Jumped (28 page)

Mitchell leaned back in his chair.

“I'd like to start by thanking you for this opportunity. I've been studying your requirements and specifications, and I have the experience, expertise, and talent to deliver the house of your dreams. I started my own firm so I could take on only the projects I'm passionate about and personally oversee each one. I got licensed in Colorado and moved there so I could specialize in designing structures that would work well in the harsh mountain environment, as well as being functional and beautiful. If you decide to go with FTM Design, you have my word that this house will be the only project I'll take until it's built to your satisfaction. I'll be at your beck and call. And that's not because you're Bethany's honorary uncle. That's just how I do business.”

“You always talk like a commercial?”

Finn couldn't stop his smile. He liked Uncle Mitch. “Sorry. You got me.”

Mitch grinned. “What'd you call Beth? Bethany? Ha! Never heard anyone call her that except her grandmother.”

“Yeah. I've just always called her that.” Finn needed to get back on track. “So, Mitch, I put together a video to show you my portfolio and then I'll go over some schemes, or options, for your new home. If you'll indulge me . . .”

Finn moved to his laptop and typed. He moved the cursor around and clicked. Typed some more. Moused. Typed. Clicked.

Nothing was happening.

He closed and opened the presentation and . . .

Yes!
The FTM Design logo appeared on the screen. It was on the big screen as well. Okay. Good. He clicked to start the video.

Music filled the room. Finn watched the video while surreptitiously watching Uncle Mitch. Was the big man entranced? Hard to tell.
Yes, McNabb, it's too much to ask to hope he weeps.

The portfolio section of the video began and Finn used the remote to pace through the plans, blueprints, renderings, photos, and descriptions. He commented on each, tailoring his explanations to Uncle Mitch.

Then came the schemes. Finn took a deep breath and plunged in. This is what he loved. This is why he'd become an architect—to literally provide shelter, a basic need of the human race. It was also an artistic expression, but functionality and livability were key. He talked about the rooms and why they were the way they were, how roomy or cozy they would be, how welcoming the space would be, and how Finn would alter the design to adapt to the land Mitchell bought.

“As you can see, this is an old-fashioned rec room, where a good poker game might crop up,” Finn said, knowing Uncle Mitch was a card player. “As you can also see, there's access to the exterior from this room—in case you don't want cigar smoke in the house.”

“I see you've already talked to my wife!”

Good. Finn had pegged Uncle Mitch correctly, based on what Bethany had told him. He played it folksy as he took Uncle Mitch through each scheme. He'd always been amazed at architects who talked over their clients' heads or alienated them with too much jargon. Finn could read people pretty well—which was how he'd known Bethany's father disliked him from the outset—and it helped in presentations.

When he finished, Finn made it clear that he could change the design depending on the site, and how he'd make sure it complemented the environment.

Mitch asked questions and Finn answered. Then they talked money. Finn outlined the scope and estimated cost of each scheme. He tried to gauge Mitch's reaction, but the man had a Texas Hold 'em half smile firmly in place. Finn answered all of Mitch's questions confidently, but with just enough good ol' boy attitude to convince Mitch he was trustworthy.

“I tell you what,” Mitch said. “Those were some
houses
you built. Nice job . . . what was your name?”

“Finn.”

“Finn, right. Beth knew what she was talking about when she sent you my way.” The man stood. “I'll make a decision in the next coupla weeks. Impressive presentation.”

“Thank you, sir,” Finn said.

Mitchell Frederick shook Finn's hand in his Manwich way and left.

Finn disconnected cables from his laptop. A closed-lipped smile spread across his face. He had been neck deep in the zone. If he didn't get the project, it wasn't due to a lackluster presentation. For the first time since it had happened, he didn't feel hindered by his broken leg.

He passed through the reception area on his crutches, laptop in his backpack.

“Good-bye, Val. Thank you.”

“Good-bye, Mr. McNabb.” She beamed at him.

