Hidden Pearl (3 page)

"Your house would be interesting, I bet.” Having seen the harmonious, architecturally exciting buildings S.T. had designed and was building, she was interested in seeing the kind of home in which he chose to live.

He shook his head. "I should've kicked you out this morning. You don't give up."

"From watching you all day, I'd say that makes two of us. I am, by the way, very impressed with the Farrow Building."

"You took enough shots of it."

"When will it be occupied?"

"We're down to the finish work. It's due to be turned over at the beginning of next month."

"It's so much more than the usual high-rise--not just a rectangular box intended to get the most floors for the money."

His eyes were dark and intense. "It isn’t?”

"It's a place where creative, exciting things can happen."

"You saw that?"

"The camera never lies, S.T." She grinned at him.

"That's not what I've heard. Aren't you people experts at touching up and hiding things?"

"Not a photographer with integrity. With my camera, I try to do what I think the subject is all about-- capturing life, inspiring it, helping it grow. When it’s a creative person, their work is as much the story as they are."

He didn't want to find her intriguing, didn't want to admire her guts, and it was as impossible as to forget how beautiful she was sitting in the wooden chair, long legs crossed and big, blue eyes looking intently up at him.

"What's the S stand for in S.T.?"

He folded his arms over his chest. "Why?"

"Just curious. I never heard anybody call you by your given name today. Just wondered about it, that's all."

His smile was wolfish. "Wonder away."

"Steve? Seth? Simon?" She closed the back of the camera hitting the button to wind the film. She squinted one eye to watch and make sure it had caught properly.

"Give it up."

She wracked her brain. "Sherrill? Sam? I'll bet it's Sam. You kind of look like a Sam."

He leaned against the edge of his desk, legs stretched out, his booted ankles now crossed.

"Okay," she said, changing lenses for a telephoto. "Not a Sam. How about Sherman?" He shook his head. "Why is it a secret? Now you've really got my competitive streak going. Maybe Sue, like that Johnny Cash oldie? That would explain keeping it a secret." She snapped a photo.

“I thought you were through for the day.”

“I’m never through.”

"You're not old enough to remember that song.”

"It’s still around. Besides, I’m thirty. How old are you or is that also a state secret?" The camera flashed again.

"Thirty-six."

"Samson? Sherman? No wait, I already guessed that." She narrowed her gaze, studying him more intently. "Sean?"

"You're wasting your time," he said with a faint smile.

"If I guess it, like in the fairy tale Rumplestiltskin, do I get a prize?" she asked teasingly.

"What would you want?"

She was flirting with him. Very unprofessional, Christine, she told herself but didn’t feel like stopping even though she never mixed business with pleasure, couldn't afford to start thinking of the handsome S.T. Taggert as a man. It was time to get out of there before the teasing turned into something else. She rose from her chair and stretched.

"I don't know," she said, "but since it's obvious you're not going to give it to me, I guess I'll have to search it down through the computer."

She could see he didn’t like that idea one bit. She had already done a search on him to prepare for this article and there wasn’t a lot of information for a man of his success. Now she knew why.

Sensing his sudden disquiet, Christine said, "I guess I should call it a day. I..." She pressed her lips together, then said, "I'm sorry I forced the pictures onto you. I really meant it when I said you can kill them all if you don't like the end results."

"You put a lot of work into them."

She shrugged, picking up her equipment bag. "A lot of what I do gets tossed for one reason or another. Not everything turns out a winner; so don't worry about it. I'll get back to you when I get the rolls developed."

"How long does that take? I’m surprised actually that you don’t use digital."

“I do sometimes but it’s a habit I have of enjoying working with the darkroom more than a computer. I have a friend in town with a lab; so probably by the end of the week.” Then she remembered her next appointment was with the evangelist Peter Soul half way down the Willamette Valley. It was scheduled to run into the week-end. She did some mental calculations. "Wait, that won't work. I'll be out of town until next Monday. How about then?"

"I'm likely to be here," he said.

“Oh and my name is not hon but Chris.” She grinned as she walked out the door.

As Christine walked into the crisp spring air, the dusk already closing in around the city, she thought about S.T. Taggert, about the different aspects to the man she'd seen as she'd followed him around.

His talent, as an architect, as a man who brought life to concrete and steel, couldn't be denied and she admired that, but even more she admired the kind of man she saw revealed in the way he dealt with the people who worked for him. He seemed at times to be sprung tight as a spring, but he was never harsh with the workers. That could have been an act for her benefit but she didn't think so. She'd watched as he treated people with respect and in return had their respect.

She swallowed as she realized she was thinking of him as a man--the very thing she'd told herself not to do. Her mother would have been thrilled, but Christine sensed getting involved on a personal level with a man like S.T. would be a huge mistake. She knew nothing about him in the areas that mattered and though she'd sensed a glimmer of interest from him, she knew--without knowing how--that he would suppress it. She would do the same.

