The Living Room (42 page)

Friday morning Amy delivered her recommendation about the financial consultant for the Nigerian oil project to Mr. Phillips. He looked over the spreadsheet she’d printed out.

“This is an interesting approach,” he said. “How many people did you interview?”

“Thirty-eight,” she replied. “It’s split fairly equally among the two companies.”

“And you’re recommending the firm in Miami even though you have the least information about them.”

“Yes, sir. They’ve worked on two projects for clients in Africa, including one in Nigeria.”

“I don’t see where you talked to that client.”

“I didn’t. I couldn’t get anyone to return my phone calls. I thought maybe one of the executives would talk to you. When I told the person on the phone I was an administrative assistant, it didn’t get me past the gatekeepers.”

“Maybe you should have said you were an author working on a book.”

“There’s nothing in my new novel about Nigerian oil companies. The setting is south Texas.”

“It’s still oil and gas territory.” Mr. Phillips raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, but—”

“Don’t let me interfere with that part of your life,” Mr. Phillips interrupted. “Your information will go into the mix I’m getting from Chris and Morgan.”

“I know you wanted us to work separately, but is there going to be a meeting to discuss what each of us found out?”

“Not with you, but thanks for what you did.”

Disappointed, Amy returned to her office. She had no right to expect to be a direct part of the decision-making process, but she’d invested a lot of time and energy. Midafternoon, Chris Lance came by her office. He leaned against the door frame.

“I’ve not been avoiding you on purpose,” the younger lawyer said in a casual voice. “But Mr. Phillips has kept me very busy. It looks like I’ve weathered the storm and will be staying at the firm.”

“That’s good news.”

“I’m glad you think so. Oh, and I talked to him about my conversation with Laura about the Westside Lighting case. Did you say anything to him about it?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. He understood.” Chris glanced down the hall. “I just came out of a two-hour meeting with Mr. Phillips and Mr. Jessup about the possible consultants for the Nigerian oil issue and the Thompson Trust. I saw your work. It was impressive.”

“Thanks. What did Mr. Phillips decide to do?”

“Mr. Jessup and I both recommended the firm in Houston, so they’re going to get the nod.”

“Why? They had a lot of negative reviews from clients.”

“But that was primarily the result of a man who’s no longer with the firm. They have a specialist in foreign business analysis who is very impressive, and his clients rave about him. I didn’t see that you talked to him.”

“Who is it?”

“Dr. Claude Ramsey. He’s a geologist who went back to school to get a degree in international finance. He knows a lot about oil and gas.”

As soon as Chris left, Amy went to the website for the Houston firm and clicked the “Our Staff” tab. Midway down the page she saw Dr. Ramsey’s name and clicked on his bio. The face of a middle-aged man in his late forties appeared on her screen. Something about his face seemed vaguely familiar.

Then Amy remembered.

She’d seen the same face the night she saw Michael Baldwin in the living room. She knew the two men couldn’t be directly connected, but there had to be a reason why the geologist appeared with Baldwin in the dream. Amy read his curriculum vitae. Dr. Ramsey
received his bachelor of science degree in geology from the University of Texas at Austin and his MBA and PhD in finance from Wharton School of Business in Philadelphia. She couldn’t quibble with his academic credentials. He was obviously a very smart guy. But the number of letters after a man’s name didn’t guarantee moral integrity. That part worried Amy.

As she read the information on the website, the sick feeling Amy had when she saw Michael Baldwin in the living room returned. She wasn’t sure why she felt nauseous, but it couldn’t mean anything good. She knew she couldn’t sit by idly and let another Michael Baldwin disaster fall on the firm. But with Baldwin, she’d seen a vivid picture that could be interpreted fairly easily. How would Mr. Phillips react if she went to the senior partner and urged him not to hire Dr. Ramsey because his name made Amy feel bad? She closed her eyes, bowed her head, and prayed. No answer came.

