I smiled inwardly at his concern, resolving that he’d probably figured out I’d gone to New York. I proceeded to read through the rest of my e-mail, but curiosity gnawed at me, and I was finding it hard to focus. I opened the search browser.
‘D-a-v-i-d D-’
David Dylan. There he was. Not high on the list of autocomplete results, but in the first round of David Ds. The first link was to the Architectural Digest magazine article. I opened it to see David’s stern face staring back as he stood in front of his latest masterpiece. I scanned the three-page article, noting that his firm, Pierson/Greer, was within walking distance from my office. It discussed his impact on modern architecture, stating that he was one of the most in-demand architects in Chicago. They have to say that, I thought, rolling my eyes. I hit the ‘Back’ button and scrolled down through a couple more work-related links.
“GQS will acquire Multi-Parcel Express, CEO Gerard Dylan announces”
GQS? The GQS? I wondered. I read intently about Gerard, CEO of Global Quick & Speedy, the worldwide shipping company. I returned to the main page and typed in Gerard’s name, which revealed endless articles, both business and personal. A profile of his home life presented four perfect smiles: Gerard, wife Judy, daughter Jessa and son David. There was no mistaking David’s sister, who had the same obsidian hair that complemented clear brown eyes and long black lashes.
He was so photogenic that his piercing gaze and sturdy features almost made him hard to look at. I sifted through images of him, mostly working or at events, and smiled at how his tall frame and broad shoulders dwarfed those who posed with him. A profile shot of him and his sister laughing, dressed in head-to-toe black, could have been from a perfume ad. A few rows down, there was an image of him on a red carpet, his arm placed behind a stunning golden-skinned brunette with narrowed green eyes. Two more photos with her. And another with a leggy redhead. I clicked out of the browser. So much for research. All I learned is that he looks unjustly good in a hardhat, I thought, shutting the laptop with a thud.
I headed out into the balminess of the late morning, surprised to find it warmer than I’d expected, and directly into the nearest Starbucks for a hit of caffeine. I considered staying to do some work but was feeling restless, so I took my drink to go.
Shopping and people watching were two areas where New York was never lacking. Throngs of people filled the sidewalks, stopping abruptly to take pictures or admire the shops along 5th Avenue. I perused a few stores along the way, more admiring than shopping.
Eventually I stumbled across the imposing St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Its dark beauty showed through hard, sharp edges of smooth stone-colored marble. The intricacy of the carvings that decorated the entire building, from base to sky-stabbing spire, was breathtaking. I climbed the steps of the grave, mysterious building and entered quietly behind a slew of other tourists. Studying the interior, I was overcome with the solemnity that religious structures always inspired in me. Observers wielded their cameras and phones, trying in vain to capture the power of the architecture. Staring into the altar, I watched the candles flicker with each opening of the cathedral door.
When a familiar melody filled the room, I was embarrassed to find it was coming from my purse. I scrambled to excavate my phone as I bolted for the door. A hurried finger swiped across the screen silenced the ring. “Hello?” I asked breathlessly as I descended the steps.
“Olivia.” His voice was no less powerful on the phone, and I cursed inwardly. “It’s David Dylan. Serena said I could reach you here.” I rolled my eyes, trying to imagine how he had charmed my personal number out of her.
“Hello, Mr. Dylan,” I said, trying to keep the butterflies in my stomach and out of my mouth. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve been concerned,” he said.
“I’m fine,” I exhaled, feigning exasperation. “Everyone is overreacting.”
“How is your arm?”
“Healing beautifully. What can I do for you?” I repeated.
“Friday,” he said.
I bristled at the way he disregarded my clipped tone. “Actually, Friday works if you don’t mind a phone interview.”
“Hmm. I’d prefer to do it in person. I’ll get in touch with a better date.”
My phone pinged in my ear and I pulled it away to quickly read a text message from Bill.
Apr 24, 2012 4:17 PM
Headed back now.
“You’d love it here,” I said, changing the subject. “The architecture is jaw-dropping, as are the women.”
“I’ve been to New York, Olivia. I travel there for business quite frequently,” he stated.
“Oh, of course,” I said, flushing under the chastisement. Obviously he must have known intimately the type of women that lived here.
“Where are you?” he asked, his tone softening barely.
“Um,” I glanced around. I realized I’d been wandering, engulfed in our conversation. I squinted for a street sign. “I don’t know, actually.”
“What?”
“Well, I’ve just been wandering and exploring . . . . I’m by St. Patrick’s Cathedral, or at least I was.”
“Christ, Olivia. Pay attention, would you? I’m about to hire you a bodyguard.”
“Well, imagine how I’ve made it this long.”
“You are trouble,” he intoned quietly, so I had to strain to hear it. His tone stirred my insides. “You know, I waited a full twenty-four hours for your response,” he said. “It was everything to restrain myself from calling.”
“It has not been twenty-four hours,” I pointed out.
“It’s four-thirty,” he stated simply.
“Not in Chicago, it isn’t,” I giggled.
“You have a most enchanting giggle, Olivia Germaine,” he teased.
I stopped, reddening further. “David,” I started. “Don’t call me here again. You can e-mail if it’s important.”
“Understood,” he complied, easier than I would have thought. “Tell me where you are though.”
“Hmm. Madison Avenue,” I read off the nearest street sign.
“Not surprising,” he mused. “What, were you doing some shopping?”
“Well, I rarely get a chance to shop for myself,” I explained.
“I think it might be fun to take you shopping.” I could almost hear him smiling on the other end. I blanched, unsure of whether or not he was joking.
“Sure, Edward Lewis,” I said, playing along.
“Edward Lewis?”
“Never mind, it’s a Pretty Woman reference.”
“So that would make you Julia Roberts, then.”
“No, that would make me Vivian.”
“All right, well, Vivian - where are you staying? I’ll tell you how to get back.” I toed the deformed sidewalk beneath me, thinking. “Don’t worry, I won’t show up or anything.” I relented and told him we were staying in the Meatpacking District.
“Okay, listen,” he said, and instructed me on how to return to the hotel, where I knew Bill would be waiting.
My plan to forget was not working, but I relaxed knowing I wouldn’t be hearing from him for a while. My heart dropped a little, too.
That night, Bill surprised me with tickets to a show. We enjoyed the play, took in a late night meal at Sardi’s . . . . Stayed up late, talking in our hotel room, deciding to extend our trip through the weekend. I was content, as I’d always been, except that I couldn’t shake the tiny knot at the pit of my stomach. Something had been planted inside of me that I was finding hard to escape.