The Beginning of Always (12 page)

The lobby was strangely quiet for a Monday-morning work rush, and my heels clicked much too loudly against the cold marble. I adjusted my messenger bag again and glanced around for someone to give me a cue.

And as if he read my mind, a shadow extended around the corner and Train emerged with a grin on his wide face.

“Ms. Reynolds!” he boomed across the sterile lobby. I cracked a tentative smile.

“Hey, Train,” I said as I trotted over. His massive body rumbled the space around him and he was wearing a bright blue polo with dark jeans, an outfit in total contradiction to Saturday’s affair.

“Were you tasked to fetch me?” I asked.

Train’s eyes crinkled with good humor. “Right! G told me get you up there.”

“Gertrude?”

“Yah.” Train switched sides with me and gently guided me towards a hallway on the left. “She’s moving some meetings around for Boss, so she gave me the honor of finding you,” he said without pretension or sarcasm.

I found us in a mirrored hallway that held a single elevator bay against the far wall. Train waved a key fob in front of a gray circle and a small blue light lit up, accompanied by the smooth sound of machinery.

“Who else is in this building?” I asked. The lobby was absolutely deserted and I hadn’t run into anyone but the doorman outside.

The mirror in front of us dinged and the walls withdrew smoothly to expose a similarly generously mirrored car. Train and I entered and the doors shut behind us. I glanced around; there were no numbers, the only buttons the fire alarm and police bells.

“This is a private lobby,” Train explained, crossing his arms. “It’s usually locked and the doorman is just there to make sure no one tries to sneak in. We opened it for today.”

“So are your offices in the entire building?”

Train shook his head. “Naw. It’s rented out to other companies. There are some shops on the other end, and at least half of the bottom levels are leased to a college’s admissions offices or something. They just don’t come through this area.” Train scratched his beard, the loud scritching sound filling the air. “I’m not positive. Feel free to ask Boss, he’ll definitely know.”

I nodded and made a mental note to do just that. The mystery that had shrouded Blair Properties was vast and conspiratorial. No one got as rich or became as successful as fast as Alistair had in recent history, and his movements in the notoriously closed scene were legendary in their secrecy. People were tight-lipped, even in all my preassignment research. The only facts present were the title changes and formal filings of business documents with the city. It’d be interesting to explore behind the velvet curtain.

So when the elevator doors slid open, I was ready to investigate beyond the plush reception area that greeted us. But to my surprise, the space beyond the velvet curtain wasn’t as spacious as I had assumed; the offices of Blair Properties were, in actuality, pretty small.

Train circled me around the offices and its lean staff. Besides a flirty Australian kid at the receptionist table, there were about eight other employees outside of Thomas, Gertrude, and Train. I was friendly, said my hellos and shook hands. There was a short squat man in wide glasses from HR/Payroll, a pair of middle-aged women in Contracts, and an elderly man in Procurement.

The space was bright and airy, with large windows and individual offices lined up against the walls. There weren’t enough employees to warrant space-saving cubicles, I supposed. Gertrude was in a glass coffin of an office at the far end of the room. Thomas was nowhere to be found.

Everyone was nice enough, if slightly groggy. The women in Contracts chatted me up with coffees in their hand, blatantly sizing me up with interest. They asked me some personal questions that I answered vaguely and they cooed over my earrings. The women gave off a maternal air and fussed to get me a cup of coffee, despite my protests.

That’s how I ended up with a steaming cup of milky coffee filled to the brim, a Garfield cartoon plastered on the front proclaiming “I hate Mondays.”

I asked the ladies what they thought of Alistair, and they hemmed and hawed, neither uncomfortable nor enthusiastic.

They liked him, but they didn’t know him.

“He’s pretty detached,” one said.

“A good boss. Takes care of us, but beyond that I can’t say much,” the other added.

Very, very formal in meetings, they both agreed.

Before I could prod for more, Train crossed his arms and brought himself to his full height. “Alright,” he boomed good-naturedly. “Break it up, you three.”

