he’d set for himself. Now, more than ever, he was determined to at least get the ball rolling on this project Wolf wanted.
One of the people he had to see was a Casey Delheny, the architect Wolf had chosen for the multi-unit. That Brett had never heard of Delheny before was not at all unusual. He was kept doubly busy looking after his own bailiwick. He rarely ever poked his nose into either of his brother’s domains. Besides, were he inclined in that direction, Wolf would probably tell him to butt out. Brett smiled at the realization that their mother would very likely back Wolf. Violet Renninger had worked diligently at raising strong, independent sons!
That morning Brett had had his secretary call the architect to arrange a conference meeting. She had reported back to him that Delheny had a full schedule for the next day but would be happy to join Brett for dinner at the restaurant in the motel where he’d reserved a room.
If the man was that busy he was probably an excellent architect, Brett decided as he neared his destination less than fifty miles from the New Hampshire state line. Not at all disgruntled at having to wait on Delheny’s convenience, Brett planned on spending the day checking out the building site and surrounding terrain. Wolf had delineated the proposed project with his usual painstaking care. Though Brett fully expected to find everything exactly as Wolf had described, still, he had to see for himself.
The motel was one of a large chain, fairly new, and decorated to blend in with the locale in an elegant early American motif. Thinking the early Americans never had it so good, Brett found his own way to the large, comfortable room assigned to him. He was tired but, having eaten nothing since lunch, he was also hungry. After depositing his case on the luggage rack, he washed his hands, splashed cold water on his face, then strode out of the room again in search of sustenance, preferably in the form of a two-inch thick steak with a side order of Scotch.
On entering the motel lobby, Brett had noticed a sign advertising a restaurant lounge. Back in the lobby, he followed the direction marker on the sign to a dimly lit room. As he neared the lounge entrance the melodic sound of an expertly played piano assailed his ears, along with the slightly off-key blending of several voices. Over half the tables in the large room were occupied with quietly conversing patrons. Every one of the high stools around the piano held a would-be soloist. The combined strains of an old Billy Joel hit was not at all unpleasant.
Settling his elongated frame into a well-padded chair at a table in a far corner of the room, Brett smiled when a discordant note rose above the harmonizing voices. His smile broadened as, undaunted, the man who had hit the sour note continued, still slightly out of tune, till the end. And he joined in with his fellow patrons when they offered a round of applause for the impromptu rendition.
The atmosphere in the lounge encouraged relaxation and conviviality, and Brett felt the tensions of the day ease out of his taut body. With conscious determination he relegated the disturbing thoughts that had traveled north with him to the farthest corner of his mind. The ambiance of the lounge imbued a feeling of well-being. Brett convinced himself good food would fill the emptiness inside.
The menu presented to him by a soft-spoken waiter was limited but included an open steak sandwich that Brett promptly ordered, medium rare, with French fries and a small salad. He also ordered Scotch but, remembering his foolishness of the night before, requested both ice and water in it He had consumed the steak and salad and was putting the finishing touches to his fries when a young woman entered the lounge, glanced around, then, straightening her shoulders, walked directly to his table.
“Mr. Renninger?” she asked with just the tiniest bit of hesitation.
“Yes.” Brett eyed her interestedly but discreetly.
One of the people he had to see was a Casey Delheny, the architect Wolf had chosen for the multi-unit. That Brett had never heard of Delheny before was not at all unusual. He was kept doubly busy looking after his own bailiwick. He rarely ever poked his nose into either of his brother’s domains. Besides, were he inclined in that direction, Wolf would probably tell him to butt out. Brett smiled at the realization that their mother would very likely back Wolf. Violet Renninger had worked diligently at raising strong, independent sons!
That morning Brett had had his secretary call the architect to arrange a conference meeting. She had reported back to him that Delheny had a full schedule for the next day but would be happy to join Brett for dinner at the restaurant in the motel where he’d reserved a room.
If the man was that busy he was probably an excellent architect, Brett decided as he neared his destination less than fifty miles from the New Hampshire state line. Not at all disgruntled at having to wait on Delheny’s convenience, Brett planned on spending the day checking out the building site and surrounding terrain. Wolf had delineated the proposed project with his usual painstaking care. Though Brett fully expected to find everything exactly as Wolf had described, still, he had to see for himself.
The motel was one of a large chain, fairly new, and decorated to blend in with the locale in an elegant early American motif. Thinking the early Americans never had it so good, Brett found his own way to the large, comfortable room assigned to him. He was tired but, having eaten nothing since lunch, he was also hungry. After depositing his case on the luggage rack, he washed his hands, splashed cold water on his face, then strode out of the room again in search of sustenance, preferably in the form of a two-inch thick steak with a side order of Scotch.
On entering the motel lobby, Brett had noticed a sign advertising a restaurant lounge. Back in the lobby, he followed the direction marker on the sign to a dimly lit room. As he neared the lounge entrance the melodic sound of an expertly played piano assailed his ears, along with the slightly off-key blending of several voices. Over half the tables in the large room were occupied with quietly conversing patrons. Every one of the high stools around the piano held a would-be soloist. The combined strains of an old Billy Joel hit was not at all unpleasant.
Settling his elongated frame into a well-padded chair at a table in a far corner of the room, Brett smiled when a discordant note rose above the harmonizing voices. His smile broadened as, undaunted, the man who had hit the sour note continued, still slightly out of tune, till the end. And he joined in with his fellow patrons when they offered a round of applause for the impromptu rendition.
The atmosphere in the lounge encouraged relaxation and conviviality, and Brett felt the tensions of the day ease out of his taut body. With conscious determination he relegated the disturbing thoughts that had traveled north with him to the farthest corner of his mind. The ambiance of the lounge imbued a feeling of well-being. Brett convinced himself good food would fill the emptiness inside.
The menu presented to him by a soft-spoken waiter was limited but included an open steak sandwich that Brett promptly ordered, medium rare, with French fries and a small salad. He also ordered Scotch but, remembering his foolishness of the night before, requested both ice and water in it He had consumed the steak and salad and was putting the finishing touches to his fries when a young woman entered the lounge, glanced around, then, straightening her shoulders, walked directly to his table.
“Mr. Renninger?” she asked with just the tiniest bit of hesitation.
“Yes.” Brett eyed her interestedly but discreetly.
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