I’ll give you directions to their office from the dock. I have another meeting in Seattle at noon.” Card in hand, he pulled his cell phone from another pocket and keyed in a number.
With the instrument to his ear, he turned away, started to pace.
Rory glanced at her watch. It was already after eleven o’clock.
She was about to mention that when she remembered his mode of transport was infinitely faster than hers. He was already into his conversation with Phil, anyway. She couldn’t hear what he said, though. She knew only that he looked oddly resigned when he turned a minute later to inform her that Phil wanted to talk to her.
By the time the woman who had appeared out of nowhere yesterday told her everything was ready to proceed with the sale and confirmed their meeting that afternoon, Rory couldn’t shake the feeling that nothing could possibly be as simple as Phil had made it sound—and that Erik Sullivan had more of a role in the sale than anyone was letting on.
Chapter Two
The directions Rory had been given led her to the Ballard neighborhood in northwestern Seattle and a weathered, two-story redbrick building much like the others along an old business section of the waterfront. What distinguished the structure was the trail of plaster dust and debris leading from the open front door to the Wolf Construction Dumpster at the curb.
Inside, sheets of milky construction plastic masked two stories of interior scaffolding and what appeared to be something grand under construction. The filmy barriers did little to deaden the occasional clatter and boom of interior demolition. The noise was muffled considerably, however, behind the closed door of the only completed space—an unexpectedly feminine and elegant ground floor corner conference room in shades of ivory and pale taupe with a view of a marina, Shilsole Bay and snowcapped Hurricane Ridge beyond.
The long banks of ivory-draped windows caught Tyler’s attention the moment they’d walked in. Rory had thought the boats in the inlet had drawn him. Until she noticed Erik.
A walkway ran behind the buildings. She could see him outside, pacing past the rows of windows, bare-masted sailboats bobbing in the background. Apparently oblivious to the chill, he had one hand in a front pocket of his jeans, his head down against the breeze as he talked on his cell phone.
He did not look happy.
Logic told her he could be talking about anything. But the unease joining her curiosity and uncertainty over this meeting made her fairly certain his scowl had something to do with her.
“We’re so glad you liked the place,” said Phil, leading her across the floor, the click of her heels on polished oak suddenly hushed by the pale blue Aubusson rug. “With everything so unsettled for you, we didn’t know if you’d see the advantages of taking on a business right now. Especially one that you might not ordinarily have considered.”
Wearing a cream blouse and slacks slung with a thin gold belt, the woman Rory met yesterday took her and Tyler’s coats and motioned to one of the Queen Anne chairs at the circular conference table. The light from the ornate crystal chandelier above it made the mahogany surface gleam like glass. “Cornelia did feel you’d consider it, though,” she added, “given your circumstances.”
“Which are very close to what mine were at one time,” came a voice from a small alcove.
A statuesque, elegantly mature lady in pale lavender cashmere emerged from the washroom, carrying roses she’d just freshened. Her silver-blond hair was coiled in a chic chignon at her nape. Diamonds glinted from her ears. The rock on her left hand, a huge pink diamond surrounded by a dozen of brilliant white, flashed in its platinum setting as she set the vase on a marble credenza with a quiet clink.
“Please pardon the mess out there, Rory. We’re a work in progress at the moment. I’m Cornelia Hunt,” she said, intent on putting her guest at ease as she held out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Feeling a distinct connection to Alice after she’d slipped down the rabbit hole, Rory clasped the woman’s hand. She had dressed that morning in a casual black turtleneck and skinny denims to look at properties and apartments, not to meet well-dressed ladies in what could have passed for a drawing room in a palace.
“The pleasure’s mine,” she returned, fighting the urge to curtsy.
“You only met briefly, so I’ll officially introduce you to Felicity Granger. Phil is my assistant. She’s also an academic counselor at the university. She’s really rather brilliant at helping others with their life decisions, so I brought her in to help me with my work.” Her green eyes seemed to twinkle as she smiled. “What have you been told about the arrangements so far?”
“Hardly anything. The man who showed us around...Erik,” she identified, still aware of him pacing, “wouldn’t even give me the price.”
“I don’t doubt that you have questions,” Cornelia conceded. “I’ll have Phil start answering yours and explain the details while I get us some coffee. Or would you prefer tea?”
Rory told her coffee was fine, thank you. And that yes, cocoa for Tyler would be nice. Even as she spoke, she wasn’t at all sure what struck her as more incongruous just then: that Cornelia Fairchild Hunt, the very pleasant wife of a reportedly eccentric computer-genius billionaire, was getting her coffee. Or the mound of dingy canvas mail sacks piled beside a delicate French provincial writing desk.
On the desk’s surface, dozens of what appeared to be opened letters teetered in stacks.
Phil took the chair next to Rory. Seeing what had her attention, she adjusted her overlarge glasses and leaned toward her.
“There was an article in the Seattle Washtub recently about how Cornelia helped a young entrepreneur get the break she needed with her business. Ever since then, requests have poured in by email and snail mail for her in care of the newspaper and the offices of HuntCom asking for her help from other young women. And for them. Like you,” she explained. “The reporter who wrote the article said she’s bringing another sackful over this afternoon.”
“A reporter is part of this?”
“Don’t worry,” Phil hastily assured. “Cornelia wants to stay under the radar with her project and she trusts Shea Weatherby to help her with that. As for anyone else we might need to talk with, we only identify our clients to those directly involved in her situation.”
The assertion was hugely reassuring to Rory. She’d already supplied enough fodder for gossip in certain social circles to last a lifetime. Nearly every member of those circles would have sold their summer homes to mingle with a Hunt, too. But all that mattered to her just then was that this meeting was confidential. Her relationship with her in-laws was strained enough without word getting out and embarrassing them because their son’s widow apparently needed to be bailed out by strangers. For Tyler’s sake, she needed to make as few waves with them as possible.
Thinking about her in-laws reminded her that she needed to call them about Christmas.
“The volume of requests Cornelia is receiving,” Phil continued, mercifully sidetracking her from the stomach-knotting thought, “is why she needed to hire help. I just love what she’s doing.”
“I really am at a loss here,” Rory admitted. “What is she doing?”
“She’s being
