Household Gods

Frank was none too cordial when he and Dawn came to get Kimberley and Justin. “I should have taken half my plane fare out of that check, and Dawn’s, too,” he grumbled, “seeing how you screwed up Cancun for us.”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Nicole said: not strictly true, but Frank didn’t need to know that. “And I did need the money.” She glanced at Dawn, who was French-braiding Kimberley’s hair. Kimberley looked pleased with herself. “I’m going to be so pretty, Mommy,” she said.

“You already are, sweetheart,” Nicole answered. It wasn’t a bad thing that Kimberley liked Frank’s girlfriend. Really. She made one more gesture toward civility: “Thanks for getting the money to me when I asked for it,” she said to Frank.

“That’s okay.” Frank caught himself; she must have taken him by surprise. It certainly wasn’t her usual approach. “No, it’s not okay, but it’s done. The… heck with it.” That wasn’t civility for Nicole’s sake. He’d always, made an effort not to swear when the kids could hear.

With Kimberley and Justin out of the house, the place felt empty and much too quiet. Nicole tackled it with vacuum cleaner and duster, scrub brush and plain old elbow grease. She hadn’t given it that good a going-over since well before she woke up in Carnuntum. By the time the place was spotless and all the kids’ toys picked up and put away, she was bone-tired. But it was a different kind of tired than she knew after a long day in the office.

It felt good to sit down to a solitary dinner: a small steak, pan-grilled with garlic and cracked black pepper, and a baked potato — no potatoes in Carnuntum. She ate this miniature feast in front of the TV, with the VCR running her tape of The First Wives’ Club. She howled all the way through it. She’d got even, too, by God. It felt wonderful.

Frank and Dawn brought the kids back Sunday evening, putting an end to a long, lazy, surprisingly pleasant weekend. Nicole had idled through the Sunday paper with bagels and cream cheese and lox, watched another video, even spent a little time drowsing in the cool and familiar quiet of her bedroom. She was awake and refreshed and able to smile at the kids as they burst through the door — minus their father and his girlfriend, who, true to form, had dropped them off and sped away for a night of, Nicole could presume, relentless debauchery. Or else they were going to buckle down to a little extra work.

Kimberley’s mouth was going even before the door was fully open, pouring out her latest news: a trip to the zoo. “We saw lions and tigers and chimpanzees and elephants and flamingos and meerkats — meerkats are so funny, Mommy — and we ate hamburgers and French fries and pink lemonade.”

“Elephant make big poop,” Justin added. He laughed. Bathroom humor and two-year-olds went together like ham and eggs.

“He sure did,” Kimberley agreed. She made a face. “It was disgusting.” Then, with a giggle, she stuck a finger in front of her nose and trumpeted. So did Justin. They ran around being elephants, at impressive volume, till Nicole snagged them and pitched them into the bathtub. They splashed enough water to turn the rest of the bathroom into a swamp. That might have been fine for elephants; their mother was not amused.

When Monday morning came, the elephants were magically transformed into preschoolers. They were eager preschoolers, as eager to head to Wood-crest as they’d ever been to go to Josefina’s house. That was good news — very good indeed. So was the trip to the office, short, sweet, and simple. She was definitely getting to like that part of her day.

This Monday’s return was rather different than her last one. The outpouring of good wishes had stopped. And yet there were still greetings, smiles, welcoming waves: a friendliness and sense of being wanted that she couldn’t remember from before. Was it new, or had she been too harried to notice it?

She took a warm feeling into her office with her. It helped as she tackled the mountain of work she’d neglected in favor of Sheldon Rosenthal’s analysis. More had come in while she was doing that, and some was urgent. The fact she hadn’t heard from Sheldon Rosenthal didn’t concern her too deeply. Word would come down from Mount Olympus, or it wouldn’t. There was no point in worrying about it.

By the time she came up for air, it was Thursday. She had a vague memory of the week, including at least one food fight between Kimberley and Justin — the kitchen curtains would never be quite the same — and a birthday lunch for one of the other women associates.

By Thursday morning, she was beginning to think she’d reach the bottom of the pile sometime in the not too indefinite future. She was so pleased to realize that, she didn’t even snarl when the telephone rang. Cyndi’s voice said, “Mr. Rosenthal’s on the line, Ms. Gunther-Perrin.”

“Put him through,” Nicole said — strictly pro forma, of course. One did not, no matter how wickedly tempted, put the founding partner on hold.

“Good morning, Ms. Gunther-Perrin,” Rosenthal said in his smooth, polished tones. “Could you come up, please, to discuss the analysis you prepared for me?”

Could you come up, from the big boss, meant, How close to yesterday can you get your fanny up here? “Of course, Mr. Rosenthal,” Nicole said with what she hoped was suitably bright willingness — and no apprehension. “I’ll be right there.”

The seventh floor was as hushed and august a place as ever. It had, now she had a basis of comparison, a certain Roman feel — but she doubted very much that the decorators would have been pleased to be informed of real Roman taste in decor, including the nauseating color combinations and the gaudy, and X-rated, statuary.

She was keeping her spirits up rather well, she thought. Not stressing out. Not letting herself imagine horrors, or flash back too strongly to the last time she’d answered a summons from on high. She’d come up with such lofty hopes, and gone down like a soul into Hades, all the way down the helix of time to a tavern in Carnuntum.

Lucinda was sitting as always in the outer office, door dragon par excellence. She nodded as Nicole entered. “Go right in,” she said. Was that cordiality? It couldn’t be. It was just — a touch more than her usual civility. Maybe it was Nicole’s nice gray suit. Power dressing had its uses. “He’s expecting you.”

The office hadn’t changed at all — but it had only been three weeks of this world’s time since she’d seen it. Rosenthal stood up to greet her. She couldn’t read his expression. “Coffee?” he asked, just as he had when he’d dropped the bomb on her.

“Yes, thanks,” she said, and let him pour her a cup. There was a subtle protocol in that, and she was as well aware of it as he was.

It was excellent coffee. She sipped at it for a moment, admiring the view from his window, before she sat down across from that battleship of a desk.

She couldn’t tell what, if anything, he was thinking. Her gray suit, her cream silk shell, and her understated professional makeup wouldn’t offend his eyes, she didn’t think. Maybe she was a little more confident than she’d been, or a little less worn down by the world in general. She was definitely happier, now that she had a basis of comparison. Historical perspective, she thought, is an amazingly underrated thing.

Sheldon Rosenthal studied her for a moment, a scrutiny she endured with what she hoped was suitable equanimity, and tapped his forefinger on the analysis. “You think a challenge to developing this parcel, should one occur, would be likely to succeed.”

Nicole’s heart thudded, but she calmed it down. She nodded. “Yes, I do. Anyone who takes a look at that environmental impact report will find plenty of ammunition. I’ve outlined a couple of possible strategies, with citations.”

“Yes, you were most thorough.” Rosenthal tapped the top page again. “Most thorough,” he repeated. Nicole wondered if he meant it for a compliment. He coughed, then said, “I notice you credit Mr. Ogarkov with assisting you here.”

“That’s right,” Nicole said. And what do you intend to make of that. Mr. Founding Partner?

“And why did you seek his assistance?” Rosenthal asked. “Did you not consider that, since I gave the assignment to you, I might have wanted it to come from you and you alone?”

“I did consider that, yes.” Nicole spoke with great care. “But I also thought you would want the analysis to be as good as it could be, no matter how it got that way. Mr. Ogarkov writes better than I do” — you drove that home with a sledgehammer — “and so I asked him to polish it before I gave it to you. He was kind enough to oblige.”