Share the Moon. Sharon Struth

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СКАЧАТЬ moment right before the oncoming light switched to green became a game of chance. “So, you’ll put Gabby on the zoning story?”

      “Can’t.” Cliff rubbed the tip of his long chin. “Will said Jamieson specifically asked for you to do the interview, but I’ll call them and tell them no if you think you can’t handle—”

      “Are you sure he wants me?”

      “You two met at the hearing, right?”

      She nodded.

      “Then you’re the Sophie Shaw he’s asking for.” Cliff lifted a yellow Post-it, held it out at arm’s length, and squinted, apparently forgetting about the glasses on his head. “He said to arrange it through Carl, um….”

      “Carl Hansen?”

      His vision shifted over the top of the note. “You know him?”

      “Oh, yeah. Carl and I go way, way back.” Sophie stood and left. The worn wood staircase creaked as she headed to the first floor.

      When she hit the last step, Cliff yelled, “They’d like the story in by this Friday too.”

      “Of course they would,” she mumbled but yelled back, “Okay.”

      Sophie phoned Carl, who slotted her in with Duncan on Wednesday afternoon. She had two days to figure out how to mend her mistakes. She’d called Duncan a liar, speculated he’d flirted with her to gain professional favor, and then spat out the last word and sped from the parking lot. Two days? She’d need two weeks to find the right words to fix this mess.

      Chapter 6

      Waxing Crescent: Varying amounts of the lunar surface are illuminated

      offering the appearance of growth.

      A trip to the West Farms Mall put Sophie ten minutes behind schedule for her appointment at RGI’s Hartford office. She pushed the accelerator and violated the posted speed limit on I-84. No point in giving the almighty Duncan Jamieson one more thing to add to her list of infractions. As she’d tried to sleep last night, she instead flipped from side to side, riddled with anxiety over how to handle today’s interview. By three AM she’d reached a conclusion: the first thing she needed to do was apologize. She wasn’t too happy about it, though.

      As she neared the exit for RGI, the unpalatable taste of crow lingered in her mouth. By the time she pulled into the parking garage, she’d accepted the bitter tang.

      A glance at the dashboard clock showed she now ran twelve minutes late, thanks to a few traffic lights. Sophie grabbed her bag and hurried along the concrete floor of the garage toward the elevators. The clickity-clack of pointy Jones New York pumps Bernadette had insisted Sophie buy from the clearance rack at TJ Maxx echoed against the concrete walls. Up until now, they’d only seen the light of day on Easter Sunday. She’d dressed professionally in her black pencil skirt and a white silk shell covered by a tweed, cropped jacket. As a finishing touch, she’d twirled her hair into a fisted bun. Dressed as professionally as a reporter from the New York Times, she’d force Duncan to ignore the mistakes of her last interview and erase the image of her as some local gal working for a teeny small town paper who couldn’t control her rage.

      She bopped the button for the eighth floor and, in mere seconds, stepped out into Resort Group International’s tropical lobby. The same interior designer must’ve also done the Waikiki Hilton. She turned to the sound of water, where a miniature waterfall cascaded into a lily pad laden pool.

      At the welcome desk, she snickered and grinned at the receptionist. “Do you serve mai tais here?”

      The receptionist, whose wrinkled face defied her platinum blond hair, looked up but offered no smile. “Can I help you?”

      “Um, yes. I’m Sophie Shaw. I have an appointment with Duncan Jamieson.”

      “Sign in here.” She pushed a guest book across the desk.

      Under “Reason for visit,” she scribbled Appointment D. Jamieson. Three lines above where she signed, she spotted the name Joseph Dougherty, a member of the Northbridge Zoning Board.

      Sophie’s finger followed to the line for reason he visited.

      The receptionist tugged the book away. “Please have a seat. I’ll let Mr. Jamieson know you’ve arrived.” Her wrinkles creased further with a “gotcha” smirk.

      Sophie waited on a sleek contemporary sofa. Mural-sized photographs of locations where RGI had built resorts draped the walls. From the sunny beaches of California, to snow-capped mountains in the Alps, to the flaxen hills of Tuscany, RGI’s modern luxuries awaited the weary traveler. Joe’s visit nagged at her subconscious, but the issue could easily be resolved by asking Duncan why the zoning board member had been here. Years of reporting proved one thing: never discount anything. A single question might change the course of a story.

      “Sophie?” A fit man with tidy brown hair approached her with an extended hand. His smile showcased his perfect pearly teeth but lacked sincerity. “I’m Carl Hansen.”

      She recognized him from the public hearing. “Sorry I’m a little late.”

      “No problem.”

      The tenseness in her jaw relaxed.

      “Although, Duncan can be a stickler for punctuality.”

      Her stomach tugged into a hard knot.

      Carl’s dark suit and striped tie made her glad she’d dressed up. He led her down a long hallway, with office doors spaced evenly on both sides and a name plaque on the wall near each doorway. Cardboard boxes sat on the floor outside some of the offices.

      “Please excuse the mess. We’re still transitioning while we close the New York office.”

      They entered a large suite. The sleek corporate atmosphere of the hallways disappeared, replaced by paintings of nature, a mission-styled sofa, and tiffany lamps. Meg had mentioned Duncan’s purchase of the Burnham estate, a home known for its Craftsman design. A slender woman, with shoulder-length hair almost the same color as her taupe suit jacket sat at a desk, furiously typing.

      “I guess this where Frank Lloyd Wright sits,” Sophie said then chuckled. Surely, with this décor, Duncan’s staff would know about the architect who embraced the Prairie School of Design, the Craftsman qualities similar to the home he’d purchased in Northbridge.

      Carl blinked and just looked at her for a second. Strike two on the joking around with staff. “Karen. This is Sophie Shaw. Duncan’s appointment.”

      Her catlike eyes lifted with a smile, perhaps a pity offering for the joke. “He’s finishing a call but said to send Ms. Shaw right in.”

      Carl tapped on the half-opened door, stood aside, and waved her inside. The door clicked shut. He hadn’t joined them.

      Duncan sat behind his large mahogany desk with his phone’s handset wedged between his shoulder and his ear while he leaned back and studied a sheet in his hand. “Uh-huh. What’ll it end up costing us?”

      He glanced at her over the top of dark-rimmed, half-framed СКАЧАТЬ