Chapter 38: The Box
"I don't know why it's so bloody difficult to understand what it is that I'm saying," Remington snapped at the site foreman. "Restoration, not demolition. We've decided to return the place to its glory days."
"But our contract—"
"I know what your contract states as I drew it up," he bit out in a most un-Remington like manner, weary of arguing the point with what was, essentially, a man in his employ, "That very contract states there may be changes to the scope of the project and you will be fully compensated regardless of those changes. Bear in mind we are adding demolition and remodeling of the apartment upstairs, and you will be paid to oversee the upholsterers and refinishers. What we've eliminated, has simply taken on a new dimension. Either you are willing to follow through, or we can terminate the relationship and I will hire another contractor to finish the job."
"There'll be no need for that, sir," the contractor hastily replied understanding the job was now at risk, "We'll do as asked. I'll get with the men immediately."
"Good. I'll be stepping out to begin locating the furnishings the apartments will require as well as the paint choices for the accent walls in each of the bedrooms, as we've discussed. I expect, when I return, demolition in the kitchen and the upstairs apartment will be nearly complete and you'll have a list of subcontractors that I can schedule interviews with." Shoving the papers on the table forcefully into his case, he stormed out the front door of the restaurant.
He came to a stop on the sidewalk outside, and pulling in a deep breath of air, rubbed a hand over his face. He knew he was short tempered at the moment, but had entered the restaurant with a forced cheerfulness he by no means felt. Then, the bloody contractor came at him, demanding explanations for the changes and arguing them… as though he'd not been introduced to these very changes just the day prior when he and Laura had come by Haven House specifically for the purpose of discussing them.
He wasn't at all in the mood for a testy contractor on today of all days, with his own mood swinging like a pendulum, one second positively sullen and the next resentful.
The hell with that...
The truth of the matter was, he was buggering pissed!
Swinging the straps of his attaché over his shoulder, he shoved his hands in his pockets and began to walk.
He'd worked hard… damned hard… this last year to make Laura understand he wasn't going anywhere…
To believe he wasn't going anywhere…
Yet where were they? Him, here… Her, there – all because some buggering prick felt one-upped by him.
If he'd believe saying goodbye to her in LA had been the hardest thing he could recall every doing… well, he'd been in for a surprise, for this time had been twice as difficult. Her presence had been like the sun breaking through the clouds on a cold a dreary winter day, bringing colors to life and warming all its embrace. To only be deprived of that sunshine again?
He'd wanted to get on board that plane with her—
"Watch out!" someone screamed and a horn blared. His head snapped up just in time to see a black sports car speeding directly towards him, only scant feet away. Muttering an oath, he dove towards the sidewalk, wincing when he landed flat on his face.
Perfect.
Amid numerous inquiries if he was okay, he pushed up on his arms then turned over, sitting with his legs extended in front of him while he did a mental inventory of first his clothes, then his own wellness. With a nod and a hand held up assuring those gathered he was fine, he got to his feet, his mood all the more sour. Crossing the street, he opened the door to the car and slid in, glancing at his watch.
Laura would be somewhere over the Atlantic by now.
He wished, deeply, that he were on that plane with her. He wished he could have been selfish enough to ask her to stay.
He carefully pulled the car out into traffic.
If he were honest, his mood was not entirely due to the injustice he saw their separation as, but also was attributable to a certain envelope and package he'd slipped into her carry on. He'd thought the gesture romantic with an element of mystery, which always titillated her senses. Had he considered the idea further, he might have realized it was a gesture guaranteed to drive him mad. It put the proverbial ball entirely in her court and took any ability he might have to influence her completely out of his hands.
Three kilometers from Haven House, he gave the steering wheel a hard yank and cut into a narrow, street-side parking space. Turning off the engine, he looked again at his watch, wondering why it seemed time had come to a standstill, when just yesterday hours flashed by in a blink of an eye.
With an irritated grunt, he climbed from the car, and strode towards the front doors of a bargain furniture store. Perhaps arranging the furnishings for all the units to Laura's proposed design would make him feel a bit closer to her… and would help time along.
