Uncertain whether he was really ill or simply using that as a ploy to avoid a discussion with her, Meredith
sighed. "Take care of yourself. I'll see you at dinner Thursday night." When she hung up the phone, she allowed herself a silent moment of regret that the entire mall couldn't be built, and then she did what she'd learned to do years before, after her disastrous marriage: She faced reality and found something in it to look forward to and work toward. Smiling at Sam Green, she injected a note of pleasure and triumph into her voice. "We have approval to proceed on the
Houston project."
"The entire mall, or just the store?"
"Just the store."
"I think it's a mistake."
He'd obviously heard her say as much to her father, but Meredith didn't comment on his remark. She'd made it a policy to keep her comments and thoughts about her father's policies to herself whenever possible. Instead, she said, "How soon can you get a contract ready and take it to Thorp?"
"I can have the contracts ready by tomorrow night. But if you want me to negotiate the deal personally, I won't be able to go down to
Houston until the week after next. We're still preparing that lawsuit against Wilson Toys."
"I'd rather you handle it," she said, knowing that he'd be able to negotiate a better deal than anyone else, but wishing he could do it sooner. "I suppose the week after next will be all right. By then we may have a written commitment from Reynolds Mercantile, and we won't need to make the contract contingent on financing."
"That land has been for sale for years," he said with a smile. "It will still be available in two weeks. Besides, the longer we wait, the more likely Thorp
will
be to take our low-ball-park offer." When she still looked concerned, he added, "I'll try to get my people moving quicker on the
Wilson lawsuit. As soon as we wrap it up, I'll head to
Houston."
It was after six when Meredith looked up from the contracts she'd been reading and saw Phyllis heading toward her with her coat on and Meredith's evening newspaper in her hand. "I'm sorry about the
Houston deal," Phyllis said, "sorry that they wouldn't approve the entire mall, I mean."
Meredith leaned back in her chair and smiled wearily. "Thank you."
"For being sorry?"
"No," Meredith replied, reaching for the newspaper, "for caring. Basically, though, I'd say it's been a pretty good day."
Phyllis nodded toward the newspaper which she'd already opened to the second page. "I hope that this doesn't make you change your mind."
Puzzled, Meredith unfolded it and saw Matthew Farrell looking back at her beside some starlet who'd evidently flown to
Chicago in his private jet to accompany him to the party of a friend last night. Snatches of newspaper copy imprinted itself on Meredith's mind as she glanced at the glowing article about
Chicago's newest entrepreneur and most eligible bachelor, but when she looked up at Phyllis, her face was perfectly composed. "Is this supposed to bother me?"
"Check the business section before you decide," Phyllis advised.
It occurred to Meredith to tell Phyllis that she was out of line, and, just as quickly, she dismissed the notion. Phyllis had been her first secretary, and Meredith had been her first boss. In the past six years they'd worked hundreds of nights together as well as dozens of weekends; they'd eaten cold sandwiches at Meredith's desk while they worked to meet project deadlines. They were a dedicated team, they liked and respected each other.
The first page of the business section contained another picture of Matt and a glowing article about his leadership of
Intercorp
, his reasons for relocating to
Chicago, the fabulous manufacturing facility he intended to build at
Southville
, and yet another mention of the lavish penthouse apartment he'd bought and furnished in the
Berkeley
Towers
. Beside his picture and slightly below it was a picture of Meredith, accompanied by an article that quoted her remarks about Bancroft's successful expansion into the national retailing market.
"They gave him top billing," Phyllis noted, perching her hip on the edge of Meredith's desk, watching her read the article. "He's been here for less than two weeks and the newspapers are full of stories about him."
"Newspapers are also full of stories about muggers and rapists," Meredith reminded her, disgusted by the lavish praise the article heaped on his leadership, and furious with herself because for some reason, seeing his picture was making her hands tremble. No doubt her reaction was the result of knowing he was in
Chicago now instead of thousands of miles away.
"Is he really as handsome as he looks in his pictures?"
"Handsome?" Meredith said with careful indifference as she got up and headed to the closet for her coat. "Not to me."
"He's a jerk, right?" Phyllis said with an irrepressible grin.
Meredith smiled back at her and walked over to lock her desk. "How'd you guess?"
"I read Sally Mansfield's column," Phyllis replied. "And when she wrote that you gave him the 'cut direct' in front of everyone, I figured he must be a world class jerk. I mean, I've seen you deal with men you couldn't stand and you managed to smile at them and be polite."
"Actually Sally Mansfield misunderstood the whole episode. I hardly know the man." Deliberately changing the subject, Meredith said, "If your car's still in the shop, I can give you a ride home."
"No thanks. I'm going to my sister's for dinner, and she lives in the other direction."
"I'd give you a ride to her place, but it's late and this is Wednesday—"
"And your
fianc
é
always has dinner at your apartment on Wednesday, right?"
"Right."
"It's a lucky thing you like routine, Meredith, because it would drive me crazy knowing the man in my life always did particular things on particular days, day after day ... year after year ... decade after—"
Meredith burst out laughing. "Stop it. You're depressing me. Besides, I like routine and order and dependability."
"Not me. I like spontaneity."
"Which is why
your
dates rarely show up on the right night, let alone on time," Meredith teased.
"True."
Meredith would have liked to forget about Matthew Farrell entirely, but Parker arrived at her apartment with the newspaper in his hand. "Did you see the article about Farrell?" he asked after kissing her.
"Yes. Would you like a drink?"