Two men and two women—all impeccably dressed—sat with laptops, hip briefcases, and a large aluminum case. His competition. He nodded to them as he made his way to the door. One of the men got up to open it for him.

“Thanks,” Finn said.

May the best architect win
.
And may it be me.

Beth had resisted doing
a drive-by for one entire week. She had also resisted calling, texting, emailing, writing a letter to, or stalking Finn, or selling Amway so she'd have an excuse to visit. Unfortunately, she hadn't resisted thinking about him early and often.

But now that the week was up and she was leaving Aspen soon, she succumbed to a Monday afternoon drive-by.

Like a teenager
, she chided herself. With Mingo for company, she wound her way up the switchbacks to his compact mountain house. If he looked out, there was no way he'd miss her truck. There were pine trees, but the road was narrow and ran right in front of his house.

She couldn't see his car, but there was a garage. She couldn't tell if he was home. Stopping right in front, she could see why he couldn't return here after his break. She knew there were a lot of stairs rising from the road to the house, but she didn't realize how treacherous they were. There was no way he'd have been able to negotiate the steep slope when his leg was first broken without breaking his neck. Frankly, she wondered how he did it now, even with the lighter brace and weeks of practice.

“Whaddya think, Ming? Should I talk to him? Or let sleeping dogs lie, take the land, and run? I figured you're an expert on sleeping dogs.” She scratched his velvety chin and he groaned. He was no help.

“Frederick Associates” showed
in the window on Finn's cell phone on Wednesday morning as he was shaving. He was just out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist. He wiped shaving cream off his face, cleared his throat, and answered.

“Finn McNabb.”

It was Mitchell himself. The “how are you” portion of the call was brief, and Finn was grateful. He wanted to know—yes or no?

“I'll get to the point,” Mitchell said. “I'm sorry, son, but I'm going with another firm. You had some great ideas, but I'm just not convinced you have the resources to build the house I want the way I want it. I went with a bigger outfit.”

A bigger outfit? That could be almost any other architect in Colorado.

Finn felt his heart beat faster as adrenaline surged in his blood. His fight-or-flight response kicked in, and his go-to was always “fight.” He needed this project. He was the best architect for it; he knew that. He knew what other firms in the entire state could do—and nobody would be as good a fit.

“Sir, what are your specific concerns? I'd like to address them.”

“You're just one person. I need a team. I told you how I want a team. I want things to go as quickly as possible, and I just can't figure how you'll do better than the other firm.”

“Mitch. If I could have a moment of your time. At your convenience. Today? How about lunch or dinner?”

“I appreciate your eagerness, son. You remind me of me at your age. But my mind's made up.”

And that was that. Finn ended the call, then pounded the counter of the bathroom sink with his fist.
There has to be a way.

He thought of Bethany, but he wasn't going to use her. He had to do this on his own.
Think, McNabb!

17

F
our hours later,
at eleven o'clock mountain daylight time, Finn was flying to Cleveland. If he didn't make every effort to get this project, he wouldn't be able to forgive himself. And instead of staying angry and giving in to his urge to destroy something, he channeled his emotion into positive action.

The plane landed, and Finn took a cab from the Cleveland Hopkins International Airport straight to Frederick Associates' offices. He felt he had been there five hours ago instead of five days ago.

Val the receptionist was there, smiling. He smiled back, grateful that women found him appealing, because he needed it now. After some charming banter, he said, “Val, I have a problem, and I wondered if you could help me.”

He was so not comfortable with this, but he forged ahead.

“Yes?” Val looked up at him with big blue eyes.

“I have some news about Bethany—Beth—Fanelli. I'm afraid it has to be delivered in person. Is he in?”

“Oh dear. I'm afraid he's not. He left early for dinner.”

“He's gone for the night?”

“I'm afraid so, yes.”

“Is there any way you could find out where he went? It's . . . important.”

Val regarded him. “Is Beth okay?”

“Yes. But it's still important.” And it was. And it had to do with Bethany.

