Who Is My Shelter? (9 page)

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.

“Okay. 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 silence hung heavy in the room.

“You look awful, Fairbanks,” Henry finally snapped. “What am I supposed to tell people?”

“I had an accident.”

“It's not that easy. You missed a couple important meetings last week. Had to make some decisions without you.”

“I know. We can review—”

“And what about the meeting with the county board you missed the week before that, the one we scheduled early Monday morning, but, no, you weren't back from Indiana yet.”

“We already talked about that, Henry. It won't happen again.”

“You bet it won't!” Henry sucked in a breath. “I asked for an audit.”

“You
what
?” Philip turned from the window and stared at his partner. I saw his left eye had started twitching.

“Asked for an audit. Look, Fairbanks.” Henry stabbed his finger at Philip. “I know what you've been doing. Making withdrawals from the business account to cover your little jaunts to the Horseshoe—”

“I covered that withdrawal!”

“Yeah, yeah. That last one. But how do I know you haven't been leaching funds from the business for who-knows-what monkey business?”

Philip drew himself up as best he could, given his injuries. “I'm
half owner
of this company, Fenchel. So what if I was short of cash and needed a personal loan? I'm good for it. Every penny.”

“Is that right?” Henry snorted. “Well, let me tell you something. If this audit turns up any irregularities—any at all, Fairbanks! Even one dime!—I'm going to sue you for fraud, for embezzlement, for—”

“Henry. Wait.” Philip shook his head back and forth. “Look, I admit, I've made some mistakes. You don't think I know that? But I've got a lot invested in this company. I'm trying to get things straightened out. I just . . . I need some time.”

“Time? We don't have time! The county board wants to meet again tomorrow with prospective developers about that new construction project. It's critical. We're up against two other companies. You gonna be there?”

Philip seemed to sway slightly and put his hand on the window to steady himself. He had to be exhausted. I spoke up. “The doctor doesn't want him back at work for at least another week. In fact, we should go. Philip? Maybe you two can talk on the phone about that meeting tomorrow.”

Philip didn't look at me, but I knew I'd probably get it for poking my nose into their business. Henry pushed his desk chair back with unnecessary force as he stood up and then leaned forward, stiff armed, knuckles on the desktop. “Tell you what, Fairbanks. There's another option here. I won't sue and you can take all the time you need.”

Philip turned, eyes narrowed, and focused on his partner. “And what's that?”

A small smile tipped the corner of Henry Fenchel's mouth. “A buy-out. I'll buy out your interest in this company. That should give you enough money to take care of whatever you've got going on. Give you time to get things ‘straightened out,' as you say. But it'd be hands off, Philip. Hands off. Starting today.”

My mouth nearly dropped open. I saw Philip's features go hard. “Never!” he hissed between clenched teeth. “I started this company and you are
not
going to grab it away from me.” He pushed away from the window and strode with effort for the door. Then he turned back and stabbed a finger in Henry's direction. “I'll be at that meeting tomorrow, Fenchel. Put
that
in the bank. Come on, Gabby.”

I followed him out the door, but behind us Henry yelled, “Get some help, Fairbanks!”

chapter 8

Philip and I barely spoke on the way home. But as I turned off Lake Shore Drive and onto the frontage road toward the curving glass and steel edifice that was Richmond Towers, I broke the silence.

“Philip, don't go back to work. Henry's bluffing. He's got to be. But you need to get that CAT scan like the doctor said. Something's wrong—you're still in pain. I can tell. Nothing's going to get better until
you
get better.”

To my surprise, Philip didn't reply. He didn't yell at me for speaking up in Henry's office either. I pulled the Subaru to the curb in front of the revolving door on the backside of the luxury building but left the motor running. “I should get back to work,” I said. “Are you going to be all right getting up to the penthouse?”

Philip nodded and reached for the door handle. But something— someone—caught his eye across the frontage road in the park. I followed his eyes and saw a man sitting on one of the park benches, arms resting along the back of the bench, ankle balanced on one knee. Seeing us, a slow grin spread across his face and he gave a thumbs-up signal in our direction. Then the man got up and sauntered off down the path.

I felt Philip slump back against the passenger seat. My heart started to race. “Was that one of the men who's been stalking you?” I didn't wait for an answer but turned off the motor. “I'm coming up with you.”

Philip shook his head. “No . . . no, it's okay. You go back to work.” He glanced over at me. “Thanks for taking me to the doctor, Gabby. I appreciate it.” He pulled the door handle and opened the door, then hesitated and turned back. “Do you pray, Gabby?”

His question caught me off guard. But I tried to keep my voice steady as I said, “Yes. Yes, I do pray. All the time lately.”

“Then maybe you could send up a prayer for me. I . . .” He looked away. “I don't know what to do.”

