Free Who Is My Shelter? by Neta Jackson Page A

don’t have time for this!”
    I kept my mouth shut. Philip wouldn’t even know Matty Fagan if he hadn’t tried to pay off his gambling debts with a shady deal.
    â€œYou want me to go get the car so you don’t have to walk?”
    â€œWhere are you parked?”
    â€œThe AON Center garage.”
    A strange light went on in Philip’s eyes. “No, no, that’s good. I need to stop by the office anyway. Only take a few minutes.”
    A few minutes? Not likely. I was the one driving, and I needed to get back to work! But Philip had already started out the automatic door as if the prospect of going to the office had given him an energy boost.
    Don’t be a wimp, Gabby , I told myself. If he takes more than fifteen minutes, just tell him to take a cab home .
    By the time we got off the elevator on the sixty-second floor of the AON Center, tiny beads of sweat lined his forehead and he kept his right forearm pressed against his middle. I should have insisted on taking him home. But here we were—might as well see it through.
    As we approached the door with a sign that read Fairbanks and Fenchel Development Corp., Philip hesitated. “Uh, Gabby, do me a favor. Would you go in and make sure Henry’s not meeting with anyone? I don’t want to meet any of our clients looking like . . . well, you know.”
    I studied him for a moment. Why should I do that? It wasn’t my idea to come up here to his office! And he’d been calling me Gabby lately instead of Gabrielle . . . what did that mean? He was acting as if we were on buddy-buddy terms.
    But I had to admit he did look messed up, even though he was wearing a hat and wraparound shades that covered the jagged stitches and the bruises around his eyes. I couldn’t blame him for not wanting to run into any business clients with his arm in a cast and his sport coat sagging off his left shoulder.
    â€œOkay. Give me a minute.” I pushed open the door. The waiting room was empty. I approached the reception desk—rats, I couldn’t remember the name of the receptionist—and tried to sound businesslike. “Hello. Is Henry Fenchel in?”
    The receptionist looked startled. “Oh . . . hello, Mrs. Fairbanks. I’ll, um, see if he’s available.” She picked up the phone.
    Ah, my clue. She wouldn’t say that if he were meeting with a client. I smiled benignly. “Just tell him Gabby Fairbanks is here to see him.”
    The girl seemed competent—short brunette hair in an attractive style but nothing gorgeous, reading glasses, gray suit jacket. I politely stepped away from the desk, pretending to look at a decorator print on the wall until I heard her say, “Mrs. Fairbanks? He’ll be with you in a moment.”
    I stepped into the hallway and motioned to Philip. He came into the waiting room just as Henry Fenchel stepped out of his office.
    The moment seemed to freeze in time. The two men looked at each other behind blank masks, as the young receptionist stared wide-eyed at Philip. And then Henry Fenchel said crisply, “Philip. You’re out of the hospital. It’s, uh, good to see you, Gabby. Let’s go into my office. Judy, hold my calls.”
    Later I wondered why Philip didn’t just go into his office and do whatever he came there to do. Henry would have surely followed him in and the conversation would have been on Philip’s turf. Or why I didn’t bow out of the scene and just find a comfy seat and a magazine in the waiting room. At least Fairbanks and Fenchel had Newsweek and Sierra Magazine besides Architectural Digest .
    But the next thing I knew I was seated in a padded chair in Henry’s office. Philip stood at the tall window, looking north over the city, and Henry ensconced himself behind his desk, eyes shifting back and forth between Philip and me. “Surprised to see you both here. You two back together?”
    Neither of us answered. The