The restaurant on Fourth Street pulled off a sleek, yet warm decor and served bistro fare. It had tall foods and pretty sauces, which Finn didn't think suited Mitch, but then again, maybe Mitch's wife had chosen it. He was thrilled to see Mitch alone at the bar with a scotch. Good. He would make his case, then leave. It would be clean and fast.

He took a deep breath and caught his reflection in a mirror near the door. He wore a white shirt and black jacket and jeans, mostly because this pair of jeans fit over his brace. It all looked okay. He yanked on his lapels and went in.

“Mitch, excuse me for interrupting.”

“McNabb? What the hell are you doing here?” Mitch absentmindedly shook Finn's extended hand.

“Sir, I got on a plane as soon as we got off the phone. I think you're making a mistake. This isn't hubris; it was my fault for not conveying the facts more accurately.” He gestured to his leg, the first time he'd played the sympathy card, but he was pulling out all the stops. “Mind if I sit?”

“Go on,” Mitch said, and nodded to the barstool next to him.

“I understand that any other firm will have a bigger staff. However, all that means is they have more overhead, more people to pay, more approvals that will take longer, and all that trickles down to your cost. I run lean. I'll put together a team specifically for your house. It's like bringing in specialty teams. I also worked in construction for years. I know firsthand how to build a house with my hands.”

The bartender asked Finn if he wanted anything.

Finn asked for one of the beers on tap.

“Go on,” Mitch said again.

“I'll give your house exactly what it needs. Nothing more for you to pay for, but nothing less, where I can't deliver what you want.

“I'll listen to you. You're the coach—I'm the quarterback. I've worked at larger firms, and they handle so many projects, they can't give a client the kind of attention I can. While I'm working on your house, I'm only working on your house. I don't take on anything else. This is selfish on my part, too—for one thing, I want to establish a reputation for personalized customer service. For another, I don't want to work twenty hours a day. I used to do that and it—” He almost mentioned Bethany, but stopped himself. “I didn't perform at my best. And finally, I don't want to miss anything that needs attention. I'll be on site every day. I'll treat it as though it's my house.”

The bartender set down Finn's beer, and Finn slid his credit card to him, then nodded. The bartender took the card to start a tab.

Mitch sipped his scotch and ran his tongue around his teeth. Finn wasn't sure if he was succeeding, but he couldn't stop now.

“There's another thing I have that no firm in the world has.”

“What's that?”

Finn looked at his beer, then at Mitch. He was going for it. “I want to prove to Bethany Fanelli that I'm good at what I do. Frankly, sir, I want to marry her. If I get my way, we'll be coming over to the house that I'm going to build for you, and if I screw anything up, I'll hear about it for the rest of my life. Plus, let's face it, she'll make me throw in some freebies.”

Mitch threw back his massive bulldog head and laughed.

Touchdown!

“Ha! I like the sound of that!” Mitch squinted at Finn and leaned closer. “You flew out here today, all the way from Colorada?”

“Yes.”

“To talk me into hiring you?”

“Yes.”

“How'd you know where I'd be?”

“I told Val I had to tell you something about Bethany. I might have made it sound somewhat devastating.”

“I've got to hand it to you, kid—you're determined. Too bad you didn't play college ball. You woulda been a credit to any squad.”

“Like I said, I wasn't fast enough, big enough, and my arm wasn't good enough.”

“Their loss.” The older man looked at Finn, appraising. “You want to marry Beth . . . again, isn't that right?”

Finn was in the middle of taking a sip of beer and he coughed. “Yes. Yes, sir.”

“Why do you call her Bethany?”

Mitch was full of surprises. Finn hadn't seen this one coming. “When I first met her, I asked her what her full name was. She told me. I thought it was prettier and more feminine than Beth, and I've always called her that because she's so . . .” He cleared his throat. “Beautiful.” This was getting uncomfortable.

“She know you want to marry her?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You've proposed?”

“Not in so many words. But I told her I want to marry her.”

