Chicago, I’d have figured how to manage Marcia better.
Fifteen miles later, I switched to calculating the odds of both of my children choosing unfortunate friendships in the same year.
Ten miles after that, I turned on the radio.
“Good morning.” The receptionist at Browne and Browne smiled at me. The office was high rent, with colors and decor and lighting courtesy of expensive interior decorators. The complex shadows cast by the skylight and black stainless steel light fixtures didn’t come cheap.
“How may I help you?” she asked. I approached the counter. Made of glass block and lit from within by deep green lights, it spoke softly of cleverness and luxury and a dose of magic. The woman, roughly my own age but model skinny and with dangerously long fingernails, tilted her head slightly to one side.
“I have an eleven o’clock appointment with Bick Lewis.” I gave her my name.
She lifted the phone receiver from a base that had as many buttons and flashing lights as an aircraft cockpit. “You’re welcome to have a seat.”
I thanked her and ambled over to the waiting area, my shoes making a slight squishing noise on the hard floor. I eyed the copies of
“Hello, hello.”
Yesterday I’d heard the same voice through a hundred and fifty miles of phone wire and had envisioned a well-rounded sixtyish man with oxford shoes, white shirt, and a red paisley tie to match the suspenders that hid beneath a black suit coat. The reality was a little different.
“Beth Kennedy, right?” A thin man, maybe thirty years old, pumped my hand. “Good to meet you, good to meet you.”
The top of his head was in my direct line of vision. I looked down to see into his face.
“Thanks for meeting with me on such short notice.”
“No problem.” He whisked me through a low-ceilinged hallway lined with photos of what I assumed were buildings designed by Browne and Co. A few I recognized—a Chicago skyscraper, a Madison library—but the palatial residences were just blurs on my vision.
“Here we are, here we are.” Bick ushered me inside an office. As I gingerly sat in a twin of the lobby chairs, Bick spun around a leather monstrosity and plopped down. Inside the huge chair he looked like a small child in his father’s office.
“D’you mind?” He held up a pipe and a pouch of tobacco.
“You’re allowed to smoke in here?”
He grinned. “Partners get privileges. Yes, yes, I know. How does an undersized, pipe-smoking punk make partner of one of the largest architectural firms east of the Mississippi? Well, it ain’t my innovative designs.” He started stuffing his pipe with tobacco. “And it ain’t my engineering expertise.”
“Then what is it?” What could matter more than architecture at an architecture firm? It’d be like a doctor not knowing how to diagnose shingles. Or a children’s bookstore owner not knowing the plot of
“I’m the best rainmaker they’ve ever had.” He ripped a paper match out of a matchbook, and a small flame flared. The stink of sulfur wafted by as Bick held the match close to the pipe’s bowl and puffed furiously. A small cloud of smoke billowed around his head. He opened another desk drawer and set out a plastic rectangular box the size of a four-slice toaster. It whirred into motion, and the smoke was sucked into a vent.
Bick caught my lifted eyebrows. “Compromise, compromise,” he said. “I can smoke if I use this little guy. It’s not the same, though.” He looked around the room. It was the size of a small master bedroom. “There’s nothing like a room filled with pipe smoke.”
“No doubt.”
His laugh was as deep and rich as his speaking voice. If he sang, it’d be a low bass. “Are you married?” he asked.
I looked at my empty left ring finger. Taking off those rings had been one of the hardest things I’d ever done. The sudden and overwhelming sense of failure had taken me by surprise. I’d been prepared for sorrow, but not for such a stunning sense of disappointment in myself. So much for those vows I’d taken for life. I’d meant every word, every syllable, and now I was raising two children by myself. Where had I gone wrong? What was wrong with me?
My voice didn’t want to work, but I coughed it loose. “Why would you guess I’m not married?”
“Not a guess, not a guess.” He aimed the pipe’s stem at me and, for the first time, I took note of the intelligence in his face. “Facts. You and your husband divorced last year. You own a bookstore. You became the Tarver PTA’s secretary a month ago.”
I stared at him. Half of me was annoyed at what felt like a personal invasion; the other half was impressed. A tiny portion was flattered, but I stomped hard on that part. “I called yesterday afternoon at three thirty. How do you know all that?”
“Did my homework.” He blew a lazy smoke ring.
Hal the surveyor had been right; Bick was sharp. “Did you do your homework on the Tarver Elementary School addition?”
Another smoke ring. “Ask me a question about Tarver Elementary, any question.”
“What year was it built?”
He gave me a slitted glance. “The original school or the one built after the explosion?”
“What explosion?”
“One score for me.” He held up his index finger. “The original building was completed in 1930. A disgruntled janitor dynamited the place in 1947. The guy wired dynamite all through the crawl space and set it off by touching together two exposed wires.”
Horror fluttered in my heart. “Tell me he didn’t do that during school hours.”
“No, no. July. They rebuilt the new school on the same spot. No crawl space, though.” His cheeks sank deep as he drew on the pipe. “That particular barn door is locked tight.”
I tried to shake away a sight I’d never seen. “An explosion. I can’t believe I’ve never heard about it.”
Bick shrugged. “Long time ago.”
Next time I saw Auntie May in her wheelchair, I’d ask her about it—if she didn’t run me over first. “Why is there a step between the early-elementary wing and the main hall?” A ramp had been added to allow the building to be handicapped accessible, but I’d always wondered why the step existed.
“Builder error,” he said promptly. “They were in a hurry to get the school built, so they started laying block at both ends. When they met in the middle, things weren’t quite right.”
“You’re making that up.”
“Construction isn’t about getting everything right. It’s about how to best cover up your mistakes.”
“I didn’t need to know that.”
He smiled. “Then go back to thinking I made that part up.”
“I will. Last question,” I said. “Who put up the money for the Tarver addition?” My heart thudded against my ribs. Please, let him tell me. Please, don’t let Marina get hurt. Please . . .
His sharp gaze focused tight and drilled into me. “Hmm.” He puffed on his pipe, blowing tiny smoke signals into the air. I tried not to squirm under the intensity and failed miserably. He blew a big puff, took the pipe out of his mouth, and asked, “How about dinner tonight?”
“I . . . I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Never mind, never mind.” He studied his pipe. “The money for Tarver. Interesting question.” We both watched the smoke for a minute. I wondered if Native Americans truly had sent up smoke signals, or if the whole thing was a Hollywood invention.
“Why,” Bick asked, “do you want to know?”
I spouted out what I’d told Hal the previous day—member of the PTA, wanted to be responsible, blah, blah, blah. My explanation tailed off. “And that’s about it.”
Bick’s focus tightened even closer. I kept up the stare-down for almost a full second before looking away. He
