Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Archer
“Maybe firing the building manager wasn’t the best starting move,” Bellamy says, propping his feet up on my coffee table.
I frown. My new furniture has only been set up a few days, and he’s already putting his shoes on it. I clear my throat pointedly, and Bellamy rolls his eyes and lets his feet drop to the floor dramatically.
“I didn’t mean to fire him,” I say, returning to the argument Bellamy and I have rehashed several times over the last two days. “He could have stayed on, just not with housing included in his package. It was a renegotiation of terms.”
“With no negotiating,” Bellamy points out.
My father started entrusting me with his various businesses and investments when I was in my early twenties. I’ve handled mergers. Acquisitions. Market expansions. Weathered (attempted) hostile takeovers. Those kinds of stressful, high stakes situations are where I thrive.
And yet, so far I’m drowning in the details of managing one little apartment building.
Not that The Serendipity is necessarily little. With four floors and sixty-one apartments, it houses just over one hundred people. And it’s the people who are the problem.
“The least he could have done was give notice before disappearing.”
Bellamy doesn’t argue further, but he doesn’t need to. He’s made it clear multiple times that he disagreed with my decision.
Who else would want to rent a basement apartment, anyway? he asked. Now you’ll have an almost unusable space and no building manager.
He’s right, of course. But as unhappy as John was to hear that his apartment would no longer be included as part of his salary package, I didn’t expect the quiet older man to simply disappear . When I went down to find him after he stopped answering his phone, the basement apartment was completely devoid of any signs of life. John left nothing but the furnishings. Which may have belonged to The Serendipity in the first place. I have no way of knowing without calling Galentine to ask, which, less than a full week into my tenure as the new owner, would feel like some kind of failure. A concession of defeat.
Plus, I doubt she’s reachable on her cruise.
I can handle this. I can . I just need to find someone (or someones ) to fill John’s role. And fast. It would be easier if I could find a previous job application or a full description of the building manager position. But the only resource I have for knowing what John’s job entailed (besides a general Google search) is from the complaints I’m now receiving.
Because it appears that before leaving, John gave out my phone number. To the entire building. Now, I’m going to have to get a new phone.
But first, I need to get a new person to handle all of this.
Because I certainly don’t have the time or the ability to unclog a kitchen sink on the third floor, fix the hissing radiator, and empty the various trash cans around the building into … wherever trash is emptied. I tug at my collar.
“Can you blame him?” Bellamy asks, popping a cookie into his smiling mouth.
Those cookies .
All week long as we’ve plowed through my task list together, I’ve had to suffer through watching Bellamy scarf down Willa’s cookies. Listening to him chew and make happy little moans. Having my apartment infused with the scent of almond and vanilla, which lingers even after he heads back to his hotel each night.
He just finished his second dozen, and it’s Friday. Willa is probably thrilled with the extra business.
I haven’t seen Willa when she’s dropped off the cookies, only heard her voice. And felt strangely jealous over the sound of her laughter at something Bellamy said. I’m not sure what it is about Willa that has burrowed under my skin.
I want to see her at my door rather than strain to hear the sound of her voice from the safety of my office.
I also want her to move out of the building.
Possibly because I want to see more of her. Distance from a woman who intrigues me for no good reason seems like a safe bet.
But it’s hard to get distance when Bellamy keeps ordering the damn cookies, bringing her to my door. Even just him eating the cookies is a constant and unwelcome reminder of her. She might as well have been sitting next to me on the couch, tapping a foot impatiently, those blue eyes fixed on me.
“Don’t get crumbs on my new couch,” I say.
Bellamy grins and continues chewing. “Are you sure you want me back in New York? I could stay another week until you’ve got things settled,” Bellamy says, his voice kinder now.
I frown.
Why do I prefer it when he argues with me?
Probably because in my life, kindness always seems to go hand in hand with pity, and there’s nothing I hate more. Except maybe people who clip their fingernails in public places.
“I’m settled.”
“Or at least until you find another building manager.”
“I have a list of prospects right here.” I tap my phone. It’s a slim list, but it’s a start.
“And how many have responded to our inquiries?” he asks.
He knows the answer. It’s none.
“Have any of the plumbers returned our calls?”
“No.”
It’s been crickets. Or what’s worse than crickets—roaches?
Apparently, we have those too, in one of the first-floor apartments.
But as with the plumbers, no exterminators have answered their phones or called back. Same with electricians to help figure out why the lights on the left side of the first floor keep blinking.
If I believed in Galentine’s magic, I’d say I’ve been cursed. A very specific curse, foiling every effort I make to do anything with The Serendipity.
“At the very least, you now have a larger list of local services you can contact since you’ve struck out so far,” Bellamy says. “I created a full spreadsheet with all the electricians, plumbers, exterminators, and handypersons I could find in the greater Serendipity Springs area.”
“Handy persons ?”
He shrugs. “Several on the list are women. So, yes … handypersons. Though it does sound odd. The S on the end makes me think of handsy , not handy , for some reason. Maybe it should be handypeople? In any case, you have a list.”
“Thank you. That should suffice.”
“Do you want me to call anyone else today?”
What I would like is for Bellamy to call all the people—handy and otherwise. I’d like to get back to an office that isn’t filled with years of someone else’s inability to set up a filing system. A job in which I have several layers of protection against having to deal with people. In New York, I always had Bellamy and several administrative assistants acting as my defense.
Here, I have no defenses. No protections. Every resident knows where I live—and they’re all right here . They now also have my phone number.
