On the first page, in Mother’s neat printing, were the words, “Preliminary designs. For discussion only. Subject to client review. No work to begin until client signoff obtained.”
Okay, maybe Mother had gotten the message after all. I stifled a small inclination to feel guilty and flipped the page.
The first sketch was obviously a design for the master bedroom. I stared at it, transfixed.
Not because it was horrible. It wasn’t. It wasn’t bad at all. In fact, I rather liked it. It didn’t really look like one of Mother’s designs. It was way too simple, and there wasn’t a square inch of chintz in sight. I could see elements of Japanese, Mission, and Arts and Crafts styles in it, but it wasn’t completely any of those things. It was simple, serene, uncluttered, and beautiful. And at the same time, I could tell there was a lot of storage space hidden away under the serene surface, which was a really smart idea. Michael and I still had plenty of stuff, and I didn’t see us getting rid of it all, no matter how much of a convert I’d become to simple living and spare, minimalist décor.
I had to hand it to Mother. She’d come up with exactly the kind of design we’d have done ourselves, if either of us had had the time to work on it. Or the talent.
Of course, if we told her to go ahead with her design, there was always the issue of whether it would look like this when she finished adding all those little touches that occurred to her along the way. And whether we could talk her into something equally to our liking for the several dozen other rooms in the house. And whether we could afford even this room. And how long we’d have her underfoot, and whether any of us would survive with our sanity intact.
Not to mention my belief that, given a chance, Michael and I could do something with the place that suited both of us just fine. It might take longer and it might not be as breathtakingly beautiful as Mother’s design, but it would be our home, done by us, not merely a beautiful house that someone had decorated for us. Assuming we survived as an us. And then—
But why let quibbling spoil a beautiful moment of guilt? I owed Mother an apology. But first, and more important, I owed Michael one.
I’d been so focused on one urgent cause after another—emptying the house, organizing the yard sale, rescuing Giles—that I’d been losing sight of the real reason I was doing all this. That it was all supposed to be for us.
It would serve me right if Michael decided he’d had enough of the grouchy, hyperactive Meg he’d seen in the last few months, the commitment-phobic Meg who changed the subject every time he tried to talk seriously about our future together, the—
Of course, that was the moment when I heard a car door slam, followed by his engine starting and the screech of tires as he roared out of the driveway and down the road.
I raced back up to our room, found my purse, and ran down to my car. And then lost valuable time when I had to run back in to ransack the house for ten minutes, till I found where I’d dropped my keys instead of putting them in my purse where they belonged.
I headed for town. I didn’t need to rush—I had no chance of overtaking him now. Even in his usual good temper, he’d race along the long, empty road to town. And catching up with him while he was still angry wouldn’t be productive anyway. And it wasn’t as if I’d have to wander around looking for him. If it were day, he could have gone to the gym, or the faculty lounge, or even Luigi’s for a beer. But this time of night about the only place he could go was his office. If he drove around for a while to cool off, he’d eventually end up there.
Caerphilly didn’t exactly roll up the sidewalks at dusk, but at two-thirty on a Sunday night (or Monday morning), it was almost eerily deserted. I didn’t see another car the whole way into town. I heard one, several streets off, when I was nearing the campus, but since it was too noisy for Michael’s well-tuned car, I found myself relieved when it faded in the distance. After all, Barrymore Sprocket, who had seemed so harmless and turned out to be a cold-blooded murderer, was still at large somewhere. Though surely somewhere far from Caerphilly, if he had any sense.
Not a single car parked in front of Dunsany Hall, but then Michael could have parked in the adjacent faculty garage. I didn’t have a card for that, but I did have the key code to get into the building. I took the front steps two at a time, punched in the code, and slipped inside. I walked softly and didn’t turn on the lights. I didn’t want Michael to hear me coming and storm off again.
And maybe with a fugitive at large it was better not to advertise my presence in a deserted building.
For that matter, maybe I should have a weapon ready, in case I ran into Barrymore Sprocket. A quick search through my purse and pockets produced nothing particularly useful. For want of something else, I fished out Rose Noire’s bottle of “Eau de Meg” scent. It was small enough to throw but hard enough to hurt if it hit, and I didn’t much care if I broke it. Perhaps, if I held it menacingly, I could convince someone that it was mace. And I loosened the top, so I could throw the contents more easily. Self-defense through aromatherapy—it might not stop an attacker but at least the menthol and eucalyptus might slow him down for a few useful seconds.