Who I Am With You (9 page)

The stench of body odor, smoke, vomit, and jet fuel inundated the air, as well as the overwhelming scent of blood, making it impossible to breathe and tempting him to slip on his oxygen mask. He didn’t, had to save it for later. As they rounded the next landing, he noticed an older fireman bent over, grabbing his chest. Sweat stung Duncan’s eyes and he felt the burn in his shoulder from the equipment on his back, but stopping wasn’t an option, neither was being too old or not strong enough. Not today. His pulse climbed with him and his thighs and calves screamed in protest. He pressed on, determined to help, to be of use, to not give in to the fear breathing down his neck. Common sense told him to turn around, run away and never look back, but he ignored it as he always did.

One flight shy of the twenty-sixth floor, they came across Bob Burrows from 44 Truck.

“Got the order. They’re calling for everyone to get out,” he warned as he descended past them.

“What the goddamn hell does that mean?” Carl grumbled.

Duncan hovered in the landing, torn between following orders and continuing up. He smothered his frustration. They hadn’t done
anything
. There were hundreds of people above them still. Were they expected to just forget them?

“What do you think?” Frank asked as he eyed the infinite stream of humanity.

“We should listen,” Alex piped in.

“Yeah, typical rookie answer,” Paulie said, his voice weak from trying to catch his breath.

Duncan processed the information, hearing the same order squawking over his radio from the Battalion Chief. He knew the guy, and he wouldn’t yank crews from this kind of situation without a legitimate reason. Something had the brass scrambling and the more seconds that ticked by, the more Duncan’s feet itched to continue on, but he also developed a prickling sensation along the back of his neck, as if Death himself were stalking him from behind.

“We go down,” Duncan said with regret. “There might be another plane headed right for us. Fat good we’ll do if we are dead. We regroup, see what’s up.”

“Then start all over again?”

“Alex, do what he says,” Paulie warned.

The descent was slower as the crowds swelled and clogged the only way out. A trace of urgency pushed Duncan, a menacing threat he did not want to face. He rarely got spooked, but this turned his insides to a jumbling pile of mush. At the eighth floor, he came across an elderly Asian woman with gray skin and blue lips, a hand clutched to her chest.

“Let me give you some oxygen, ma’am.”

He held his mask to her face, letting her pause for only seconds at a time. The fresh air revived her and, with his support, she moved quicker down the stairs. Over his shoulder, he caught glimpses of the rest of the crew. Paulie lagged behind, rallying the exodus from half a flight to their rear, his booming voice echoing up and down the stairwell. Jesus, Duncan swore he even heard the guy laughing with survivors. Duncan respected his buddy’s attempt to lighten the mood, but was beginning to wonder if he’d ever set foot on the ground again.

Finally, they exited the stairwell and he exhaled in relief. It felt freeing not to have a hundred and six floors pressing down on him, until he noticed how empty the area was, except for those pouring out behind him. Not a good sign. He assisted his save through the shattered lobby doors and handed her off to a paramedic he found on the Liberty Street side of the complex.

His crew scattered once they hit the lobby, lost in the crowds, and he craned his head to try and locate anyone from Engine 12. Catching a glimpse of Frank and Carl moving a group to safety, he prepared to go after them then paused. Remembering the vast crowds flocking down behind him, he changed his mind. There were still too many people inside.

Duncan pivoted, mind set on jogging to the stairwell, when he heard a loud rumbling overhead and his knees morphed into jelly. Looking up, he expected to find another plane, confirming his suspicion for the hasty evacuation. Instead, a giant gray cloud rushed at him. Wind hit his face, angry with heat and fury, forcing him into action. His eyes darted around, searching for a place to hide. Across the street, he saw a deli with a wide open front door.

He took off, only to skid to a halt. Twenty feet away a young woman stood mesmerized by the roaring terror crashing toward her, frozen in place, her brown hair swirling in a graceful dance.

Without another thought, he bolted in her direction.

A
fter working a full week at VDB, Olivia’s nagging self-doubt had subsided enough to allow her to function, but her nerves were frayed a little more by the end of each day. It was time for some therapy, the gluten-free kind. Pulling eggs, almond milk and butter from the fridge in her apartment, she eyed the container of rice flour. How was it empty already? She’d bought a five pound bag last week. Her cell rang, causing her eyes to dart to the clock on the stove. How did it get to be midnight? Far too late to be yet another business call.

Natalie.

“I’m glad it’s you,” she answered, putting the call on speaker.

“You sound exhausted.”

