A Mother's Reflection. Elissa Ambrose

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СКАЧАТЬ the investigator had described Adam Wessler as “pompous and fastidious, a man who relishes his privacy.” An investigator with a large vocabulary, Rachel had thought, amused. Adam obviously liked his privacy, or he wouldn’t have barked at Doreen, and whether or not he was pompous remained to be seen—but fastidious? Standing there grumbling in his wrinkled and dusty suit, he was not what Rachel had expected. True, he was as handsome as in his picture, his nose straight and aquiline, his jaw square and proud, but his untidy appearance caught her by surprise. Holding a hammer in one hand, smoothing his dirt-smudged lapels with the other, he looked more like a gussied-up construction worker than the director of a community center.

      There was also the matter of his hair. As in the photo it was thick and dark, but here in the office smoothness had given way to spiky disarray, as if he’d been running his fingers through his hair in frustration. He turned to place the hammer on his desk, and Rachel had to suppress a smile. In contrast to his gray suit, his tie was brightly colored with a cartoon of the Tasmanian devil. A gift from Megan? In any case, that he chose to wear it contradicted the P.I.’s report, which not only described Adam as pompous and fastidious but also as conventional.

      Adam Wessler certainly appeared to be an interesting mix of traits.

      He spun around and boldly looked her over. The word interesting hardly described him, she realized. All the pictures she had received were in black and white, but she doubted that even a color shot could have conveyed the piercing blaze of his stare. No words or photographs could have prepared her for his steel-blue eyes, which burned into her like a laser.

      “Now, Adam,” Doreen said as though talking to a child, “Farley said he’d be finished in here by the end of the week. You know the theater takes priority. How can the kids rehearse without a stage? They can’t use the cafeteria indefinitely.”

      “You want priority?” Adam grumbled. “What about this?” He gestured to the wall behind him. The left side was a pleasant shade of green, the right a murky gray.

      Doreen clicked her tongue in disapproval. “It’s not Farley’s fault you changed your mind. What do you think, Rachel? Green or gray?”

      Rachel studied Adam as he stood there, his arms folded across his chest, his brow creased with irritation. “They say that green is restful on the eyes,” she answered. “It puts the viewer in a calm mood. Like New Age music.”

      “Who is this woman and why is she talking to me about New Age music?” Even as he spoke to Doreen, Adam’s eyes never left Rachel. He rested his gaze on the jacket of her peppermint-green suit and said, “I prefer the gray.”

      It figures, Rachel thought, trying not to react to his rudeness. “Rachel Hartwell,” she said, extending her hand. When he didn’t take it, she pulled it back. “I’m here about the opening in the drama department,” she continued with forced confidence. She leaned over. “Uh, Mr. Wessler?” Adam had crawled underneath his desk.

      “Here it is,” he said, emerging triumphantly. “I’ve been looking for this little gadget.” He got off the floor and began fiddling with his computer. “Now maybe I can get e-mail, seeing how my phone will probably never be connected.”

      “Excuse me for butting in, but I don’t see how you can get e-mail without a phone.”

      “For your information, we have a permanent Internet connection,” he said, looking up. “What did you say your name was?”

      Rachel had no intention of being turned down for the job simply because her prospective employer was in a bad mood. “Mr. Wessler,” she said in a patient voice, “if this isn’t a good time for you, I can come back later. At your convenience, of course.”

      “You see what you’ve done?” Doreen reprimanded her boss. “It’s a wonder you have any staff at all, the way you go on. Why I agreed to work for you in the first place is a mystery.”

      “It’s because you’ve been secretly in love with me for years, and you’d run off with me in a heartbeat except that Roger won’t let you.”

      “Just ignore him,” Doreen said, dismissing him with a wave. “He always gets delusional when he’s irritated. The truth is, my Roger could whip this boy thirty years ago, and he still can today.” She laughed when Rachel threw her a confused glance. “My husband and I were friends with Adam’s parents,” she explained. “These days, I’m kind of a second mother to him.”

      Doreen seemed like a genuinely warm person, and Rachel felt herself relaxing. “He’s lucky to have two mothers,” she bantered back. “A man needs all the sound advice he can get.”

      A silence fell as quickly as a late-summer fog, and Adam’s face paled.

      What did I say? Rachel thought. She looked at the older woman for guidance, but Doreen’s unsmiling face was as sober as Adam’s.

      “I’ll let you two get down to business,” Doreen said quietly. Then, just as quickly as it had faded, her smile reappeared, as welcoming as the sun breaking through a cloud. “Good luck, dear. I’m rooting for you.”

      “I’m sorry about your mother,” Rachel said after Doreen had shut the door behind her. “How long has she been gone?”

      “My mother is not gone. And she’s not going anywhere, now or for a long time to come.”

      “I’m sorry, Mr. Wessler,” Rachel apologized again. “I just assumed—”

      “Adam,” he corrected. “Call me Adam. I, for one, would like to go back to the time when employees addressed their superiors as Mr. or Mrs. Unfortunately those days are gone.”

      He was pompous, all right. If his ego were any more bloated, he could run for king. And what was this thing about his mother? Evidently the well-composed Adam Wessler had issues. Issues the P.I. had overlooked. Which was odd, she thought, considering how detailed the P.I. had made his report. Several pages described Megan’s life—school, hobbies, friends—right down to her favorite flavor of soda. More pages contained similar information about Adam, although, Rachel conceded, his favorite flavor of soda was more than she wanted or needed to know.

      “Ms.,” she said curtly.

      “Excuse me?”

      “The appropriate term is Ms. There’s no legal basis for an employer to know a prospective employee’s marital status.” She knew she was treading close to the line—he had the power to make or break her future—but, oh, he was so infuriating!

      “Ms. Hartwell, let me assure you I don’t give a hoot about your marital status. I was merely trying to point out that it is perfectly fine for you to address me by my first name. In fact, it’s preferred. One of the center’s main goals is to reflect the community, and that includes its values. You know what I mean—apple pie, babies in strollers, Boy Scouts helping elderly women cross the street. One big happy family. It’s the kind of Pollyanna image we’re trying to promote.”

      “I take it you don’t agree with this philosophy?”

      He looked vexed. “It’s of no importance whether or not I agree. Now, shall we get started, Ms. Hartwell?”

      “Rachel,” she corrected. “One big happy family, remember?”

      He looked at her sternly for one hard moment, and then an unexpected grin washed across his face, catching her off guard.

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