S.T. sat at his desk looking the report in his hands; yet not absorbing a word of what he was seeing. His mind was on the peculiar phone call he'd had with the landlord for his sister's apartment. The man had been deliberately evasive, not answering any question with a straight answer.

If Shonna had moved out, why make it into a secret? It was beginning to seem the only way he could find answers was to make a trip to Roseburg. He didn’t have time for such a trip. What did he owe a sister he had barely known? What about his mother who was clearly convinced something was wrong? He wanted to ignore her insight. Damn anything that smacked of the supernatural or some kind of divination.

An image of a woman, her eyes a deep blue, the color of a high mountain lake, blurred the pages he was trying to study.  That wasn’t much better. He couldn't afford the kinds of ideas brought on by Christine Johnson. He had observed way too much about her during the day they'd spent together.

The knock at the door interrupted his internal debate and was immediately followed by a tall blond man, pushing into the room before S.T. had the chance to open his mouth to say yea or nay.

"Where's Helen?" Dusty Lofton asked, slumping into a chair.

"Obviously not at her desk."

"I noticed. We got a problem at the site."

S.T. waited, knowing his foreman would tell him what he wanted but in his own time frame. “Schmidt says he’s quitting,” Dusty finally said.

“Not hardly. We have a contract."

Dusty nodded. "It appears he's hoping you'll forget that or something is driving him that's strong enough for him to forget it. He says he's pulling out his crew and will be back in about three months--maybe."

S.T. snorted. "Says who?"

"I guess he figures he's got you over a barrel on this one. There aren't that many foundational firms that can handle a high rise, and what's there is probably booked up 'til next spring."

S.T. picked up the telephone and dialed his lawyer. "We'll see about that," he growled as he finally got through, told James Bailey what was going on, and asked him to look over their Schmidt contracts to see if there were any outs. There better not be.

"I was on my way over later with some other papers for you to look over," Bailey said. "I'll put this with them and bring the material right away."

As Dusty and S.T. sat, drinking coffee and waiting, Dusty said, "That was some looker you brought around Monday."

"God, Dusty, does any cute butt get by you."

"I knew you were looking too,” Dusty said with a laugh. “I sure wouldn't mind getting to know hot stuff on a more personal basis than the other end of a camera lens.”

S.T. shrugged. "Be my guest."

"So you wouldn’t care if I gave it a shot? Sometimes women like her like the muscle bound type guys." He grinned.

"If you can get past the stubborn streak, she's all yours... That is if she isn't already married."

"No wedding ring. Didn't you notice?"

He had but wasn’t admitting it. It was safer to change the subject. "What job is Schmidt in such a hurry to leave us for?"

"Some big church near Roseburg. He's into the guy's tapes, reads his books and when he got a shot at being part of building a virtual cathedral, he jumped on it."

S.T. frowned. He hadn’t heard about any big jobs down that way. "What's the rush? Why not do it after he finishes here?"

“Seems the guy’s in a hurry.”

“What church?”

Dusty shook his head. "I don't know. Some kind of commune though or something like that."

"Jim Jones style?"

"Who knows. That stuff’s all whacko to me." He lifted his hand, making the sign of the cross in the air. "Heaven save me from the saved."

"What's the matter, Dusty? You not one of the converted."

"I'm converted to the religion of taking care of your own business and keeping your nose out of other people's."

S.T. shook his head. "Rude pagan."

"What about you?" Dusty asked. "I never heard you say what you believed about much of anything either."

Personal feelings or beliefs weren't on S.T.'s list of conversational topics, not with anyone. How could he explain the mixed way he'd been raised with a smattering of Navajo thinking, a father who changed theologies with the seasons, and his own cynical nature which had led him to think anything beyond what he could see was not worth any time wondering over. Now and then a spiritual twinge would seem to pierce his barriers, leave him with questions as to why man was here, what was the purpose of life, but he quickly squelched those by getting busy with his work. He couldn't even answer the question as to why he was here, let alone all of mankind. If those wiser than him hadn’t figured it out, or agreed on what it was, he doubted he would.

The knock at the door saved S.T. from having to answer Dusty's question. Something he wouldn't have done anyway, but which seemed more polite when it appeared to be forgotten than ignored.

James Bailey walked in. "Where's Helen?"

"Ran away with a vendor," S.T. quipped. "How should I know? She was here this morning. Don't you people believe in some kind of spontaneous take-off in the end times. Maybe she was taken and you weren't." S.T. knew Bailey was a Christian, knew it because of the occasional invitations to Bible studies that the man slipped into conversations. Although Bailey made no secret of his beliefs, he'd never been objectionable about them, and they'd been able to maintain a friendship despite their differences.