An usually disheveled Laura removed the padlock from the door of her loft and mustering all the energy she had, dragged open the heavy door at five-thirteen. She'd spent seven-and-a-half hours at La Guardia in New York City where the flight was grounded for mechanical reasons. All passengers were placed on standby for the next flights to Los Angeles and then, as if that delay weren't enough, when she'd finally secured a seat on a flight, a massive storm rolled across the Northeast, delaying all flights for four-hours-and-eleven minutes.
She should know, as she'd watched every last one of those minutes tick off on her watch, while she tap-tap-tapped her foot impatiently.
It was after one o'clock in the morning, London time, when Laura dropped her suitcase on the floor and haphazardly tossed her overnight bag and purse on the sofa, before returning to the door, closing and securing it. She was beyond exhausted and starving, having survived the day on enough coffee to make her body feel like it was vibrating and a few nibbles at a sandwich. To add to her already irritable mood, Remington would be sound asleep at this hour, meaning she'd missed out on the before bedtime chat that had become part of their routine since his voluntary deportation. Muttering a string of un-Laura-like expletives beneath her breath, she stomped across the livingroom towards her kitchen, something to eat on her mind.
She foraged through the fridge finding not so much as a cup of yogurt to eat, then peered into the freezer where a few more of the meals Remington had pre-prepared for her still remained. The idea of some of his lasagna for dinner made her mouth water, but lack of a decent wine in the house to enjoy with the Italian fare coupled with the fact she'd have to vigilantly remind herself to remove it from the oven before it burned, sullied the appeal. Smacking shut the freezer door, she puffed in aggravation then stomped to the phone. Chinese it would be.
Picking up the receiver she tapped in the long ago memorized number to her favorite Chinese take out joint, and automatically punched the button on her answering machine, half listening to the messages as they played while she waited on hold with the restaurant.
"Laura, it's your mother. Frances and I were discussing the upcoming holidays—"
Delete. The holidays? The holidays?! What were they thinking!? Thanksgiving was more than five-and-a-half months away, Christmas a month more than that. Well, whatever scheme Frances and Abigail had concocted for the holidays wouldn't include her, as she would be somewhere in Europe with Remington.
"This is Pete with the Police Benevolent Society. I see you've purchased tickets to the Ball the last four years and was calling to inquire how many tickets—"
Delete. She'd begun the tradition of attending the Ball purely for the purpose of networking once Remington had brought to life the previously elusive Mr. Steele. She'd mail in her customary donation, but there would be no Ball for her this year, as it would only serve to remind her further of the enforced separation.
"Miss Holt, this is Joe at State Farm calling with a reminder your auto policy is due for renewal on June the eighth. I can either drop the binder—"
Delete. She'd have Mildred call him back in the morning.
"Miss Holt, Frederick Masters, assistant manager at the Rossmore calling. I've noticed Mr. Steele left you as point of contact while he's out of country, and I'm afraid we've had a bit of a situation. A pipe broke in the unit above Mr. Steele's and his unit has sustained a bit of damage—"
She slammed down the receiver into the cradle. So much for Chinese, she muttered to herself.
Hitting the stop button on the answering machine, she grabbed her purse off the couch where it had landed, and exited the loft, ignoring the phone that began to peel as she pulled shut the door behind her.
Whoever it was calling would have to wait.
In his bedroom in Daniel's palatial home, Remington listened to the phone ring endlessly once more. When Laura's voice finally greeted the caller requesting they leave a message he did so in a strained voiced.
"Laura, me again. I've left worry in the rear window and am heading quickly towards…" He left the thought unsaid and dragged a hand over his mouth. "You should have been home near on half a day now. If I don't hear from you by six my time, I don't give a bloody damn what the INS does, I'm getting on the first available flight to LA. Just…" he faltered, and searched for the right thing to say, then finally settled with the anything but perfect conclusion of "…call me, Laura. Let me know you're well."
With two fingers he dropped the receiver softly into the phone's cradle then stood to pace.
At seven-fifty, Laura returned to the loft, a pepperoni pizza and six pack of beer in hand. She didn't normally indulge in such, but next to chocolate the fare was high on her list of comfort foods. Latching the loft door behind her, she sat pizza and beer on the kitchen counter, then once more punched the play button on her answering machine. Grabbing suitcase and carryon she took them up the miniscule flight of stairs to her bedroom and dropped them on the floor at the end of her bed.
