“Can I speak to Allison?”
“She’s not in. What can I do for you?”
“I need to speak with her directly,” I say, afraid of spreading her personal business all over her office. “I’ve received a delivery that belongs to her. We have the same name and I work a few blocks down from your building.”
“I can leave her a message,” she says, robotic, unconcerned, though I am. This is a very expensive necklace. “Or you can have it delivered here?” she asks.
I’m back to the necklace being extremely expensive when I say, “I’d rather hand deliver it. Will she be in today?” I ask.
“I really don’t know. You can try back later.”
“Right,” I say. “I’ll try her again later. Thanks.” I disconnect and set my phone aside, opening the box again to read the card. “Forgive me.”
For what, I wonder? What did someone do to the other Allison that justified a gifted necklace worth what experience tells me to be thousands of dollars? And how has this necklace sitting at our front desk for two weeks impacted that forgiveness? Concerned, I glance at the clock. It’s almost one. Maybe Allison is just at lunch. I can meet her at her office this afternoon. Decision made, I toss my half-eaten egg salad sandwich in the trash and lug my oversized, Louis Vuitton bag over my shoulder. It’s the only gift my father gave me that I kept, mainly because I received it during the one time in my life I thought I had a relationship with him. I guess, some part of me still clings to that façade.
But the bag also reminds me that expensive gifts don’t erase bad behavior, and I wonder if the other Allison has learned that lesson. Or maybe she’s about to learn it now. Or, I scold myself, the necklace sender is a good person, worthy of forgiveness. The men in my life might have been trouble, but all men are not. My stepfather has been the showcase of humble goodness in my mother’s life and has driven that point home. And as a heroic fire chief, Barry has also proven to me that power and money do not define a man, good or bad.
But character does.
And anyone with a good character knows that you can’t buy love, not even with diamonds.
CHAPTER THREE
On my way to the exit of the museum, I motion to Carrie where she sits behind the front desk, calling out, “Back in a few!”
She flings her hands in the air in exasperation, but she’ll have to wait to find out what’s in the package. I exit into a warm, rather than a hot October day, my basic black pumps that match my basic black suit dress hitting the sidewalk. I miss fall in New York, which feels like fall, not just a slight break in the heat index, but as a truckload of people singing “Friends In Low Places” passes, my lips curve. I do love the unique energy of downtown Nashville.
That song, and those happy people, are with me throughout my short walk to the Hawk Legal high-rise, waving goodbye to me as I halt to greet my destination. I laugh, and wave back at the group, before entering the luxurious lobby with fancy furniture and sculpture-like lighting hanging from the towering ceiling, feeling right at home.
Money all but sings like that busload of people outside in this place, but thanks to Riptide, I have a comfort level in such luxury that defies growing up poor with a single mom. Certainly not because of my father being a retired, two-ring Super Bowl quarterback with a restaurant empire. I barely knew him until a few years back, when he’d promised he’d become a family man.
A promise that went south quickly.
I head to the security desk where I sign-in. Apparently, Hawk Legal is not the only tenant in the building and I’m directed to the twentieth floor for reception. The elevator bank is filled with at least eight cars, and the one to the left opens. I dash inside the first empty car. I’ve just punched my floor when a man, smelling of spice in that perfect way some men do, joins me.
He reaches for the panel and lowers his hand, glancing in my direction, his light brown hair longish, but not so much so that it hides his remarkable, light blue eyes. “Seems we’re going to the same place.”
“Yes,” I say, aware of his tall stature, his well-built physique. “I guess we are.”
He smiles a charming smile, then faces forward, as do I. And good lord, I thought I liked a man in a suit, but I’ve been proven wrong. This man in denim, boots, and a stylish tan leather jacket screams masculine perfection.
The car starts to move, floors ticking by us, and the small space seems to shrink.