“Four days of nonstop phone calls and questions, meetings and paperwork.” She located her favorite mixing bowl in the dishwasher and began tossing in the ingredients for strawberry cheesecake muffins. The trembling she hadn’t noticed before in her hands subsided with the familiar routine. “Everyone else seems to think I can do this, but there’s still a seed of uncertainty in me. Not to mention I’m working doubly hard to prove I can do it. I didn’t realize how much this little undertaking was actually going to require of me.”

“And what are you doing now?”

Smashing eggs and imagining they are Simon’s head, as well as the very unhelpful Thomas, she grumbled silently. To Natalie, she said, “Self-medicating.” The silence on the other end told Olivia the joke was missed. “Baking muffins for my meeting with Simon in the morning.”

“Has he been better?”

“He’s kept his distance, which automatically makes me suspicious. When he
is
around he watches me like a hawk. I am going to wow him tomorrow if it’s the last thing I do. Assault via muffins and brilliant business savvy.”

She attacked her mixture with a wooden spoon before slipping the bowl onto the stand mixer and selecting a low speed. Rice flour had a tendency to be messy.

“You’ll be great. Once he sees your genius, he’ll wonder what the company ever did without you.”

Olivia chuckled. “I wouldn’t go that far, not yet, but thank you.”

“Well, I’ll let you get back to the self-medication. Don’t turn it into an all-nighter.”

“I won’t. Bye.”

As she scooped batter into the pan, her mind relaxed and she was able to rationally go over her selling points and make lists of things that still needed to be done. The massive list only tempted her to dive into another recipe, maybe banana-nut muffins, but she needed to sleep tonight. Facing Simon warranted a long hot shower and at least six hours of rest.

The next morning, Olivia made sure she was in the office at nine sharp, a basket of her midnight baking mania on her arm. Strawberry cheesecake
and
banana nut. Oh well. She was tired but felt more prepared than she hoped for.

Passing by Thomas’s office, she stuck her head around the corner. “Wish me luck.”

“You’ll need it.” He came to the door and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Don’t let it get you down if he makes you jump through a dozen hoops first.”

She ignored his warning. Over the last couple days she had learned to take his quips about Simon with a grain of salt. Perhaps after today she’d get a better gauge on the CEO, enough to form her own opinion. Then, and only then, would she inquire about joining the Simon Haters Club.

“Muffin?”

“As a matter of fact, I’ll have two.”

She left Thomas and walked to her office, setting the basket on a table by the door before moving to her desk to make a few last minute notes. A rustle of clothes drew her attention away from her frantic scribbling and she glanced up. It took tremendous effort to suppress the groan tickling her throat. Simon leaned in the doorway, watching her with a friendly expression and she sank back into her chair, wary of his smile.

“I guess I couldn’t avoid this forever, could I?”

She didn’t expect her dour greeting to make him chuckle, but it did. “You know, Catherine uses the same tone when she’s speaking with someone she doesn’t care for.”

Setting the pen down, Olivia crossed her arms and studied him as he surveyed her office.

“Not a lot of personality in here.”

“I bet yours is filled with pictures of yourself?”

Another aggravating smile. “Did Thomas tell you who this room belonged to?”

“He did.” She tilted her head to the side. “I can’t decide whether to be insulted or not. He’s an old friend, so I doubt he meant it as a slight.”

“Consider yourself lucky. It’s full of my positive vibes.” His cocky arrogance grated on her nerves and she longed for a wooden spoon to clobber him over the head with. “I wondered if you’d use Anderson’s.”

She ignored the quick jab of pain and steeled her expression, desperate not to show Simon any weakness. In this scenario, she was the gazelle and he the hungry lion. She refused to offer him any opportunity to pounce and go for her throat. Yet, her mouth had other ideas.

“I went by the other day,” she said with a hollow voice. “It’s like a mausoleum. Thomas has it locked up, which I find almost humorous since Dad never kept the doors closed. What was once a warm place is now a cold empty cell holding the ghost of who he was. It’s been nine years.” Olivia clamped her mouth shut, cutting off the melancholy her words carried. To her surprise, Simon’s expression reflected compassion and she recoiled, untrusting. “Regardless, I much prefer this office. I have no feelings about it whatsoever.”

“Thomas isn’t the only one responsible, you know,” he explained, ignoring her barb. “Catherine used to take the long way to the elevator or the break room and save herself the agony of walking past those damn doors. It became habit for both of them. A way to cope.”

She examined him through narrowed eyes. “Maybe you’re not as big of an ass as I thought.”

“Maybe we both judged too soon.” He cleared his throat and plopped into one of the chairs facing her desk, making himself at home. “What’s this project you’re all fired up about? I’ve heard snippets here and there.”