But going back to New York isn’t possible. And even if it were, it wouldn’t be a respite. I would be walking back into the same dumpster fire I left. Better to send Bellamy back. He needs to be running Archway Investments, not making phone calls to plumbers. And it’s the best thing for me not to show my face until some other scandal eclipses mine.
Plus, I remind myself, this project is about more. It’s about me being different from my father. More down-to-earth. Less pampered and stuck in some kind of wealthy person’s tower with my silver spoon and my Amex Black.
Right now, though, I sort of miss the tower and spoon.
“I don’t need to go back right away. I could put it off until Sunday night,” Bellamy says, and the idea that he thinks I need hand-holding is the only thing worse than knowing I do, in fact, need hand-holding.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Well, then, I’d better head on to catch the last Boston train from Worcester. If you’re sure,” he adds. “Would you like me to at least do something about the trash situation before I go?”
Bellamy’s nose wrinkles when he says this, as though the very idea of emptying trash bins causes the reflex. It probably does. He probably hasn’t emptied a trash can since he was a child, if at all.
He and I have this in common.
“Wouldn’t want you to sully your suit,” I tell him.
The only thing Bellamy might love more than sweets is his wardrobe. I suspect his suit collection is more expensive than mine. I don’t care about brands or labels, only the fit and whether I can get dressed while making as few decisions as possible. But Bellamy religiously attends Fashion Week. I wouldn’t know the difference between an Armani and anything else. Especially since Armani is the only designer I can think of right now.
“Do I have any Armani suits?” I ask, and Bellamy’s mouth curves into a smile.
“No. You prefer the look and cut of Tom Ford, and I’ve always loved that you don’t know that.” He tilts his head, examining me with an amused smile. “Are you suddenly interested in fashion?”
“Definitely not. And please—go to New York. I don’t trust anyone else, and I assume you’re prepared to handle the board.”
“You know what they say about assuming.”
“That it’s better to assume the worst in order to avoid the worst outcome,” I say firmly, and Bellamy laughs.
“Not quite, though I like your version better.” He pauses. “Are you sure about all this? Leaving the city, not being the face of the company?”
“Positive. At least, for now.”
“Because you shouldn’t have to run away to avoid your father’s crimes. They’re his, not yours.”
“I know. And I’m not running.”
Not only running. Maybe I am running … a little bit. But even the idea of returning to New York has my stomach feeling like a pit of acid. I pull out my mints and let one dissolve on my tongue. The potent ginger makes my eyes water.
“Because,” Bellamy continues in a lighter tone, “I’ll happily stay here and eat cookies and round up handypeople and manage the buildingpeople … this is fun, actually, just adding people to the ends of words?—”
“ Bellamy .”
“Fine, fine.” He stands, brushing crumbs from his suit pants. “I’ll be back in a few days. Want me to call you after the meeting Monday?” I must make some kind of horrified face, because he chuckles and says, “Got it. No phone calls. I’ll send an email or text.”
“Goodbye.”
He pauses in the doorway, frowning. “You’re sure I can’t help with the trash before I go? It seems like the most pressing of all the menial tasks.”
“I have everything I need. Including someone to deal with the trash.”
I am the someone.
Although taking out trash has never once been something I’ve been asked to do in my life, it can’t be a complex task.
Remove overly full trash bags from the various cans in public areas around the building. Locate where trash should be deposited. Place it there. Replace bags.
Consider eliminating all trash cans in The Serendipity’s public spaces.
Once again, reconsider my recent life choices.
It’s the location issue I’m focused on as I carry the first two bags toward the rear exit of the building where I hope to find dumpsters. This was, unfortunately, one area of the tour Galentine neglected.
If I were a dumpster— a ridiculous statement —this is where I’d be.
I’m not sure who is using the various trash cans in public spaces around the building, but this seems to be where people deposit the things deemed too disgusting for their own personal trash. I’m trying to breathe through my mouth while holding these two particular bags away from my body. One smells like raw onions mixed with raw sewage, and the other one is worse because I can’t even attach a guess to the sickly-sweet odor of rot.
It’s too light for a dead body, so at least there’s that.
“Only two more,” I mutter to myself as I reach the rear exit where, thankfully, I do find three dumpsters along the back of the building.
I ignore the sounds of something scuttling around back there. Serendipity Springs is no New York, with its massive rat overpopulation, but a city is a city, a dumpster is a dumpster, and rats are rats.
Hurrying back inside, I try to think about my reward once I’m done. Running might be a punishment, not a reward for many, but it’s the one activity that’s never failed to make me feel energized—a reset for my body and my brain.
What probably would have been smart , I think, noting some kind of unidentifiable stain on my shoe, is to have changed into running clothes before doing this .
At least it’s late enough that the building is fairly quiet. I didn’t want to risk running into any other people, having any more conversations, or, most especially, being seen taking out the building trash. Nothing screams I’m in charge like carting stinking garbage bags around a building.
The only person I wouldn’t mind seeing is?—
Nope.
I don’t want to run into Willa. Especially not with a trash bag in each hand and unidentifiable sludge on my shoes. Though I’ve already made a terrible impression on her, and I’m not sure how it could be worse.
In any case, it shouldn’t be so hard to think about Willa. Especially when I remind myself about her appearance in my closet—and her ludicrous explanation. She is—with her trespassing and penchant for leaving ponytail holders all over the building and hard-to-banish sugar cookie scent—an embodiment of the kind of chaos I don’t need in my life right now.
But telling myself this doesn’t seem to have the effect it should, especially not when, as I’m emptying the kitchen trash, the scent of vanilla rises to greet me.