"Laura, it's your mother, again. Just a reminder, dear, when you return from your trip you need to give me a call to discuss the holiday plans." Stripping off her clothes, Laura dug in a dresser for a pair of lightweight sweats and a t-shirt.
"Laura, it's Frances. Mother is driving me crazy over her plans for the holiday. Call me." She rolled her eyes as she tugged the shirt over her head.
"Laura, it's me," Remington's rich tenor came through the machine. She froze with one leg partway into her pants. "Just checking in, making sure you made it home safe and sound." Reminding herself he was long asleep at this hour, she tugged the elastic cuff over her foot and started with the second leg.
There had been a good deal of water damage to the ceiling of Remington's flat, in the worst place possible: His cherished kitchen. It was the only time she'd been grateful he was in England instead of here. He'd have been beside himself, lamenting over each pan with a speckling of plaster on it, over how his pristine kitchen was no longer…
"Me, again. Run off with another man already? Kidding, kidding." She couldn't help her puff of laughter and the smile on her face. "Odds are you couldn't help yourself and are at the office toiling away, as I speak. I'll give you a ring there."
Picking up her suitcase and carryon, she lay them on the bed to begin unpacking. The pizza was already cold by the time she arrived home, so a few more minutes wouldn't matter. Unzipping her suitcase she tossed the bag of dirty laundry into her hamper.
As it turned out, her Mr. Steele was keeping secrets from her, again. After surveying the damage, she'd gone downstairs to speak to the manager on duty to inquire why the damage hadn't been fixed – it was, after all, clearly stated in the lease that the management company was responsible for repairs such as this. She'd been shocked, to say the least, when the manager concurred with the landlord's obligation to tenant, but given Mr. Steele owned the apartment, the onus for those repairs was upon him.
"Laura, it's eleven my time. Eleven PM that is," he enunciated. "My imagination's beginning to run away with me. Have you had a car accident? Has Keyes been up to something again?" She could hear the nervousness in his voice. "Have I done something to chase you off? If not the last, call when you get in. I'll be waiting up."
Shoving the last of her clean clothing in a drawer, she winced as she put her suitcase away in the closet then bypassing her carryon walked directly to the phone. She hadn't imagined he'd waited up for her call. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she dialed his number, even as the answering machine dutifully reported his last message….
"Laura, me again. I've left worry in the rear window and am heading quickly towards… You should have been home near on half a day now. If I don't hear from you by six my time, I don't give a bloody damn what the INS does, I'm getting on the first available flight to LA. Just…call me, Laura. Let me know you're well."
She waited for him to pick up the phone when the call went through.
Remington lunged for the phone, yanking up the receiver before the second ring was complete.
"Steele, here."
"I'm sorry," she drew out the words with sincere apology. He forgot himself for a moment. Forgot he'd been making deals with God should she be safe. Forgot his worries the envelope and package in the bag had chased her off. Forgot his worry that she might be, at that very minute, questioning why she was putting up with this multi-continental relationship.
"Where the hell have you been, Lau-ra?!" he demanded to know, returning to his pacing albeit at much shorter distances given he was tethered to a phone.
"Well—" she began, only to be cut off.
"I've walked holes in the carpeting worrying about any number of things that might have happened preventing you from calling me," he lectured.
"I'm sorry but—" Her eyes narrowed when he cut her off again.
"Do you have any idea how helpless I have felt wondering if you were in trouble and powerless to do—" Exhausted by the long, strenuous flight and her own emotions precarious due to being forced to part that morning, her temper flared.
"If you'd let me get a word in edgewise," she snapped. Lack of sleep and hours of worry had pricked his own temper.
"By all means, have at it." She scowled at the sarcasm dripping off each word he'd spoken.
"When we arrived at La Guardia, my plane was grounded due to mechanical issues." He swallowed hard as visions of her plane's engines malfunctioning sending it plunging into the Atlantic flashed through his vivid imagination. As quickly as his anger had arisen, it fizzled. "All passengers continuing to Los Angeles were placed on standby until seats on alternative flights became available. When I finally had my ticket in hand, a large storm hit most of the Northeastern seaboard, delaying all flights. I didn't get to my loft until after five, only to be greeted with a message on my answering machine from a manager at the Rossmore informing me your apartment had sustained water damage from a flood in the unit above." Already feeling like a heel as he envisioned hours of her being stranded at LaGuardia, his head popped up at the last.
