Read Online Mansions Of The Dead by Sarah Stewart Taylor - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sarah Stewart Taylor
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to the framed picture of her husband and son, the neat surface of her desk.
“Good morning, Pam,” he murmured, looking down at the ground as he passed by her desk on the way to his office. It seemed strange that everything should look exactly the way it had only three days before. But the office was as coolly elegant as ever, thanks to the $400 an hour decorator who’d done the place over last year. He had to admit that she’d known what she was doing. The offices of Putnam and Wise-craft—on the fourth floor of a financial district office building—called up an English lord’s personal library, all mahogany and richly upholstered furniture. The suite had been recarpeted in an elegant gray carpet that was the next best thing to hardwood floors and the walls were covered with original art, much of it from the family’s personal collection. Many of these paintings had been hanging on the walls of the law firm since the 1800s, and though the venue was entirely modern, part of why they’d chosen it, he had the sense that he always did of goingback into history. It was exactly what he hoped clients felt when they walked into the offices, a sense that Putnam and Wisecraft would always be there, would always be able to help. It was what he had told the interior decorator and he had to admit she’d gotten it just about right.
“Mr. Putnam.” Pam stared at him in openmouthed shock. “We didn’t think you’d be coming in . . . ”
“Could you hold all my calls, please,” he said, slipping out of his jacket and hanging it in the mahogany wardrobe just outside his office. “My brother and sister will be here a little bit later. Please show them in. And I’d like some coffee, please.”
She had half stood behind her desk and he felt a flash of annoyance at her colorful getup—a pink-patterned miniskirt and a too-tight lime green sweater. In the old days, when his grandfather had been in charge, the secretaries would have all worn somber black for a month or so. He noticed that her eye makeup was the exact same green as her top.
“Mr. Putnam,” she said. “I just wanted to say how sorry we all are. Everyone, we . . . ”
“Thank you, Pam.” Her sympathy was too much. He felt something loosening in him and he cut her off with his eyes, stepping into his office and shutting the door with a final “click.”
His office was immaculate, the desk a perfect geometric pattern of leather blotter, leather pen cup, and two leather-framed photographs, one of Melissa and one of the whole family a couple of years before Petey’s death. He put both photos facedown on the desk. He wanted to think and he felt as though he needed to be alone to do it.
A few minutes later there was a tentative knock, like a bird tapping against a tree. When he called out, “Come in,” Pam opened the door and made her way over to the desk with a tray containing a French press coffeemaker filled with steaming coffee, a mug, and a little pitcher of milk. She reminded him of a crab, walking sideways in her too-high heels while trying to stay out of his line of sight.
“Thank you, Pam,” he said, taking the tray from her and placing it on the coffee table. She looked as though she was going to say somethingelse, but he silenced her with his body language, turning his back to her and busying himself with the tray. A few seconds later he heard the soft click of the door.
When she was gone, he poured the coffee and leaned back into the couch, trying to lower his heart rate by counting down from ten the way the doctors had taught him.
“You’re thirty-four years old, Drew, and you’re twenty-five pounds overweight and about two years away from a heart attack if you don’t learn to relax a little. You’ve got to pinpoint where the stress is coming from in your life, perhaps through therapy or stress management classes, and work on eliminating it.”
“I don’t believe in therapy,” he’d said. “I’ll start jogging.”
He
“Good morning, Pam,” he murmured, looking down at the ground as he passed by her desk on the way to his office. It seemed strange that everything should look exactly the way it had only three days before. But the office was as coolly elegant as ever, thanks to the $400 an hour decorator who’d done the place over last year. He had to admit that she’d known what she was doing. The offices of Putnam and Wise-craft—on the fourth floor of a financial district office building—called up an English lord’s personal library, all mahogany and richly upholstered furniture. The suite had been recarpeted in an elegant gray carpet that was the next best thing to hardwood floors and the walls were covered with original art, much of it from the family’s personal collection. Many of these paintings had been hanging on the walls of the law firm since the 1800s, and though the venue was entirely modern, part of why they’d chosen it, he had the sense that he always did of goingback into history. It was exactly what he hoped clients felt when they walked into the offices, a sense that Putnam and Wisecraft would always be there, would always be able to help. It was what he had told the interior decorator and he had to admit she’d gotten it just about right.
“Mr. Putnam.” Pam stared at him in openmouthed shock. “We didn’t think you’d be coming in . . . ”
“Could you hold all my calls, please,” he said, slipping out of his jacket and hanging it in the mahogany wardrobe just outside his office. “My brother and sister will be here a little bit later. Please show them in. And I’d like some coffee, please.”
She had half stood behind her desk and he felt a flash of annoyance at her colorful getup—a pink-patterned miniskirt and a too-tight lime green sweater. In the old days, when his grandfather had been in charge, the secretaries would have all worn somber black for a month or so. He noticed that her eye makeup was the exact same green as her top.
“Mr. Putnam,” she said. “I just wanted to say how sorry we all are. Everyone, we . . . ”
“Thank you, Pam.” Her sympathy was too much. He felt something loosening in him and he cut her off with his eyes, stepping into his office and shutting the door with a final “click.”
His office was immaculate, the desk a perfect geometric pattern of leather blotter, leather pen cup, and two leather-framed photographs, one of Melissa and one of the whole family a couple of years before Petey’s death. He put both photos facedown on the desk. He wanted to think and he felt as though he needed to be alone to do it.
A few minutes later there was a tentative knock, like a bird tapping against a tree. When he called out, “Come in,” Pam opened the door and made her way over to the desk with a tray containing a French press coffeemaker filled with steaming coffee, a mug, and a little pitcher of milk. She reminded him of a crab, walking sideways in her too-high heels while trying to stay out of his line of sight.
“Thank you, Pam,” he said, taking the tray from her and placing it on the coffee table. She looked as though she was going to say somethingelse, but he silenced her with his body language, turning his back to her and busying himself with the tray. A few seconds later he heard the soft click of the door.
When she was gone, he poured the coffee and leaned back into the couch, trying to lower his heart rate by counting down from ten the way the doctors had taught him.
“You’re thirty-four years old, Drew, and you’re twenty-five pounds overweight and about two years away from a heart attack if you don’t learn to relax a little. You’ve got to pinpoint where the stress is coming from in your life, perhaps through therapy or stress management classes, and work on eliminating it.”
“I don’t believe in therapy,” he’d said. “I’ll start jogging.”
He
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