How to Score (36 page)

She lowered herself into it. He placed the Metro section on the table, and her eye flew to a photo below the fold. Sammi. Standing in front of the little house she rented from Walter, with the entire museum board on either side of her.

Arlene’s breath caught. “What in blazes—”

“Better just read the story,” Walter said gently.

“Phelps Museum Board Considers Purchase of Art Deco Home.”

Outrage burned in Arlene’s veins. She picked up the paper, then set it down, her fingers shaking too hard to hold it. How dare she! How dare Sammi call the board behind her back!

Arlene stared at the article. The words blurred through a red haze of fury:

The Executive Board of the Phelps Museum toured a small home in Tulsa’s Rivertree Subdivision that has recently received a reprieve from the wrecking ball. Built in 1933, the property was designed by Raymond Deshuilles, a world-renowned art deco architect.

‘Art deco architecture is an endangered species,’ Phelps Museum Curator Sammi Matthews told the group. ‘It’s being destroyed in the name of progress, and in the process, we’re losing a beautiful part of Tulsa’s heritage.’

The architectural style, which began in Paris in 1925 and grew to international prominence between the World Wars, is usually found in public buildings and opulent mansions.

‘Deshuilles is one of the few architects who translated the design into smaller homes,’ Matthews said. ‘He’s famous for saying, “Economy need not preclude style.”’

Deshuilles worked in Tulsa during the city’s oil boom in the late 1920s and early 1930s. The Landry home is believed to be the last Deshuilles structure of its kind in the world.

The home first came to the attention of the board when Matthews, who is renting the home, learned that a demolition permit had been issued for the property. Matthews took the matter to the Preservation Commission, which placed a hold on the permit for 90 days while the issue is studied.

‘I would love to see the Phelps Mansion and Art Deco Museum buy and preserve the property,’ Matthews said. ‘It’s a natural fit with the museum’s mission.’

‘We’re investigating the possibility of expanding the museum’s role in exhibiting and interpreting Tulsa’s rich art deco history,’ said Edward Harrison, president of the museum’s board of directors.

Arlene tossed the paper on the table, anger bubbling in her chest. “Over my dead body.”

“Now, Arlene—” Walter said gently, “it might not be a bad thing. I mean, I’ve been thinking about it, and as much as I hate someone telling me what to do or not to do, the fact remains, Sammi is probably right. It’s a special little house.”

He was taking Sammi’s side? “No. It’s unthinkable. The Phelps Museum is about Chandler Phelps. What does she know about the museum’s mission? Besides, she’s gone behind my back.”

“Maybe you should just consider it,” Walter suggested gently. “If you open your mind to the possibility, it might be good for everyone concerned.”

“By everybody, you mean you.” Arlene’s pulse pounded in her temple. “So you can get top dollar for your house without a demolition permit.”

Walter’s face grew stony. “Is that what you think? That I came over here out of self-interest?”

“It’s certainly sounding like it, the way you’re taking her side.”

“I came over because I thought you might be upset, not to further my own interests, Arlene. I’m not like that.”

Arlene glared at him. “You’re a man, aren’t you?”

Walter’s lips pulled into a hard line. “I don’t know who your gentleman friend was, Arlene, but I know this: he was no gentleman. And you’re sadly mistaken if you think every man is as self-serving as he was.” He tossed the rest of the paper on the table. “I’ll see myself out.”

She stared at him as he stiffly walked out. She heard the front door close solidly behind him.

He was wrong. The board was wrong. Sammi was wrong.

They were wrong, wrong,
wrong
.

A horrible thought formed in her mind. It had been creeping in for some time, imperceptible as dust under a bed, but it had gathered into a dust bunny, large enough now to have a shape and form, too defined to ignore.

Maybe, just maybe,
she
was wrong. Maybe Chandler wasn’t the man she’d lionized and canonized all these years. Maybe she’d been deluding herself about him, seeing only what she wanted to see, spinning their relationship into something it wasn’t. Maybe she’d been lying to herself all these years, because all of her self-worth was tied up in him.

Maybe, just maybe, her whole life had been a waste.

Sammi’s thoughts were on the weekend as she strode from the museum parking lot to her office in the carriage house later that morning. She was leaving work at noon, and Chase was picking her up an hour later to head to the mountains. She couldn’t wait.

But first, she’d have to deal with Ms. Arnette. The woman was going to be furious about the article in this morning’s paper. Sammi drew a deep, bracing breath and stepped into her office. Three things immediately struck her as wrong. Thing one: the lights were already on. Thing two: Ms. Arnette was sitting on Sammi’s chair behind her desk. Thing three: a large cardboard box sat on the desk in front of her. Sammi froze in the doorway.

Ms. Arnette rose from Sammi’s chair and leaned forward, her hands on Sammi’s desk. “How dare you,” she hissed. “How
dare
you call the board and invite them to that house behind my back!”

Sammi clutched her purse strap as if it could somehow protect her. “I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen.”

Ms. Arnette straightened. “You obviously didn’t try very hard.”

Sammi fought to keep her voice calm. “Actually, I did, but you insisted you didn’t want to hear anything further about the house.”

Ms. Arnette shoved the box toward her. “You’re fired. I’ve packed up all of your personal effects. I want you to take them and leave.”

“You’re firing me?” Sammi stared at her. “On what grounds?”

“Insubordination.”

“I wasn’t insubordinate!”

“Oh, indeed you were. I have documented evidence of your previous transgressions, and this is the final straw.”

“With all due respect, Ms. Arnette, the board hired me. I don’t think you can fire me.”

The woman’s face turned splotchy with rage. “The board hired
you
to replace
me
when they thought
I
was retiring.” Her finger stabbed the air. “As you can see, I am
not
retired. I have tolerated your presence, your insolence, your refusal to listen, and your insistence on subverting the purpose of this institution for long enough. I will tolerate it no longer.”