The Contracts ladies turned their attentions to Train, asking about his wife and his three kids. There was a lot of awwwwing and ooooohing over pictures he extracted proudly from his wallet. He shook them off after a good ten minutes and led me to another set of double doors situated at the far end of office. The doors were made of heavy wood and were out of place in all the airy glass.

“Boss’s offices are down this hallway. He’s expecting you.”

“You’re not coming with me?”

Train hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “I have to meet Thomas across town. He wants me to check out a building.” Train winked. “It’ll be cool. Boss is busy in the morning, so I hope you get what you need for your interviews.” He pushed the doors open and waved a hand in. “Off you go.”

I crossed the threshold, then stopped. I turned around and reached out to touch Train’s arm gently.

“Thanks, Train, for everything.” Somehow knowing he was on my side and supportive made the prospect of everything easier to swallow.

Train beamed at me and grasped my small hand with his fleshy one.

“Ay, it’s my job and you’re a gem. I’ll be seeing you later.” He gave me a comforting squeeze and patted my palm in a fatherly way. I nodded and let go, walking into the hallway. The heavy doors shushed behind me and I was alone.

The hallway was long, its walls painted a sterile white with several framed photographs hung at eye level. I considered the photos as I made my way down. They were shots of all the Blair Properties buildings and their retail stores. Gucci, Prada, Fendi. The most famous designer names and all the biggest retail shops from around the world. H&M, Zara, the Gap.

My palms began to sweat.

The hallway ended too quickly and I found myself in front of another set of massive doors. I wasn’t sure how long I stood there, reading the wood grain and stilling my heart. I needed to stop caring. I needed to allow Alistair not to exist. He wasn’t Alistair, not my Alistair anymore, and he couldn’t affect me. I had to be as apathetic and neutral as with any other interviewee.

He didn’t matter.

We didn’t matter.

I swallowed the lump of anxiety, fisted the cold steel knob, and entered with resolve in my blood.

My first impression of the room that stretched before me was that it was light and dark at the same time. The floor matched the hallway in a deep hardwood, the furniture heavy in equal measure, but the windows allowed light to shine in and illuminate everything. And there was Alistair, standing in the middle of this vast space behind a wide desk.

He was in another suit and tie, this time a two-piece of dark gray. The reality of present-day Alistair in suits was a bit disconcerting, or at the very least wholly unnatural. When we were young, he was always in denim and flannel, just like any good small-town boy. But we were far away from Michigan. And instead of a sundress, I was sporting a pencil skirt, cardigan, and silk blouse.

“Good morning,” Alistair said with a nod in my direction. He was standing, leaning his palms against his table, and staring intently at two large computer screens situated in front of him.

“Good morning,” I said, straightening my back. Yes. Resolve. That was it.

“You can work there.” Alistair pointed absentmindedly in the direction of a plush sitting area with dark leather couches and a low wooden coffee table.

While I had done observations for all my interviewees, to watch a businessman working at a desk was inefficient to say the least. Paying attention to a man typing at a computer wasn’t the most exciting of times, nor the most fruitful. “I can come back later if you’re busy.” I gestured with my thumb back out the door. I halfway hoped he would agree and tell me to go work in the conference room or come back later in the week.

“No.” Alistair’s attention was following whatever text stretched before him. “I’ll have time in a couple hours to sit down with you.” He suddenly glanced up, and I flinched inwardly at that familiar hazel gaze.

So much for resolve.

“Besides, the profile needed the daily workings, right?”

“Right,” I agreed lamely.

Alistair’s eye contact lingered, and I shifted on my feet.

“Nice cup.”

I was still clutching the Garfield cup filled with steaming coffee. I raised it halfheartedly and laughed uneasily.

“Your Contracts ladies …”

He nodded and went back to his screen. The conversation died there and I shuffled my way to the sitting area. I sat down uneasily and lowered the coffee onto the table, swinging the mug around so that Garfield’s familiar face scowled back.

At least I had one friend here, albeit made of ceramic.