Troubled, Amy was on her way home from work when she received a phone call from Megan.

“Mom, where are you?” Megan demanded as soon as Amy answered.

“About five minutes away from the house. What’s wrong?”

“We need to leave right now to go to Mr. Ryan’s pizza party! It starts at five o’clock. I’m already late!”

“And when were you going to tell me that?”

“I did! You were probably thinking about your new book or something.”

Amy bit her lip.

“Be ready. I’ll honk the horn, and you can come out to the car. Do you have his address? I don’t know where he lives.”

“Yes, just hurry! I’m supposed to help set up before everyone else gets there. I’ve already missed that part.”

Amy tried to remember when Megan told her she needed to be at the teacher’s house at 5:00 p.m. but couldn’t. If she had, Amy would have made arrangements to leave work a few minutes early. She pulled into the driveway. Before she could honk the horn, Megan
was out the door jogging toward the car. She was wearing her shortest skirt and a short-sleeved shirt. At least she’d not gone overboard with her makeup.

“Where’s your jacket?” Amy asked as soon as Megan opened the car door. “You’re going to freeze. It’s supposed to get down into the forties tonight.”

“This isn’t a ball game. I’m not going to be outside, and I’m sure Mr. Ryan has heat in his townhome.”

“And you’re going to be home at eleven.”

“No, you’re going to pick me up at eleven. And don’t come a minute early. If you do, you’ll have to wait because I’m not coming out to the car. Let’s go. And don’t drive under the speed limit just to make me mad.”

Megan’s attitude was as bad as some of the tantrums she pitched when she was three years old. However, sending her to time-out wasn’t an option. Amy backed up the car.

“You could be more polite,” she said.

“You get mad when Dad makes you late.”

It was a true statement. Amy put the address in her GPS. It was a ten-minute drive. She and Megan rode in silence. The route took them within a block of the law office and then to the east side of town. The teacher lived in one of the nicer townhome communities in the area. Amy slowed as they drove past the pool and clubhouse. The pool was covered for the winter. Lounge chairs were stacked against the wall of the clubhouse.

“Bethany and I hope Mr. Ryan will have a pool party this summer,” Megan said.

Amy didn’t reply. Teenage pool parties were not something she was looking forward to.

“That’s it,” Megan said when they reached the back of the development. “I recognize his car.”

Another female student was walking up to the front door of the townhome.

“That’s Rita Fox,” Megan said. “She’s a junior. It’s amazing that
ninth graders like Alecia and me are getting to come to something like this. Before Mr. Ryan came along, Rita wouldn’t know I was alive. He says it’s important for students from every grade to get to know one another.”

The words sounded fine in theory. Amy could only hope the teacher knew what he was doing. She pulled into an empty parking spot beside a small, older-model car. A tall young man with dark hair got out.

“Mom!” Megan squealed. “It’s David Springsteed. I had no idea he was going to be here. How does my hair look?”

“Great. Who is he?”

“He’s a junior, too. You and Dad would love him. He’s superpolite and goes to church and everything.”

“Have you been talking to him?”

“No, but all of us think he’s gorgeous.”

“Megan, the difference between a ninth grader and an eleventh grader is too much. There’s no harm in a little daydreaming, but—”

“Girls mature faster than boys,” Megan said, cutting her off. “If I hop out now, I can go inside right after him. Bye.”

Before Amy could say anything else, Megan was out of the car and up the sidewalk. The front door of the townhome opened, and Amy saw Greg Ryan. The teacher shook David’s hand and looked past the student toward Amy’s car. He motioned to her with his right hand, inviting her inside. Amy knew Megan would be furious if she crashed the party for even a minute, but her mother’s curiosity was not going to be denied. She turned off the car’s engine and got out.

twenty-eight

G
reg Ryan was wearing blue jeans and a casual shirt. He waited on the landing for Amy.

“Thanks for dropping off Megan,” he said. “I know you’re busy with work and writing.”

