stepped down from the carriage, knelt on one knee, and proposed. Now it was over and time to move on.
In five days she was leaving for Europe and would be awaya month. It would be tough to buy the house. There would be contracts to sign, a formal mortgage application process, a home inspection. She was better off finding an apartment in the city, but a faint whisper came from her heart: This is home.
T om Woodward pushed the keyboard under his desktop and stood to stretch. Through the glass doors of his office, he could see his staff of architects focused on their computers. The clock read noon. He’d been up since four, and the morning had slipped away. He sat at his drafting table, the plan for the Watsons’ five-thousand-square-foot home in front of him. “Just a few more tweaks.”
His brain felt empty, as if all his thoughts had been sucked to the core of his mind, then exploded past his skull. He needed a nap, but he still had to head to Nagog this afternoon. Sarah had called yesterday, asking if he could come over and help her with some repairs. It would’ve been easier to call a handyman, but she was one of the women who’d raised him. Plus, he hadn’t seen his grandfather in weeks, and it was time to check in.
“Thought you might need this,” his assistant, Cynthia, said as she walked into the office and placed a sandwich and coffee on his desk. Cynthia had psychic abilities. She anticipated his needs: food appeared on his desk before his stomach growled; coffee came just as his fingers went to rub his eyes; the files he needed were readily available. “I have to go up to my grandfather’s place this afternoon,” he said. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”
“Thank you, but who would keep this place running?” She unwrapped the sandwich and handed it to him. “The Chartreuses are stressing about the position of the house on the lot.They’d like you to meet them at the site tomorrow morning at ten. The address is in your PDA along with directions.”
“Have I told you that this company couldn’t run without you?” Tom asked.
“No, but at my next review I’m expecting deep gratitude.” Cynthia smiled.
She walked to the door and leaned against the glass door. “Let me know if you need anything else. And eat something.”
Tom looked at the drawings in front of him and realized his brain couldn’t go any further. He grabbed the food and his jacket and headed through the lobby he’d designed in inlaid mahogany, tamarind, and redwood.
Tom took a few bites of his sandwich as the elevator opened. He pressed the button for the basement garage. As he walked to his vehicles, a few lights flickered. He’d call maintenance from his car and have them fix them.
As the owner of the large office building in Providence, Rhode Island, he tried to leave things to the management company he’d hired, but it was impossible when he saw the little things that piled up each day. He lived in a loft space on the top floor and at times he didn’t leave the building for an entire week. These days, the only time he left was when he went to visit his grandfather in Littleton, Massachusetts, or to meet with clients.
He opened the door to a white rusted truck with Woodward Architecture , Ltd. lettered on the door and slid onto the cracked vinyl seat. Parked next to the vehicle was his new blue pickup with three thousand miles on the speedometer, and a sports car that carried him to meetings. But he only drove the white truck to visit Nagog. It had been a present from the community when he started his firm.
The rusted truck rattled down the highway as he pushed the speedometer to seventy miles per hour. Tom bounced over the potholes, the suspension similar to an all-terrain vehicle. His mechanic had tried to convince him to junk the tired vehicle, which now had 270,000 miles on it and a twice-rebuilt engine, but he couldn’t do it. As the rain continued relentlessly, he prayed the weather
In five days she was leaving for Europe and would be awaya month. It would be tough to buy the house. There would be contracts to sign, a formal mortgage application process, a home inspection. She was better off finding an apartment in the city, but a faint whisper came from her heart: This is home.
T om Woodward pushed the keyboard under his desktop and stood to stretch. Through the glass doors of his office, he could see his staff of architects focused on their computers. The clock read noon. He’d been up since four, and the morning had slipped away. He sat at his drafting table, the plan for the Watsons’ five-thousand-square-foot home in front of him. “Just a few more tweaks.”
His brain felt empty, as if all his thoughts had been sucked to the core of his mind, then exploded past his skull. He needed a nap, but he still had to head to Nagog this afternoon. Sarah had called yesterday, asking if he could come over and help her with some repairs. It would’ve been easier to call a handyman, but she was one of the women who’d raised him. Plus, he hadn’t seen his grandfather in weeks, and it was time to check in.
“Thought you might need this,” his assistant, Cynthia, said as she walked into the office and placed a sandwich and coffee on his desk. Cynthia had psychic abilities. She anticipated his needs: food appeared on his desk before his stomach growled; coffee came just as his fingers went to rub his eyes; the files he needed were readily available. “I have to go up to my grandfather’s place this afternoon,” he said. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”
“Thank you, but who would keep this place running?” She unwrapped the sandwich and handed it to him. “The Chartreuses are stressing about the position of the house on the lot.They’d like you to meet them at the site tomorrow morning at ten. The address is in your PDA along with directions.”
“Have I told you that this company couldn’t run without you?” Tom asked.
“No, but at my next review I’m expecting deep gratitude.” Cynthia smiled.
She walked to the door and leaned against the glass door. “Let me know if you need anything else. And eat something.”
Tom looked at the drawings in front of him and realized his brain couldn’t go any further. He grabbed the food and his jacket and headed through the lobby he’d designed in inlaid mahogany, tamarind, and redwood.
Tom took a few bites of his sandwich as the elevator opened. He pressed the button for the basement garage. As he walked to his vehicles, a few lights flickered. He’d call maintenance from his car and have them fix them.
As the owner of the large office building in Providence, Rhode Island, he tried to leave things to the management company he’d hired, but it was impossible when he saw the little things that piled up each day. He lived in a loft space on the top floor and at times he didn’t leave the building for an entire week. These days, the only time he left was when he went to visit his grandfather in Littleton, Massachusetts, or to meet with clients.
He opened the door to a white rusted truck with Woodward Architecture , Ltd. lettered on the door and slid onto the cracked vinyl seat. Parked next to the vehicle was his new blue pickup with three thousand miles on the speedometer, and a sports car that carried him to meetings. But he only drove the white truck to visit Nagog. It had been a present from the community when he started his firm.
The rusted truck rattled down the highway as he pushed the speedometer to seventy miles per hour. Tom bounced over the potholes, the suspension similar to an all-terrain vehicle. His mechanic had tried to convince him to junk the tired vehicle, which now had 270,000 miles on it and a twice-rebuilt engine, but he couldn’t do it. As the rain continued relentlessly, he prayed the weather
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