Of Happiness (22 page)

“Marcus driving you to the Mart today?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll call me if you need me?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll let me know what plans you have with Luke?”

With a patient smile, I nod my acquiescence. “I will. But Harris?”

“I’m being controlling again, I know.” He shakes his head ruefully. “You’re that precious to me, Edith. I know it’s overbearing, but I’m on edge what with Claire and Jared…”

“I know, Harris, but that’s not what I was going to tell you.”

He’s sheepish as he presses the elevator button and the doors whisk open. “Please go ahead, baby.”

“I believe what you said yesterday, that this will soon be nothing more than a memory.” Then, I press up on my toes and slide my hands along his biceps until they rest on the backs of his shoulders.

“You should. Nothing bad will happen, I promise.” He captures my lips in one last lingering kiss, then I release him and plop back down on flat feet.

“Have a great day,” I tell him with a little wave.

His response is a wink so sly I’m left wondering if it was just my imagination as the elevator doors quietly close.

Twirling around, I leisurely stroll through the apartment. On my agenda today is kicking my fledging career in the rear. Last night, Betty from Harris’ office sent me an email and I need to respond to her right away. I’m debating calling Melinda Fletcher for one more shot at her business. Based on my conversation with Amanda yesterday, it sounds like there may be a chance to regain that client. Late this afternoon I have a meeting scheduled at the Merchandise Mart to tour a showroom restricted to the average Mart wanderer. They’ve agreed to a feature in my blog, thinking it will add to their mystique. I’m hoping that out of this tour, I may find new connections.

The clock hasn’t struck seven yet, so I decide it’s too early to ask Luke if he wants to meet up this evening. I wander into the kitchen and am about to make myself breakfast when my phone chirps from where I left it in the living room. I unlock the device to find a disturbing message. Then almost immediately, I receive a follow up text.

Claire: Having fun playing house?

Claire: It won’t last forever.

With shaking hands, I dial Harris.

“Miss me already?” He answers.

“Claire texted me.”

“What did she say?” His voice turns to steel.

“I’ll forward them to you.”

A flurry of touch screen strokes later, he has the messages.

“What’s happening to my sister?” he mutters, more to himself than me. Then he snaps to attention. “Don’t think twice about this shit. Ignore her. I’ll get in touch with my guy and find out where she is.”

Worrying my bottom lip between my teeth, I mutter, “Okay.”

“I’ll let you know the minute I hear something,” he tells me. Then we sign off the call.

I stare at the message, the fear building in my stomach switching to resentment.
Who does she think she is?
Despite Harris’ instruction to disregard Claire, my emotions assumes control, and my thumbs fly across the screen as I type my anger-fueled response.

Eddie: Enough with the bogus threats, Claire. Accept that Harris and I are together. We’re really happy, and I want you to be happy for us too.

Claire: Denial doesn’t suit you, little mouse.

“I hate that nickname,” I grumble at the phone, deciding that another response is unnecessary. I drop it into the robe’s deep pocket.

Breakfast forgotten, I trudge into Harris’ office and set up my laptop on his desk. When the computer comes to life, I log into my email and begin responding to messages. On the bright side, another local interior design blogger responded to an email I sent her yesterday. Trying to forget about Claire, I bury myself in correspondence and blog updates. An hour floats by, and now it’s an acceptable time to contact Jared and Sean about tonight.

I launch a group text.

Eddie: Want to hang out tonight? I could review your applications if you’d like.

Sean: I can’t, doll. We’re having a goodbye dinner for one of my co-workers.

Eddie: Bummer.

Luke: Let’s do it!

Eddie: Would it be weird if you came over here? I can cook.

Sean: Not fair! You can’t cuddle AND cook dinner together.

Eddie: :P

Sean: So rude!

Luke: Not weird for me. I was the one who oversaw the move-in.

Eddie: Come over at 7:30?

Luke: Looking forward to it.

Sean: People, I’m still here!

Eddie: We’ll miss you.

Luke: Fact.

Sean: Yeah, yeah, yeah.

I begin to search through some of my favorite saved recipes for something to prepare for Luke. When I find a spaghetti squash and meatball recipe I think he’ll like, I begin scribbling a grocery list on a scrap piece of paper. I’m finishing my list when my cell phone rings.
Melinda Fletcher calling,
it says.

What?

“Hello?” I answer hesitantly.

“Yes, hello, Eddie. This is Mrs. Fletcher.”

I resist the urge to tell her that I know because I have caller ID. “Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher. What can I do for you?”

She clears her throat nosily. “I will skip over pleasantries and tell you exactly why I’m calling.”
Good.
“Over the weekend, Amanda McDaniel phoned to untangle”—she pauses, searching for the right phrasing—“some mistruths that we had both heard about you. She spoke very highly of you and mentioned that if it were not for her relocation, she would have begged for you to continue the renovation of her guest bedrooms. Now, if you were willing to do a trial basis and an interview with both my husband and me, we would like you to try working for us again.”

“Excuse me?” I splutter.

She sniffs, affronted. “Obviously I can’t hire you concretely unless I see with my own eyes that you—”

No way am I going to beg for this job.
I’m long past needing an audition to gain her business. I’m not the doormat I once was; she can’t play with me this way. I’d rather work for half my usual commission. 

“Mrs. Fletcher,” I interject with an icy coolness in my voice. As much as I want to tell lady off, she’s still the wife of one of Harris’ colleagues. “Thank you for the opportunity, but I’m afraid our working relationship has been poisoned by some unfortunate events. It’s probably best we part ways on good terms.”