"Please."
"What would you like?" she asked, walking over to the nineteenth-century armoire she'd had converted to a liquor cabinet and opening its doors.
"The usual."
Her hand stilled in the act of reaching for a glass, while Lisa's remark ran through her mind, followed by Phyllis's comment today.
You need someone who'll make you do something really adventurous, like voting for a Democrat.... It would drive me crazy knowing the man in my life always did a particular thing on a particular day....
"Are you sure you wouldn't like something different?" Meredith said hesitantly, looking at him over her shoulder. "How about a gin and tonic?"
"Don't be silly. I always drink bourbon and water, honey, and you always have white wine. It's practically a custom."
"Parker," Meredith said hesitantly, "Phyllis said something today, and Lisa had made a remark a week ago, that make me wonder if we're ..." She trailed off, feeling silly, but she nevertheless took out the gin and tonic for herself.
"Made you wonder if we're what?" he asked, sensing her dismay and coming up behind her.
"Well, in a rut."
His arms slid around her. "I like ruts," he said, kissing her temple. "I like routines and predictability, and so do you."
"I know I do, but don't you think that—in years to come—too much of that might make us bored, and boring, people. I mean, don't you think excitement can be nice too?"
"Not particularly," he said, then he turned her in his arms and said with gentle firmness, "Meredith, if you're angry with me for asking you and your father to put up personal collateral for the
Houston loan, then say so. If you're disappointed in me because of it, say so, but don't go blaming it on other reasons."
"I'm not," Meredith promised sincerely. "In fact, I got my stock certificates out of the safe to give to you. They're over there in that big folder on my desk." Ignoring the folder for the moment, he studied her face, and Meredith added reluctantly, "I'll admit it's frightening to hand over everything I have, but I believe you when you say you couldn't convince your board to forgo the extra collateral."
"You're sure?" he asked, looking handsome and worried.
"I'm positive," she averred with a bright smile, and turned to finish fixing his drink. "Why don't you look over the certificates and make certain they're in order while I set the table and see what Mrs. Ellis left us for dinner." Mrs. Ellis no longer worked for her father, but she came to Meredith's apartment on Wednesdays to clean and do the marketing, and she always left a meal ready for them to eat.
Parker walked over to her desk while Meredith spread pale pink linen place mats on the dining room table.
Are they in here?" he asked, holding up a manila envelope.
She glanced over her shoulder at the envelope. "No. That's my passport, birth certificate, and some other papers. The stock certificates are in a larger envelope."
He held one up, looking at the return address on the outside, and frowning with confusion. "In this one?"
"No," she said with another glance over her shoulder. "That's my divorce papers."
"This envelope has never been opened. Haven't you ever read them?"
She shrugged as she took out linen napkins from the side table. "Not since I signed them. I remember what they say, though. They say that in return for a ten-thousand-dollar payoff from my father, Matthew Farrell grants me a divorce and relinquishes all right to any claims on me or anything I ever have."
"I'm certain they aren't worded exactly like that," Parker said with a grim chuckle, turning the envelope over in his hand. "Do you mind if I have a look?"
"No, but why would you want to?"
He grinned. "Professional curiosity—I am an attorney, you know. I'm not entirely the boring, fastidious banker your friend Lisa likes to think I am. She needles me about that all the time, you know."
It was not the first time Parker had made a remark that indicated Lisa's joking jibes got under his skin, and Meredith made a mental note to tell Lisa, very firmly this time, that it had to stop. Parker had much to be proud of. Taking all that into consideration, she decided it was unwise and unnecessary to add to his pique by reminding him that he had specialized in tax law, not domestic law. "Look all you like," she replied, and leaning forward, she pressed a kiss on his temple. "I wish you didn't have to go to
Switzerland. I'm going to miss you every day."
"It's only for two weeks. You could go with me."
He was scheduled to address the World Banking Conference there, and she would have loved to watch him do it, but it wasn't possible. "You know I'd love to. But this season is—"
"Your busiest time of the year," he finished without resentment. "I know."
In the refrigerator Meredith found a beautifully arranged platter of cold, marinated chicken and a salad of hearts of palm. As usual, there was little for her to do except open a bottle of wine and put the platter in the center of the dining room table—which was about the extent of her culinary abilities anyway. Cooking was something she'd tried to do a few times and failed, and since she didn't enjoy it anyway, she was content to spend her time working and leave domestic chores to Mrs. Ellis. If food couldn't go directly to the table via the microwave or oven, Meredith had no desire whatsoever to bother with it.
Rain was spattering against the windows, and she lit the candles in the antique candelabra, then she carried out the chicken and salad and chilled white wine and put them on the table. Standing back, she surveyed the effect of the table setting. Fresh pink roses reposed in an ornate bowl in the center of the table, and the antique silver flatware looked lovely against the pink linen place mats. Thinking she ought to contribute something more to the meal than merely setting the table and putting the platters and wine there, she reached out and poked gently at two of the fresh pink roses in the centerpiece.
"Dinner is ready," she said, walking over to Parker. For a moment he seemed not to hear her, then he pulled his gaze from the documents he was reading and looked at her, frowning. "Is something wrong?"
"I'm not certain," he said, but he sounded as if something was very wrong. "Who handled your divorce?"
Unconcerned, she perched on the arm of his wing chair and glanced distastefully at the papers that were headed Decree of Divorce: Meredith Alexandra Bancroft vs. Matthew Allan Farrell. "My father took care
of everything. Why do you ask?"