Mitch scowled, which employed all his wrinkles. “Son. You had the chutzpah to fly across the country, lie to my assistant, and badger me to hire you, and you haven't gotten down on one knee?”

“It's . . . complicated.”

“It's not. I know you've got guts.” He swiveled back to his scotch. “Put 'em to use.” He drained his glass. “You've got the job.”

Finn couldn't help himself. He glowed. He felt like he was ten years old; he grinned like a spastic chimp, grabbed Mitch's meaty paw and shook it hard, twice. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.”

“Now get outta here and take care of that other matter.”

“Yes, sir!”

Finn settled his tab—including Mitch's dinner, whatever it happened to be—and glided out of the restaurant. Even with the brace, he felt like Gene Kelly and Frank Lloyd Wright rolled into one.

Jack Cormier looked
more scrumptious than a hot beignet when he showed up at Aspen Creek on Thursday evening, just in time for a Harris cocktail hour. He wore a pink shirt with the sleeves rolled up and khakis, but he wore the hell out of them. He'd called earlier, of course. Jack was like that, Beth mused. Thoughtful. Handsome. Intelligent. Charming.

And nothing compared to Finn.

But that was beside the point, now, wasn't it? She missed Finn just because she'd grown used to being with him. It didn't mean she wanted to marry him. She might even have been mistaken about being in love with him. It could have been some kind of sex haze.

Jack phoned to say he had news about her clothing line and wanted to talk in person. For their guest, Harris invented a cocktail he called the Zephyr, named after the New Orleans minor league baseball team. It resembled the famous Hurricane, but with less “Mardi Gras booziness,” according to Harris.

Everyone was there for Beth's meeting—proof they were family. Amanda, Grady, Harris, and even Jacqueline sat around the big table on the patio. Tiki torches and citronella candles provided soft, flattering light as the evening sun faded. Zephyrs, water, wine, and beer were at the ready, as well as Harris's usual “thrown together” gourmet appetizers. He made two bacon-centric offerings for Beth: bacon-wrapped scallops and bacon strips wearing a maple glaze.

“It's my distinct pleasure,” Jack Cormier began, in his endorphin-rich accent, “to inform you, Miss Bethany Fanelli, that the prestigious international equestrian retailer Kingfisher Saddlery has made an offer for your clothing line.”

“Kingfisher!” Amanda said.

“You're kidding!” Bethany squealed.

“I take it this is good?” Grady asked.

“They supply equestrian teams all over the world,” Amanda told her husband. “They're the real deal. This is really good news.”

“Get out your tap shoes, Francis!” Harris raised his glass.

Jack continued, “Now, I don't pretend I can negotiate your contract. We'll let the lawyers handle that. But I'm happy to be the bearer of good news. And . . .” He removed a letter from his back pocket, “Here's what they're thinking in terms of compensation.” He slid the folded paper to Beth.

She opened it and thought she might collapse. The figure was generous.

“Oh!” Beth exclaimed. “Jack, thank you! I can't believe this!
Kingfisher!
” Beth jumped up and pretty much accosted Jack. He set his Zephyr down just in time to prevent spillage.

“To Kingfisher and Beth's future and extravagant success,” Grady said, raising his glass.

“Hear, hear,” the table said, clinking glasses.

Beth sat down, woozy. She was flushed and felt like she'd just won a Wellington grand prix. This was amazing. She could tell her father she was a success. She could start putting the horse rescue together for real. Jack's news was excruciatingly fortunate. She should be doing cartwheels across the pool.

And yet, she wished Finn were there. Because the wonderful news wasn't quite as wonderful without him.

“For our last
Friday together, let's do something super-girly—a spa afternoon,” Amanda said as she stood in Beth's bedroom doorway. Beth was at the mirror, wrangling her hair into a ponytail.

“You hate girly.”

“But you like it. And we can still ride this morning.”

“As long as Harris doesn't come. I can't get a facial next to a man with better skin.”

Amanda laughed. “No problem. It'll be just us. See you at breakfast.”