The line remains silent for two beats. “All right, yes, that’s really the ideal choice for this situation,” she says like she thought of the idea.

“Thank you for calling.”

“Have a nice day, dear.”

I disconnect the call.
Well, that settles my internal debate about calling her.
An overbearing client like Melinda would be dreadful to manage in the best of circumstances. Add this ugly layer to the situation and I see that it’s a disaster waiting to happen. Even though I’m disappointed to lose the work, especially because of the way it transpired, I’m pleased I had the courage to let her go.

A rumble from my stomach reminds me I haven’t had anything to eat yet. Pushing back from the desk, I head into the kitchen. To my surprise I hear cabinet doors closing when I round the hallway leading toward the living area. My heart rate picks up, thudding against my breastbone as I pause mid-stride.

Who is out there?

“He-hello?”

“Edith, sweetheart? It’s Eleanor.”

I exhale a sigh of relief and hurry out into the kitchen. Eleanor’s in her late fifties. I’ve only met her the one time, but I felt at ease by her spry and nurturing personality. Her hair still grows long, but she wears it combed into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. She waits for me with a cheeky grin when I enter the room.

“You’re white as wedding dress! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, it’s my fault. I didn’t think to ask Harris your schedule.”

“Would you like me to make you something?”

“I’ll fix it myself,” I say instantly. She watches me hesitantly, her hand hovering over a cabinet door handle.   

“Are you sure?”

I nod and pull a yogurt and berries from the stainless steel refrigerator. In the slim built-in pantry, I find granola. I combine the three in a cereal bowl and take a seat at the bar. Belatedly I realize I’m still only wearing Harris’ robe. Blushing, I readjust the belt together around my waist.

“Sorry, Eleanor,” I mutter.

“Dear, do you know I’ve been working with the Grants for more than twenty years?”

I pause, the spoon halfway toward my mouth. “No, I didn’t know that.”

“I don’t mean to catch you off guard, but I want us to be comfortable spending time together.” She stops her progress, rifling through the cabinets, and gives her full attention to me across the countertop.

“Okay,” I agree. “But in the future, I think it’d be better if I was dressed.”

She winks at me, and rotates around to continue what she had been doing before I interrupted her. “We’re family now. I’ve been with the Grants through many ups and downs.” She eyes me as if to silently ask if I know. I nod shortly. “Helped our boy Harris raise Claire after their parents left.” She smiles softly. “You brought back the spark that was missing him since before… It’s wonderful to see him living again.” 

Her assessment sends flickers of pride through my chest. “I think so, too.”

After I eat, I lock myself in the den, attending to work and seeking out new business opportunities for the next several hours. It doesn’t feel like more than an hour has passed, but when I look at the clock, I realize that I have thirty minutes until Marcus is scheduled to pick me up. I hurry into the master bathroom, surveying the damage of hair that I let air-dry. Very quickly, I realize that the frizzy mess cannot be worn down, so I pile my hair into a somewhat neat top knot. With well-practiced movements, I apply my “professional” makeup—a few flicks of the mascara wand and swipes of blush. Then I dress myself in a sleeveless blue shirtdress and my brown heeled sandals. When I pass inspection in the closet’s full-length mirror, I leave the bedroom and pack my tote bag with my work supplies.

“Bye, Eleanor!”

“I’ll be here tomorrow, dear,” she tells me.

As the elevator descends, taking me to the lobby, I smile to myself. It’s hard to believe how much my life has changed since I’ve moved to Chicago, but I’m not dreaming and this bliss is a reality.

T
he meeting at the chic furniture consortium produced some new content for my blog and I found a desk that could be a nice fit for Beth’s office. I accomplished a personal goal during my meeting at the store, too; one of my shop girls took a picture of me at the aforementioned desk, a full shot of my face, the first on my blog. Next week, I’ll give my reader’s a complete look at me. The concept no longer worries me, my apprehension about judgment from my peers and others in the interior design community fading.

With that meeting and subsequent food shopping behind me, Marcus drives me home. In the backseat of the car, I text Harris and let him know my plans for the evening. I ask if his private investigator has any leads on the whereabouts of Claire and Jared.

Harris: No updates yet. When I hear something, you’ll be the first to know.

Eddie: K

Harris: I won’t be back until ten or eleven tonight. Wait up for me.

Harris: Please.

 
I grin. He’s learning better manners. As if I wouldn’t wait up for him. I type a quick response and slide my phone into the front pocket of my bag. Marcus pulls the car into the drive and switches it into park, so I climb out. He collects my grocery bags from the trunk and meets me outside the passenger door.

“You don’t have to carry those for me,” I tell him quickly. It’s only two bags, and I’ve carried my own groceries my entire life.

“But Harris requested I help you,” he explains.

“Thank you, Marcus, but I insist that you let me handle it from here.”

He eyes me uncertainty. To speed things along, I gently tug at my
D.C. Proud
reusable bag, the one that I used when Sean and I met my second day in Chicago. Marcus releases it reluctantly, then hands over the other cloth bag. I shift them on either shoulder, one on top of my tote bag, the other resting against my side.

“Thank you for taking me around today. Hopefully I won’t be your burden for too much longer.”

“No burden at all,” he says with a slight smile. He looks like he wants to say more, but holds back the words. Somehow I know they relate to his former passenger, Claire.

Once we exchange farewells, I’m off making my way through the lobby, greeting the concierge and then calling for the private elevator to the penthouse. The ascent takes less than a minute, and then I’m distractedly entering the foyer.