It was four o'clock by the time I got back to Manna House. Paul was there already per our afterschool arrangement, walking Keisha and Sammy back to the shelter from Sunnyside Magnet School. Even though Sammy's mom had moved to the House of Hope, Tanya was trying to find a job and wanted Sammy to be in the afterschool program at the shelter. I'd agreed to bring Sammy home along with Paul when I got off at five.

I was half hoping Estelle would still be there, but her sewing class was over and the dining room where they met was dark and empty—at least until the volunteer group who was scheduled to bring that Monday night's dinner would arrive at five thirty or six. I breathed a brief “Thank You, God” that I wasn't the one who had to schedule supper volunteers seven days a week, week after week. What a job!

But maybe it was just as well Estelle was gone. I needed some time alone in my office to process what happened that afternoon. Philip had asked me to
pray
for him? And that man on the bench— was Philip still in danger from Fagan's cronies? Things between Philip and Henry were certainly a mess. Like the rest of Philip's life right now.

Leaning my elbows on the desk, I rested my head in my hands and squeezed my eyes shut. “Oh God,” I breathed. “How do I pray for Philip? He's got himself in such a mess! And it's all so complicated! But You know all about it, Jesus, and in his own way he seems to be asking for Your help, so please . . .”

I meant to spend only five or ten minutes praying and was surprised when I looked up and saw I'd been crying out to God for half an hour! But one thing led to another and I'd found myself praying about our broken marriage, and my dicey relationship with Lee Boyer, and how to manage this tiger I had by the tail that we were calling the House of Hope. But when I was done I felt a certain peace leaving all my worries in God's lap.

I'd call Jodi Baxter tonight and ask her to pray for Philip too. She probably had no idea how much I was going to dump on her when she'd agreed to be my prayer partner!

The boys asked about going to see their dad that night, but I told them he'd had an exhausting day and it'd be better to wait a day or two. Wednesday for sure. By then I hoped he'd have followed through on getting that CAT scan and we'd know if he was on the mend or needed more medical intervention. None of which I mentioned to the boys.

Philip did not call me for a ride. Was that good or bad? Either he didn't make an appointment to get the scan, or if he did, he called a cab. Hopefully he didn't try to make that meeting with the Cook County Board. As for Henry Fenchel's outrageous offer to buy out Philip's share in the business—that one had me down on my knees a few times on Tuesday.

Still, I was looking forward to our first-ever house meeting Tuesday evening. We decided to not include the kids the first time and left them on the first floor doing their homework while Tanya, Precious, and I climbed the stairs to the third floor and tiptoed quietly into Josh and Edesa's apartment so as not to wake little Gracie, who'd just fallen asleep.

“I brought Josh's bathrobe back,” I said, handing it to Edesa. “Philip said to tell him thanks for the loan—oh, wow, your apartment looks great!” The living room of apartment 3A mirrored my own structurally—but there the similarities ended. I'd painted mine in subdued neutral colors, but Edesa and Josh's walls boasted what she called “hacienda colors” of rusty orange and green trim, with a warm, bright yellow in the adjoining sunroom. Several pottery vases and small woven baskets that looked South American in origin lined the mantel of the gas fireplace. Their furniture was sparse—they'd been in a tiny two-room apartment above the Hickmans—but the couch was covered by a brightly woven throw with Aztec-type designs, and live plants hung in the windows of the sunroom.

“
Gracias
, Sister Gabby. It's wonderful to have so much room!” Edesa whirled around on the bare floor, brown arms outstretched, her full skirt twirling like a little girl's. A moment later she plopped down on a floor pillow beside Precious. Even though both women were considered black—one African American, the other African Honduran—their skin tones were distinctly different. Precious was darker, like rich dark chocolate, while Edesa had mahogany skin with gold highlights. And Tanya, who was also African American, had her own lighter caramel skin.

Josh appeared from the hall lugging a couple of straight-back chairs. “ 'Desa, honey, you want that salsa you made out here? Couldn't bring it and the chairs too.”

“I'll get it,” Tanya offered and returned with a bag of tortilla chips and a bowl of homemade salsa
verde
with green tomatillos and avocados, which rapidly disappeared. Tasted nothing like the stuff that came in a jar from the store! But finally I asked Josh to start our meeting with a prayer.

“Me?” He shrugged an okay. “Well, Lord, I want to thank You for this House of Hope, for giving all of us a home here. And I pray for the other single moms and kids You want to bring here. Even if we don't know who they are yet, we know You do and that they are part of Your good plan for this place. Bless Mrs. Fairbanks for her vision, and help us as we work out the nitty-gritties of living together. Oh, and it'd be great if You could keep the furnace and water pipes and everything working this winter. Amen.”