The morning was uneventful. I watched Alistair as he read contracts and typed on the computer. He mostly remained standing but sometimes he sat and clicked away at the computer with his brow furrowed. At times, he got up and paced in front of his large windows while talking on the phone. The conversations set up meetings, requested details of contracts, followed leads for properties coming on the market. I got that much from the one-sided exchanges.

If he was affected by my presence in his office, he gave no sign. He acted as if I was nothing more than a potted plant, neither acknowledging my existence nor glancing my way.

And like a dutiful piece of botany, I remained silent. I typed on my laptop, scribbled notes for questions, and tried hard not to stare at him. It was weird, sitting in the same room as him. It was as if we were back in high school and studying in the library for finals. It was that strange sense of not engaging in conversation, but being acutely aware of each other’s presence. Except back then, I didn’t feel as if needles were being jammed into my legs.

Time crawled. I wrote and rewrote questions. I cursed Gordon to hell and back. Just as I was wondering if I needed to leave instead of taking up more Blair Properties air, Alistair abruptly slammed his phone back down in its cradle and walked around his desk.

“Come on. Let’s grab lunch,” he said, and with that he exited his office doors. I quickly turned my wrist over to check the time on my wristwatch—1:42 p.m.

A scramble ensued and I rushed to follow, slamming my laptop closed and chasing after Alistair, stuffing things into my bags as I went. I had just caught up with him halfway down the hallway when, instead of exiting into the general offices, he turned left just before the double doors and opened another set of doors. It held an elevator, a private one. He waited patiently for me to walk in first, just like a perfect gentleman. I entered and he followed closely behind.

It was one of those old-style elevators and Alistair reached over to pull shut an accordion fold of golden metal grates hidden in the side. He cranked a gleaming lever, and with a shudder, we began ascending to the unknown.

“Where are we going? Narnia?”

Alistair leaned against the far wall and crossed his arms over his broad chest. The space was too small and we were too close together. I could sense his cologne, the heat of him nearly on me. He smelled cool and woodsy.

It nudged a memory that I refused to acknowledge.

“You’ll see,” he answered and we rode the rest of the way in silence.

We went all the way to the top. Alistair pulled open the gates and opened a heavy metal door that spilled sunlight and revealed a breathtaking sight. The rooftop had sweeping views of the New York skyline, and the Hudson River stretched off into the horizon. The weather was gorgeous. Spring had arrived and it was one of those perfectly temperate days that resided just at the edge of chilly. I bound my cardigan closer to my body as the wind picked up and my hair blew about my face. A low buzz from the streets below hummed up, but blended with the expansive silence to create a wholly unique atmospheric sound.

A table sat pushed against a corner with a white tablecloth billowing softly in the light wind. Two golden chairs and a large linen canopy completed the picturesque scene.

I stood rooted at the spot, slightly stunned, while Alistair strode to the table. I shook my head and followed. “So this is how the other half lives, huh? Can’t just have a normal lunch in a cafeteria?”

The back of Alistair’s dark head answered, “I don’t have a cafeteria in this building. And you probably want a quiet place to ask your questions, and I want to eat lunch without any interruptions.”

I stopped short of the table. “So this was the perfect solution.”

Alistair gave no indication he acknowledged the sarcasm in my voice. He rounded behind one chair, pulled it out, and waited patiently for me to take my seat. I grappled for a second to come up with an additional retort, but at the end I just sighed and crossed over.

“We could have just eaten in your office or something. Or I could have gotten something down the street,” I said as I plopped down. Alistair pushed my chair in and circled around to sit across from me.

This was strange. Too private, too personal … almost romantic. If I didn’t know Alistair, I’d say he was trying to impress me. But if I knew Alistair, I knew he never worked to impress anyone, so maybe he really did just eat lunch on his rooftop like some New York City douche. Who knew?

I was more comfortable with the douche justification, so I just decided to stick with that.

With the sound of footfalls, a waiter emerged from some mysterious entrance. He smiled at me with an almost questioning, lightly puzzled expression and I suddenly became very fascinated by the brick facade across the way.

“Hello, Mr. Blair. Hello, Ms. Reynolds. May I take your drink order?”