“It was a quick turnaround. I’m sorry she’s late. I didn’t know she was supposed to be here to help set up.”

“Don’t worry about it. ‘Late’ is a relative word for kids. A party doesn’t start until the right people get there. Come inside, and I’ll show you around.”

Amy followed Mr. Ryan into the townhome. It had an open floor plan. To the left was a combination living room/dining room/ kitchen. There were several teenagers milling around. Megan looked up and saw Amy.

“Mom, what are you doing here?”

“I’ll be leaving in a minute.”

“I invited her in,” Mr. Ryan added. “Megan, will you make sure there’s plenty of ice in the bucket in the kitchen sink? If not, there are a couple of bags in the fridge.”

Amy glanced around. For a single male, Ryan had decent taste in furniture and wall decorations.

“I like your place,” she said.

“Thanks.”

Ryan led Amy down a short hallway.

“The master suite is downstairs, and there are two bedrooms upstairs. I use one of those for a home office. Upstairs is off-limits for the kids. I’ll keep them corralled down here.”

He opened the door to a spacious bedroom decorated in dark blues and greens suitable for a man.

“Would you mind if I used the bathroom?” Amy asked. “I didn’t get a chance to stop at the house when I picked up Megan.”

“Use mine,” he replied. “The kids are using the half bath down the hall.”

“That’s not necessary. I—”

“Mr. Ryan, can you come here?” a female voice interrupted them.

The teacher turned away and left Amy standing inside his bedroom. She stepped over to the bathroom. It featured a double sink and a Jacuzzi tub. While she was washing her hands, Amy looked at herself in the long mirror. She touched her right cheek just below her eye. A new wrinkle was definitely forming on her face. She sighed. Her mother had more crow’s-feet around her eyes than a dusty corn patch. It didn’t take a nighttime trip to the living room for Amy to know her future face.

As she dried her hands, Amy glanced down at the items spread out on the long sink. The teacher used the same brand of cologne as Jeff. Amy couldn’t remember the last time Jeff actually applied it to his neck. She sniffed the cologne. Setting it down, she saw a set of shiny cuff links. They were gold with letters engraved on them. Amy picked one up and read “AKL.” At the end of the sink in a small ceramic frame was a photo of the teacher with an older couple who were probably his parents. Mr. Ryan’s father was bald. The passage of time is an unforgiving arbiter. When she left the bedroom, Mr. Ryan was waiting for her in the hallway.

“Thanks,” Amy said. “I couldn’t help noticing the cuff links on the sink.”

“Oh, those belonged to my grandfather,” Mr. Ryan replied. “I’ve only used them a couple of times, but I have to go to a formal dinner
for the alumni chapter of my college fraternity next weekend and pulled them out.”

“Where will that be?”

“Uh, Denver. I went to the University of Colorado.”

“I thought the campus was in Boulder.”

“That’s the main campus. There’s a branch in Denver.”

The noise in the townhome had gone up a few decibels as more young people arrived. A girl Amy didn’t recognize looked up.

“Are you Mr. Ryan’s girlfriend?” the girl asked, her eyes wide open.

Amy felt herself blush. “No, I’m Megan Clarke’s mother.”

“Megan Clarke?” the girl asked.

“She’s a ninth grader,” another girl said, then faced Amy. “I can tell you’re her mom. You look just alike.”

“And don’t worry about my social life, Lindsey,” Mr. Ryan said to the first student. “You have enough to keep up with yourself.”

“Promise you’ll tell us when you get a girlfriend?” Lindsey persisted. “We want to know who your type is.”

Mr. Ryan shook his head and turned to Amy.

“Kids have an overly romanticized view of the life of a single teacher.”

“I know. Thanks for showing me around.”

“You’re welcome,” the teacher said. “I hope to see you in the morning when I pick up Megan for dance class.”

“She’s excited that you’re coming to watch.”