“Do you require these meetings with everyone? Or am I being singled out?” She set her elbows on the cluttered surface of the desk and toyed absently with her wrist.

“Ultimately, whatever you do warrants my approval. That’s how it works. Can’t have you wasting the company’s resources, right? Besides, I’m naturally curious and, I’m told, a wonderful listener.”

She made no secret of rolling her eyes. Apparently, she wasn’t the only smartass in the building. Drawing a breath, she decided to cater to Mr. Hotshot CEO, because he did make a valid point. Olivia described the project for Simon, pausing to open a file and extract a printout of the property. She slid it over to him.

“This is the place I want to save.”

“What are the benefits to VDB?” he inquired, his tone business-like as he perused the listing.

“Besides publicity, it exposes us to a different market. Most of our clients are business-oriented, or wealthy residents looking for homes with all the expected luxuries. This gives back to the city, supports small business owners, and creates a sense of community, a statement that we can relate to the little guy, too. Granted, it won’t be a huge money maker in the beginning, but rehabbing these buildings tells New Yorkers we want to make their history part of VDB’s legacy, that we don’t want to tear down the old to make way for the new and gaudy.”

She plowed on, terrified by his prolonged silence. “As for the publicity, it looks fantastic on our resume. We haven’t been doing enough on a community level and this will place us back in the public eye. It shows we care about preserving history. This property was built in 1915, so it qualifies to be placed on the National Historic Register. We can get the papers to run articles about it, hold a ribbon-cutting ceremony, even a press conference. It’s a great opportunity to do more than turn a profit. We can help the average Joe.” She rummaged through more papers.

He grunted, whether in agreement or scathing amusement she couldn’t tell.

“Look,” she handed a yellowed newspaper clipping to him, “I found this old article about the O’Brien family, who moved here from Ireland and first purchased the building. It’s about how they built a newspaper, the
New York Commoner
, from the ground up. In its day, the paper was quite popular with immigrants, especially Irish ones. Mr. O’Brien hired Irish workers, who filled it with little scraps of home—recipes and stories and such. This kind of history shouldn’t be lost. We could even track down any remaining family members, include them in the ribbon cutting.”

As Simon stared out the window behind her, deep in thought, she attempted to wait patiently for his reply while suppressing the urge to drum her fingernails on the desk. Despite her personal feelings, he and Catherine had been right—his approval and support mattered. A fact he probably enjoyed.

“The PR department will eat this up,” he said, slowly, as if measuring his words. Focusing his intense blue eyes on her, he continued, “Community relations are the bane of my existence. Don’t get me wrong, I love giving back, but there are only so many Little League teams and hospital wings I can smile pretty for. Schmoozing is not in my vocabulary.”

“I noticed.”

“You’re not going to let me forget our first meeting, are you?”

“Nope.”

“I like your spunk.” He sat up, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “You’ve done your homework. Wish I’d thought of it myself.”

“I’m kind of an expert at rehabilitation.”

“I bet you are.” Simon paused dramatically. “Nice job here.”

Pleasure skipped through her chest, stealing her breath for a moment. Finding her bearings, she doused her excitement and raised a curious eyebrow.

“Why are you being nice?”

“I’m not. I’m doing my job, and being polite in the process. Don’t fall over with shock.”

Caught off guard by his little quip, Olivia fought the urge to smirk and delivered a cheeky remark of her own. “It’s reassuring to know you’re capable.”

“I save it for rare occasions and holidays.”

“What about birthdays?”

“Depends on who it is. Back to the matter at hand, I’m serious, it’s impressive. Your father had great instincts, I assume you do as well.”

“What’s the catch?”

Her response amused him. “The catch is we’ll be working together. Your grandmother thinks the life force of this company runs through your veins. I’m here to make sure she’s right. After all, if you decide to stick and not run away again, we’ll be working side by side every day.”

In an instant, her defenses sparked and her smile faded. “Uncalled for.”

He shrugged and got up. Enraged, she balled her hands into fists and heat flushed her cheeks. The tray of goodies she brought in this morning caught her eye. Through clenched teeth, she said, “Take a muffin.”

Surprised, Simon faltered. “Really?”

“I don’t want to take them home.”

“Are they poisoned?”

“One way to find out.”

He picked one up and winked at her before exiting.

Olivia sat there, stunned, thankful he had actually listened to her and acknowledged the work she’d put in, but residual irritation rushed through her and she refused to celebrate the victory of his approval. Instead, she got to work, determined to make this project a success and show Simon it wasn’t a one-time fluke.