Page 9 of A Matter of Time

“You know what? Just lemme out.”

“Knock it off. Don’t be stupid.” He was annoyed, and his voice was dripping with it. “All you guys are so goddamn dramatic.”

All you guys? “You mean gay guys?”

“Just drop it, all right? I’m tired, and I don’t feel like getting into a pissing contest with you. I’m driving you, ’cause if I don’t, you’re gonna freeze to death. You don’t even have a jacket.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Just sit there and shut up.”

I granted his request and didn’t say another word to him for the rest of the ride. When he stopped in front of the old Victorian house that had been converted into four apartments, I got out, slammed the door, and ran across the lawn without a backward glance. I didn’t check to see if he waited.

When I got inside, I immediately fell onto my bed, fully clothed, with my boots still on. I was exhausted. Having people shooting at you as you ran for your life was really very draining. I’d have to keep that in mind the next time I watched a movie.

TWO

By the time I got to work it was almost ten on Wednesday morning, and I felt like turning around and going back home. Riding into the city on the L was usually almost fun. I liked seeing all the same faces every morning and talking to people I barely knew. The problem was we’d had an icy rain that morning that had made everyone soggy and cranky and impatient with the routine inconvenience of being packed together like sardines. Being tired helped nothing either.

Once I got downtown, I had to walk two blocks over to Cullen’s and pick up my boss’s car. He had called me at six in the morning to tell me that the mechanic had forgotten to drop it off at his house, so now it was my problem. I had to bring the car to the office, and for the billionth time, I remembered why I didn’t own one. Driving in the city was hell. Between dodging traffic, having people blow their horns at me, and oblivious pedestrians, I was ready to scream. I had to be careful not to hit any parked cars on the tight streets, remember which way all the roads went, and try not to drive into a pothole that I could lose a wheel in. I thanked God that Dane’s BMW was an automatic; I would have been dead otherwise. People almost always touch your back bumper at a stop, and when you’re driving a stick shift, it’s so hard not to roll backward just a teeny bit and nail somebody. When a horn blast startled me, I made the light just in time. It felt like it took a year to go ten blocks.

Once I parked in Dane’s space in the reserved area of the high-rise lot, I had to take the first elevator up to the lobby of our building, and then another up to the sixtieth floor. My brain wasn’t working, though, and I got off on the fifty-ninth instead. It was fine though. Harcourt, Brown, and Cogan actually had two floors connected by two flights of wide stairs. The first one stopped at a landing—in case, I was guessing, you had to rest—and then continued up.

On the fifty-ninth floor were the architects who managed individual projects and teams, and oversaw budgets and schedules. It didn’t seem like the fun part of creation. There were people who worked on design concepts there as well, but they were mostly there for landscape and interior design. My boss didn’t have a whole team of people who came up with ideas for him. His brain would have exploded. He worked best alone.

There were other folks on the lower floor: interns, drafters, IT, the Building Information Modeling team, and those who churned out the technical drawings. There were a ton of administrative assistants and typists there, as well as the marketing department that Dane also wanted nothing to do with.

Lots of people waved as I walked through, and I understood. I was Dane Harcourt’s assistant, and he was the biggest deal in our firm. I liked the main floor; it bustled with sound and life. Up on the sixtieth, it was quieter. That was where the three architects had their offices, along with their assistants and typists, and the accounting and billing department.

When you got off the elevators, the name of the firm was on the wall to either your left or right, and the same was true of the horseshoe-shaped raised marble and glass desk of Piper Dowling. She was the receptionist who transferred the calls to one of the partners once they’d been screened by the main desk downstairs that was manned by four people. There was a lovely seating area there, all leather club chairs, vintage desk lamps with warm amber lighting, thick rugs, and the giant electric fireplace that now, in the fall, was going all the time.

After walking around behind her desk, I stood there and shook like a dog while I took off my topcoat and stamped my feet. Piper turned in her ridiculous burgundy leather swivel chair that looked like it belonged to the lord of the manor to watch me, giggling the whole time.

“What?” I asked, looking over at her. She was a vision, like she was every morning, all big honey-blonde curls, soft blue eyes, and flawless makeup that accentuated her peaches-and-cream complexion.

“You look really good all wet, angel.”

I shot her a look that sent her into peals of snorting laughter. When she recovered, she let me know that the coffee was still hot in the break room.

Walking the length of the enormous suite, I passed Miles Brown’s office, got a wave from Celia Johnson, his assistant, and his typist, whose name I could never remember, then by Sherman Cogan’s office, and got a two-handed wave from Jill Kincaid and a big smile from Lainey Riotta, his typist.

“Morning,” Sonja Lawson called out to me as I ducked into the entryway of Dane’s office, smiling at me from her desk as I walked by.

“Hey,” I greeted her, smiling. “How are you this morning?”

She shrugged, and I stopped before I hung up my coat on the vintage hat rack.

“You all right?” I found myself asking before I could stop myself. I didn’t really care what was wrong; I found her altogether boring. She didn’t date, didn’t buy designer clothes or shoes from thrift stores, and most importantly, didn’t watch any of the same shows I did. We had absolutely zilch in common.

“Well, we’re coming up on three months, J, and I still don’t know if I’m staying here permanently or not.”

I had no idea either.

“I mean, the only reason I’m even here is because his office is ten times busier than any of the other partners’. Everybody wants him to do their homes, not Mr. Cogan or Mr. Brown.”

“Sherman Cogan is a landscape architect, Sonja.” I sighed, having explained that to her, like, a million times. “And Miles Brown’s an interior designer. They don’t all do the same thing.”

“No, I know, but Dane’s office is the busiest because he’s the best.”