"Damaged?" She chose to ignore the inquiry, to issue an indictment of her own.
"Imagine my surprise when I was informed you were no longer leasing the apartment but had purchased it." He brushed off what he knew was a demand for explanations.
"Forgot to mention that, did I? The damage?" he pursued.
"Water damage to a contained area on the ceiling, I'll have Mildred call a repairman in the morning," she replied with a sigh, recognizing her questions would be left unanswered as long as his were – at the very least. Tugging her carryon on towards her, she unzipped it. "The apartment Mr. Steele?" she pressed again.
"I believe I told you I wasn't going anywhere," he reminded. "It seemed foolish to continue paying rent rather than accruing equity as an owner," he pointed out logically. She removed a lightweight sweater from her bag, brow furrowing, uncertain that she could find fault with that reasoning.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked again, then forgot the question as her hand connected with something foreign in her bag. Moving the bag to her lap, she peered inside to see the envelope and box he'd slipped into it.
"I suppose—"
"When did you have time to put anything in my bag?" she cut him off before an explanation for the flat was made. He drew a hand through his hair, suddenly extremely nervous.
"When I took your bags down to the car," he provided, as she examined the envelope, where he'd scrawled in his neat, precise handwriting 'open first'.
"What's this about?" she asked, even as she slipped her finger under the flap of the envelope and opened it to extract a single sheet of paper.
"Just trying for a bit of transcontinental romance, Laura." His hand left his hair so a pair of fingers could tug on his earlobe. She heard the leeriness in his tone, and tilted her head slightly to the side. Unfolding the sheet of paper, she read the narrative written there.
Inside this box are three objects: Something stolen, but at the same time freely given; something priceless but far too often underestimated; and, a token whose significance exceeds its worth. The box has traveled a great distance and has somehow been delivered into your hands. Curiosity piqued, you are tempted to open the box, except for the handwritten note upon it…
Laura picked up the box and with a soft laugh read said note:
Open only if you understand your life will be forever altered.
She set the box to the side and returned to the note.
…The message gives you pause. What if the contents of that package were to change your life in ways you were neither prepared for nor wished for? Fortunately, for you, there are three people who know of the package, and while none of the know its contents, each has in their possession a clue: A trusted business partner; a respected patriarch; and a former government agent. Once all three clues have been collected, find the fourth and final person – a connoisseur with the gift of gab – to decipher the clues you'll hold in hand. It will be up to you, then, to decide if the treasure within is worth the risk of your life changing in unexpected ways.
"A mystery? You're giving me a mystery?" she asked, clearly delighted.
"I am," he confirmed. "Do you intend to solve it?" Her smile widened as she looked at the box, her curiosity most certainly aroused.
"How could I possibly resist?" she countered, picking up the box and shaking. Whatever the items within were, they weren't very heavy.
"That's what I was counting on. And no cheating, Laura," he warned. "I'll know if you take a shortcut and don't follow the clues."
"Cheat? Me?"´she asked, drawing out each word, suggesting the idea absurd, even as her fingers itched to open the box here and now.
"Despite your protestations otherwise, you, Laura Holt, cannot resist a wrapped package," he indicted. She remained silent on his point: Never would she admit he was correct.
"Do you intend to give me a place to start?"
"Start where you taught me: At the beginning," was his cryptic reply. He chuckled at her sigh. She should have known better.
"Have you gotten any sleep since I left?" she wondered, with an abrupt change of topic. After his initial outburst, his energy had notably flagged.
"Hadn't a chance," he confirmed her suspicions. "Had a few matters to tend to with Haven House, then imagining any number of things that might have happened to you kept sleep at bay." She glanced at her bedside table and calculated the time difference. He'd been without any true sleep for nearly two days now.
"Go to sleep, Remington," she ordered, quietly. "We'll talk in the morning." Sleep deprivation, his prior worry, missing her, had all served to tear down the walls he might normally hide behind, and he displayed a rare moment of vulnerability.
"Laura, are we okay?"
"How could we not be? You gave me a mystery to solve, after all," she answered lightly. He nodded his head rapidly, even as he fought against unconsciousness. "Goodnight, Mr. Steele."
"Goodnight, Miss Holt."
He wasn't quite sure how the receiver made it back into its cradle.