Share the Moon. Sharon Struth
interview. By three AM she’d reached a conclusion: the first thing she needed to do was apologize. She wasn’t too happy about it, though.
As she neared the exit for RGI, the unpalatable taste of crow lingered in her mouth. By the time she pulled into the parking garage, she’d accepted the bitter tang.
A glance at the dashboard clock showed she now ran twelve minutes late, thanks to a few traffic lights. Sophie grabbed her bag and hurried along the concrete floor of the garage toward the elevators. The clickity-clack of pointy Jones New York pumps Bernadette had insisted Sophie buy from the clearance rack at TJ Maxx echoed against the concrete walls. Up until now, they’d only seen the light of day on Easter Sunday. She’d dressed professionally in her black pencil skirt and a white silk shell covered by a tweed, cropped jacket. As a finishing touch, she’d twirled her hair into a fisted bun. Dressed as professionally as a reporter from the New York Times, she’d force Duncan to ignore the mistakes of her last interview and erase the image of her as some local gal working for a teeny small town paper who couldn’t control her rage.
She bopped the button for the eighth floor and, in mere seconds, stepped out into Resort Group International’s tropical lobby. The same interior designer must’ve also done the Waikiki Hilton. She turned to the sound of water, where a miniature waterfall cascaded into a lily pad laden pool.
At the welcome desk, she snickered and grinned at the receptionist. “Do you serve mai tais here?”
The receptionist, whose wrinkled face defied her platinum blond hair, looked up but offered no smile. “Can I help you?”
“Um, yes. I’m Sophie Shaw. I have an appointment with Duncan Jamieson.”
“Sign in here.” She pushed a guest book across the desk.
Under “Reason for visit,” she scribbled Appointment D. Jamieson. Three lines above where she signed, she spotted the name Joseph Dougherty, a member of the Northbridge Zoning Board.
Sophie’s finger followed to the line for reason he visited.
The receptionist tugged the book away. “Please have a seat. I’ll let Mr. Jamieson know you’ve arrived.” Her wrinkles creased further with a “gotcha” smirk.
Sophie waited on a sleek contemporary sofa. Mural-sized photographs of locations where RGI had built resorts draped the walls. From the sunny beaches of California, to snow-capped mountains in the Alps, to the flaxen hills of Tuscany, RGI’s modern luxuries awaited the weary traveler. Joe’s visit nagged at her subconscious, but the issue could easily be resolved by asking Duncan why the zoning board member had been here. Years of reporting proved one thing: never discount anything. A single question might change the course of a story.
“Sophie?” A fit man with tidy brown hair approached her with an extended hand. His smile showcased his perfect pearly teeth but lacked sincerity. “I’m Carl Hansen.”
She recognized him from the public hearing. “Sorry I’m a little late.”
“No problem.”
The tenseness in her jaw relaxed.
“Although, Duncan can be a stickler for punctuality.”
Her stomach tugged into a hard knot.
Carl’s dark suit and striped tie made her glad she’d dressed up. He led her down a long hallway, with office doors spaced evenly on both sides and a name plaque on the wall near each doorway. Cardboard boxes sat on the floor outside some of the offices.
“Please excuse the mess. We’re still transitioning while we close the New York office.”
They entered a large suite. The sleek corporate atmosphere of the hallways disappeared, replaced by paintings of nature, a mission-styled sofa, and tiffany lamps. Meg had mentioned Duncan’s purchase of the Burnham estate, a home known for its Craftsman design. A slender woman, with shoulder-length hair almost the same color as her taupe suit jacket sat at a desk, furiously typing.
“I guess this where Frank Lloyd Wright sits,” Sophie said then chuckled. Surely, with this décor, Duncan’s staff would know about the architect who embraced the Prairie School of Design, the Craftsman qualities similar to the home he’d purchased in Northbridge.
Carl blinked and just looked at her for a second. Strike two on the joking around with staff. “Karen. This is Sophie Shaw. Duncan’s appointment.”
Her catlike eyes lifted with a smile, perhaps a pity offering for the joke. “He’s finishing a call but said to send Ms. Shaw right in.”
Carl tapped on the half-opened door, stood aside, and waved her inside. The door clicked shut. He hadn’t joined them.
Duncan sat behind his large mahogany desk with his phone’s handset wedged between his shoulder and his ear while he leaned back and studied a sheet in his hand. “Uh-huh. What’ll it end up costing us?”
He glanced at her over the top of dark-rimmed, half-framed glasses. A force seared Sophie, like a momentary zap of electricity. His gaze shifted to a digital clock positioned in the corner of his desk and he frowned. Carl’s hint that Duncan was the punctuality police made her belly squirm with butterflies. Why hadn’t she left the mall sooner? Besides the added calories, she’d pay for the last stop at Aunt Annie’s Pretzels in more ways than one.
Duncan motioned with his chin to a seating area then lifted a second sheet of paper from a military-neat pile. “Wow. Great price. Including labor?” He chuckled. “No. I’m not asking to pay more.”
Sure, she needed to apologize. In no way did she have to jump to his rude chin tip command to sit, though. She roamed to the wall not far from where he sat and studied a collage of ten or so photographs. All showed a blue and white hulled sailboat, tipped on an angle with a wind-filled jib and mainsail steering the vessel through choppy waters. When they’d first married, she and Mike had a small sixteen foot sailboat, a midget compared to these. Similar large boats sailed in the background, perhaps a race. A close-up from behind revealed one boat’s name read “True Love.” Another photo showed Duncan standing in a group of men dressed in shorts and matching T-shirts, which read “You Can’t Beat True Love.” His curls ruffled from a breeze and his pale skin glowed pink from a day in the sun.
She glanced toward his desk, where he remained wrapped up in his phone call. The top button of his crisp white shirt was undone, visible beneath a loosened red power tie. Cuffed sleeves, folded neatly to below his elbow, revealed strong forearms. He lifted his gaze over the rims of his glasses. She froze.
“Hold on, Kevin.” He covered the mouthpiece. “Please. Have a seat.”
“Sorry.” Duncan returned to his call. “We’ll have to wrap this up. My appointment arrived. Anything else we need to discuss?”
He’d requested her for this interview but didn’t seem happy she actually showed up. Did he have another reason, like to retaliate for the parking lot outburst?
She approached an expensive-looking leather sofa and removed a tape recorder, pad, and pen to a teak coffee table but, on principle, refused to sit. Jay often remarked how he hated her passive-aggressive behavior. The reality of his observation came to full light with this situation.
An end table held a picture of Duncan with a pretty, dark-haired woman huddled close to two children, the backdrop some European city. Meg had said his wife passed away. Had she suffered a long illness like Sophie’s mother or was her death sudden?
“Not again?” Duncan sounded annoyed. “You’re right. Okay. I’ll send Carl this time.”
She lifted the photograph. The teenage girl appeared in her early teens and had the cute nose of the woman and her dark hair. The young boy had Duncan’s features, with brighter cinnamon hair and freckles around his nose.
The room’s silence suddenly screamed. Sophie glanced over, afraid Duncan’s angry scowl would have returned. Instead, he studied her with a softened stare. His thoughtful gaze appraised her legs, paused