thought, money I could use to hire someone new to search for Matthew.
Kevin Wilson.
The thought of the architect’s name made her sit bolt upright. Of course he would see those photos and think that she had kidnapped Matthew. Of course he would expect her to be arrested. He’ll give the job to Bartley, Zan thought. I’ve spent so much time on it. I can’t lose it. I’ll need the money more than ever. I’ve got to talk to him!
She wrote a note for Josh and hurried out of the office, going down in the service elevator, and leaving the building by the service entrance. I don’t even know if Wilson will be there, she thought, as she hailed a cab. But if I have to sit outside his office all afternoon, I’ll do it.
I’ve got to ask him to give me a chance to clear myself.
It took nearly forty minutes in even heavier than usual traffic for Zan to reach the newly named 701 Carlton Place. The cab fare with tip was twenty-two dollars. It’s a good thing I have a credit card, she thought, as she looked in her wallet and realized she had only fifteen dollars in the billfold section.
It had been her cardinal rule to use the credit card as sparingly as possible. Whenever she could, she walked to her appointments. Funny how you concentrate on something like cab fare, she thought, as she entered the apartment building. It’s like when Dad and Mother died. At the funeral Mass I kept thinking that there was a spot on the jacket I was wearing. I kept asking myself why I hadn’t noticed it. I had another black jacket that I could have worn.
Is it that I’m taking refuge in trivia again? she asked herself, as she pushed the revolving door and walked into the deafening sound of the machines polishing marble in the lobby.
Kevin Wilson obviously only wants working space, she thought, as she walked down the equipment-laden corridor to the room he was using as an office. She knew that when everything was in place that area would serve as a delivery drop for tenants’ packages.
The door of his temporary office was partially open. She knocked, and without waiting for a response went in. There was a woman with blond hair standing at the table behind Wilson’s desk. From the astonished expression on her face when she turned around and saw her, Zan knew she had read the morning papers.
Even so, she introduced herself. “I’m Alexandra Moreland. I met with Mr. Wilson yesterday. Is he here?”
“I’m his secretary, Louise Kirk. He’s in the building, but …”
Trying not to cringe as she saw the agitation that was exuding from the other woman, Zan interrupted her. “It’s a beautiful building, and from what I saw of it yesterday the people who move in here will be very, very happy. I certainly hope to be part of it.”
I don’t know how I can sound so calm, she thought. And then immediately she had the answer. Because I must get this job. Zan waited silently, her eyes fixed on the other woman’s face.
“Ms. Moreland,” Kirk began, hesitantly. “There really isn’t any point in your waiting to see Kevin — I mean Mr. Wilson. Earlier this morning, he asked me to pack your proposal and return it to you. In fact, it’s right there if you want to take it now, or else I’ll have it delivered to you, of course.”
Zan did not look at the package on the table. “Where is Mr. Wilson?”
“Ms. Moreland, he really doesn’t …”
He’s in one of the model apartments, Zan thought. I know he is. She turned, walked around the desk and picked up the package of her fabrics and sketches. “Thank you,” she said.
In the lobby she headed straight for the elevators.
Wilson was not in the first apartment or in the second. She found him in the third, the largest unit. Sketches and fabric samples were laid out on the kitchen counter. Zan knew they had to be Bartley Longe’s designs for this apartment.
She walked over to stand next to Wilson and set her package down. Without greeting him, she began, “I’m going to tell
Kevin Wilson.
The thought of the architect’s name made her sit bolt upright. Of course he would see those photos and think that she had kidnapped Matthew. Of course he would expect her to be arrested. He’ll give the job to Bartley, Zan thought. I’ve spent so much time on it. I can’t lose it. I’ll need the money more than ever. I’ve got to talk to him!
She wrote a note for Josh and hurried out of the office, going down in the service elevator, and leaving the building by the service entrance. I don’t even know if Wilson will be there, she thought, as she hailed a cab. But if I have to sit outside his office all afternoon, I’ll do it.
I’ve got to ask him to give me a chance to clear myself.
It took nearly forty minutes in even heavier than usual traffic for Zan to reach the newly named 701 Carlton Place. The cab fare with tip was twenty-two dollars. It’s a good thing I have a credit card, she thought, as she looked in her wallet and realized she had only fifteen dollars in the billfold section.
It had been her cardinal rule to use the credit card as sparingly as possible. Whenever she could, she walked to her appointments. Funny how you concentrate on something like cab fare, she thought, as she entered the apartment building. It’s like when Dad and Mother died. At the funeral Mass I kept thinking that there was a spot on the jacket I was wearing. I kept asking myself why I hadn’t noticed it. I had another black jacket that I could have worn.
Is it that I’m taking refuge in trivia again? she asked herself, as she pushed the revolving door and walked into the deafening sound of the machines polishing marble in the lobby.
Kevin Wilson obviously only wants working space, she thought, as she walked down the equipment-laden corridor to the room he was using as an office. She knew that when everything was in place that area would serve as a delivery drop for tenants’ packages.
The door of his temporary office was partially open. She knocked, and without waiting for a response went in. There was a woman with blond hair standing at the table behind Wilson’s desk. From the astonished expression on her face when she turned around and saw her, Zan knew she had read the morning papers.
Even so, she introduced herself. “I’m Alexandra Moreland. I met with Mr. Wilson yesterday. Is he here?”
“I’m his secretary, Louise Kirk. He’s in the building, but …”
Trying not to cringe as she saw the agitation that was exuding from the other woman, Zan interrupted her. “It’s a beautiful building, and from what I saw of it yesterday the people who move in here will be very, very happy. I certainly hope to be part of it.”
I don’t know how I can sound so calm, she thought. And then immediately she had the answer. Because I must get this job. Zan waited silently, her eyes fixed on the other woman’s face.
“Ms. Moreland,” Kirk began, hesitantly. “There really isn’t any point in your waiting to see Kevin — I mean Mr. Wilson. Earlier this morning, he asked me to pack your proposal and return it to you. In fact, it’s right there if you want to take it now, or else I’ll have it delivered to you, of course.”
Zan did not look at the package on the table. “Where is Mr. Wilson?”
“Ms. Moreland, he really doesn’t …”
He’s in one of the model apartments, Zan thought. I know he is. She turned, walked around the desk and picked up the package of her fabrics and sketches. “Thank you,” she said.
In the lobby she headed straight for the elevators.
Wilson was not in the first apartment or in the second. She found him in the third, the largest unit. Sketches and fabric samples were laid out on the kitchen counter. Zan knew they had to be Bartley Longe’s designs for this apartment.
She walked over to stand next to Wilson and set her package down. Without greeting him, she began, “I’m going to tell
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