bob’ smiled.

“Sure thing, Mr. Maclane,” he said. “I’m sure they won’t mind if it looks like it went through a wood chipper.” He scooped it up into a clean garbage bag, much to William’s amusement. Oscar pointed to the power-tool he’d used on the melon.

“Thanks for loaning me your saw,” he said. “I’m done with it now.” Bob looked askance at the sticky, pink tool on Oscar’s desk; he picked it up with two fingers, his face a picture of distaste.

“I hope you wore goggles, boss,” the man said. Oscar nodded.

“Safety first,” he said. Bob swung the bag of melon over his shoulder and left the office, cradling the sticky, seedy saw in one arm.

“Good heavens,” William thought. “I’ve entered the Twilight Zone...”

“Shoot,” Oscar said, loudly; he picked a watermelon seed off his shirt. “I got a stain on my limey shirt.”

“Pardon?” William said, his eyes narrowing a little. The man in front of him smiled, pulling on the shoulders of his hideous shirt.

“You know, the limes... on the shirt,” Oscar answered. “I like this shirt. Very comfortable.”