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ChapterTwenty-Eight
Emelia
I throw myself into work on Monday morning. It feels good to know Professor Barclay isn’t in the office and therefore can’t be a distraction, and it’s easy to focus because we have an important presentation coming up on Wednesday. While the engineering and architecture teams have been hard at work combatting the foundation issue at Belle Haven, the conservation team has been chipping away at the materials catalogue.
We’re a far cry from having the entire house accounted for, but engineering wants an update sooner rather than later so they can start to get a handle on what we’re up against if we’re planning on lifting this behemoth off the ground to replace the foundation. Wednesday, we’ll present what we have.
The most important elements to account for are those we can’t easily duplicate or replace, at least not to a degree that would convincingly mimic what already exists at Belle Haven. For instance, there’s a large bay window off the kitchen comprising three coordinating stained-glass panels that combine to make up a large mural. We know the stained glass was done by Tiffany Studios, most likely by Louis Comfort himself between 1905 and 1915 because the dragonflies included in it were only produced by the glass company during that ten-year span. While the windows have sustained some minor damage, they’re mostly in pristine condition. A panel of appraisers—most from Christie’s and Sotheby’s—have estimated that if the three panels were to be put up for auction, they would sell for well over two million dollars, and some doubt they’d go for less than three. It’d be a travesty if they were to be damaged during foundation repair work, and that’s just one of the priceless artifacts we’re trying to salvage in coordination with the other teams at Banks and Barclay.
Tuesday evening, I stay at work until almost seven finalizing the details in my section of the presentation. We’ve been passing flash drives around to get the most up-to-date files, adding to our own sections as we go. It’s not exactly the most efficient system, and Hugo’s been grumbling under his breath about us being stuck in the technological stone ages.
Lewis walks out of his office and locks the door behind him.
“Emelia, whatever you’re doing, it’s probably not that important.”
“It is,” I assure him, leaning closer to my computer screen because my eyes have gone slightly blurry from staring at pixels all day.
“Right, well, finish up then send the file to the printer—they need it by 7:30. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t,” I say, not really paying attention.
“Then go home. Eat dinner.Take a break.”
He doesn’t understand. I can’t take a break yet. At this point, I’m not adding in new content; I’m tweaking minute crucial details. Like two slides ago, I found a picture that wasn’t perfectly centered with the others, and some text Hugo added in earlier today had two typos.
“I will,” I assure him. “What time am I supposed to pick up the bound booklets tomorrow from the printer?”
“Before eight, otherwise you won’t be here on time for the meeting.”
“Got it.”
He tells me once more to leave,go home, and then he’s gone and I’m the Lone Ranger in the dark office, working in the solitary glow of my cubicle. I review the presentation twice more then email it over to the print shop by 7:26. Phew. I lean back in my chair, sagging with relief. Then I acknowledge the absolute wreckage that is the surface of my desk, so before I leave, I treat my future self to a few minutes of cleanup. Some would accuse me of delaying the inevitable.He’s not going to show up.
I know that.
I didn’t stay late just on the off chance Professor Barclay would waltz out of that elevator and find me at my desk, dutifully working. I care about this job. I care, but I also would have really appreciated if he’d come back from Cincinnati today.
The next morning, I fall into the trap of waking up so early I think I can leisurely take my time getting ready, only to taketoolong so that I wind up running out of my apartment later than usual. I’m forced to grab an Uber, and it’s already a minute past eight when I walk into the print shop and ring the bell at the front desk.Ding!An older man emerges from the back room where the industrial-scale printing presses are going full steam. He wipes his ink-stained hands on a green mechanic’s towel and gives me a smile and a nod.
“Good morning. I’m here to pick up the order for Banks and Barclay. It was 40 color booklets, collated and bound. The order could be under Lewis or Banks and Barclay. They might have even put it under my name, Emelia Mercier.”
He frowns and wakes up his computer with a shake of his mouse, grabbing the glasses that were resting on his forehead and setting them down on the brim of his nose so he can see his screen better.
“Let me check my email,” he says, sounding less than hopeful. “I don’t recall putting that order together this morning.”
I emit a short nervous laugh. “I’m sure you did. I sent it over last night. I checked the email address three times to confirm I had it right, and I emailed it at 7:26 so I wouldn’t miss the 7:30 cutoff.”
He sighs and aims a pitying look my way from behind his glasses. “Well there’s your problem. My cutoff for overnight printing is 6:30, not 7:30.”
My heart drops.
“What do you mean?”
He sets his glasses back on the top of his head so his steady blue eyes can offer me some kind of solace. “You see, I can’t ensure print jobs that are sent after 6:30 PM. I’m swamped. I see your email here, though, and I can get these booklets to you by five PM today.”
My voice is high and shrill when I reply, “That won’t work. I have a meeting in thirty minutes.”
There’s that pitying frown again. It’s like he knows my job is on the line for this. How many dumbasses have stood where I’m standing? Enough that this guy doesn’t seem the least bit surprised by the situation.