“But—”

Arlene held up both hands like a traffic cop. “As a long-term employee, I have the right to work for the Phelpses’ interests as long as I want. And as long as I work here, you will not.” She gave the box another jab. “Now take your things and go home.”

Ms. Arnette’s face was red with fury. Her eyes gleamed like angry coals. There was no point in arguing with her. Sammi picked up the box and headed out the door.

She’d go home, all right. And when she got there, she’d pick up the phone and call the board president.

C
hase could tell something was wrong the moment Sammi opened her front door. Her shoulders sagged, and even though she gave him a hug and a welcoming smile, her eyes lacked their usual brightness.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She mustered a smile. “Nothing that will spoil our weekend.” She picked up a duffel bag. “I’ll tell you all about it on the way.”

As he drove toward the Ouachita Mountains on the Oklahoma–Arkansas border, she told him about Ms. Arnette’s confrontation.

“What did the board president say when you called him?” Chase asked.

“He’s out of town and won’t return until Sunday evening,” Sammi said glumly.

“I’m sure he’ll back you up. The old bat can’t just up and fire you.”

Sammi brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and gazed out the windshield. “I don’t think she can, either. But it’s obvious we can’t work together. I can’t go back to the mansion until she’s gone. And who knows how long that will take?”

“The board will stand by you.”

“I hope so. But if I’m not there, the historical tours will have to be canceled and the program will fall apart.” She gazed out the side window. “On top of my problems at work, I have to move in two weeks, and I still haven’t found a place to live, so I’ll have to stay with Chloe for a while. I’m not looking forward to it.”

He reached out and took her hand. “It’s going to all work out. You’re just having a run of bad luck.”

And it was about to get even worse, he thought morosely. Man, he hated adding to her troubles; telling her how he’d deceived her seemed like kicking her when she was down. But he couldn’t wait any longer. He’d already waited too long as it was.

She leaned against the headrest and sighed. “In addition to losing my job and my home, my life coach just bailed on me.”

Chase’s stomach knotted. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. He said I’d conquered my issues and his schedule was overbooked, so congratulations on the progress, nice working with you, and sayonara.” She gave him a teasing grin. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to give me the boot, too.”

“Not a chance.”
But that’s not to say you won’t want to give it to me, when you learn the truth.
Man, the guilt was killing him.

He’d given a lot of thought to the best way to break it to her, and he’d formulated a three-step plan:

1. Explain that he offered to take over his brother’s clients to persuade his brother to go into protective services.

2. Mention that his brother is a life coach, and his name is Luke.

3. Hold his breath during the 2.2 seconds it would take for Sammi to connect the dots.

His damage-containment plan was a little more complicated:

1. Tell her that he only meant to help.

2. Explain how things snowballed.

3. Reemphasize that he only wanted to help.

4. Apologize.

5. Apologize again.

6. Repeat steps as necessary.

She drew a deep breath, straightened, and smiled. “I refuse to let all this spoil the weekend. Tell me about our plans.”

“When we get to my property, we’re going to hike a couple of miles, then pitch a tent.”

Chase had gone by his brother’s condo to retrieve the tent. In the process, he’d noted a fresh footprint in the dirt, as well as four freshly burned Gitano cigarette butts under the bushes. Johnny Lambino smoked Gitanos; given the rarity of the cigarette, the odds were that he was once again watching Luke’s place. Luke wouldn’t be returning to his home until Johnny was locked up and the trial was over, so it didn’t pose any immediate danger—but it
did
mean that Luke’s would-be assassin was in town and looking for him. Chase had called headquarters and reported it, and the condo was now back under surveillance. Hopefully, the bureau would reestablish a tail on Johnny and keep an eye on him until his uncles gave him up for a plea bargain.

“A tent sounds romantic,” Sammi said with a grin.

A nerve worked in Chase’s jaw. The tent could be something straight out of
Arabian Nights,
but once Sammi learned the truth, romance would be the last thing on her mind.

Judging from the sexy way she was smiling at him, apparently it was at the forefront now. “But then, who needs a tent?” she said.

Not him, that was for sure. He’d be fine with pulling off the road, dragging her across the console, and making love to her right there on the highway. But he couldn’t touch her until he’d told her the truth.

He squeezed her fingers. “Hold that thought.”

“I’ve been holding it all week.”

“Me, too.” He needed to switch to a less sexually charged topic before he did something he’d regret. He opened the armrest and pulled out a CD case.

“Want to hear some tunes?”

“Sure.”

The conversation shifted to music and movies and other things, and before he knew it, Chase was turning off the interstate onto scenic Highway 271. The trees grew denser, the leaves more brightly colored.

“Oh, this is gorgeous!” Sammi murmured.

Chase nodded. “It’s the peak of the fall foliage season. Thousands of tourists come up here every year just to drive through and look at the scenery.”

“It’s beautiful enough to make me completely forget my troubles.” Sammi turned to him and smiled. “And that’s just what I intend to do. I’m going to relax and enjoy the weekend and not think about anything unpleasant until Monday.”

Chase tried to muster a smile, but it probably looked more like he had a case of indigestion. Which wasn’t far from the truth; thinking about confessing that he’d been her coach was making his stomach turn like a rototiller.

He slowed to turn onto a dirt road.

“Paradise Valley Pass,” Sammi read on the faded street sign. “What a romantic name.”

They bounced along for about six miles, then turned left at a boulder onto an even narrower dirt path. A turn at the end of the path and three miles of bumpy trail later, he braked in front of a weathered cabin on the side of the mountain. The terrain rose sharply behind it. “Here it is,” he said, killing the engine.