Second Chance Love, page 18
“Lizzie, I think you should spend the night at my place. It'll be cold in your apartment.”
“You always think I should spend the night at your place. I’ll be fine. Sebastian will help keep me warm. You can just take me home.”
Steve sighed, turned the defroster on—one of his minor successes in understanding a vehicle that did not take verbal orders—and drove toward Elizabeth’s part of town. While the Taurus’s wiper blades wiped increasingly heavy snowflakes side to side, the headlights lit a crazy kaleidoscope of flakes swirling in their beams. The chiming bells of The Eagles’ Please Come Home For Christmas played on the radio.
A few blocks before reaching Elizabeth’s apartment, Steve pulled off in front of a mostly vacant lot. Vacant, except for a few rows of fir trees and a crude, hand-painted sign: XMAS TREE'S $25 AND UP.
Steve turned to Elizabeth. “I know it’s silly to park this far away from your place when it’s snowing and cold out, but—"
“No explanation necessary. Come on.” She got out and walked to where the trees lay bundled together, ready to be set up for sale. She pulled her glove off to touch the needles.
Steve caught up and put an arm around her. “It hasn’t even been a year, but everything in my life has changed. Everything is good now.”
Elizabeth nodded, snow falling off her hair and onto her face. “Do you remember that Christmas Eve, twenty years ago? It was snowing that night, too. I was so excited all that day. It already felt like I had loved you forever and I was so happy to think that I was finally going to tell you.”
Steve nodded, his face just inches from hers. “I felt the same way that day, like I was about to set out on an exciting adventure with my best friend. Then I left, and we lost twenty years.”
“And none of that matters now. I love you so, but right now, things feel so…transitional.”
A flicker of worry crossed Steve’s face.
“I don’t want transitional any more, Steve. I want permanence. I suppose the proper thing to do is to wait for you to get around to asking me, but I don’t care about ‘proper.’” Elizabeth took a step back and put her hands on his shoulders. “Steven Robert Larson, will you marry me?”
The cold night air caught in Steve’s throat. His eyes widened in surprise.
"I'm waiting," she said.
“Lizzie…are you sure?”
“Are you suggesting I should rethink this?”
God, I'm stupid sometimes! Steve smiled, grabbed Elizabeth, picked her up and whirled her around. “Elizabeth Lynn Coleman, yes. Yes, yes, yes! Of course I will marry you!”
Of all the questions that awaited answers, at that moment, not a single one of them mattered.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Betty Spencer had been Steve Larson’s secretary for twenty years, following nine years of the same service to Steve's father. In spite of the 'administrative assistant' trend, Betty had retained her original title with pride. Her power came not from her title, but from her long service to top management. She not only knew where the bodies were buried, she had exhumed and reburied a few.
Though the various legal proceedings would continue for months, possibly years, the first day of December, 2014 would be Larson Industries' last day as a going concern. Betty walked into Steve’s office and set a small box in his empty Inbox. Steve was in his chair, turned toward the window.
She cleared her throat. “Mr. Larson, if there’s nothing else…”
Steve’s chair swiveled around. She would never have remarked on the reddened, puffy eyes, not even under torture.
“Is it that time already?” Steve asked.
“Well, it’s after five, but if there’s anything at all you need from me, I’m more than happy—"
“No, not at all.” He paused. “I’ve known this moment was coming. I shouldn’t be surprised. But, still, I am.”
"I know what you did for our worker and his family over there, Mr. Larson, and I respect it. I am by no means the only one." There was an odd look in her eyes.
Steve wanted to hug her, but Betty was a woman of palpable dignity and formality. He stood up, walked around the desk, and put his hand out. She took it, her own right hand small and aged. “Betty, it seems so inadequate to say a simple 'thank you' for all you've done for my father and me, but it’s what I’ve got. So, thank you, Betty. You’ve been a jewel. I don’t think I could have built this company without you.”
“I don’t doubt that’s true, but you’ve done far more than simple words, Mr. Larson, and you know it.”
“I wish I could have done more.”
"Most would have done far less." Betty reached out, touched the box. "New cards, I see?" The vendor had used one as an address label. The return shipping label read: “Cheap-EEEE Printing,” with an address in Waukegan, Illinois. The card packing-taped to the outside read: Steve Larson, Second Chance Remodeling. Because Every House Deserves a Second Chance. Betty reached into her purse, took out a card of her own, and handed it to him.
"Elizabeth W. Spencer Executive Services," Steve read aloud. "You don't want to retire?"
"I would be of no use to anyone but my homeowners' association, and if I may be so frank, the leadership there is drunk with the only power it will ever have. Mr. Larson, may I please have one of your new cards?"
She still had that odd look in her eyes, but Steve slit open the box and proffered one of the plain white cards. Betty accepted it with courteous attention, reading it in silence as though she had not already seen an image. His Larson Industries cards had been heavy-stock linen, cream, with the venerable Larson Industries logo in embossed gilt. He remembered okaying an invoice for the old cards, a shade over $400 for a box of five hundred. The enclosed credit card receipt from Cheap-EEEE Printing, also a 500-count box, came to $19.99 plus shipping.
The things you learn when it’s too late. Still, it’s a little bit like comparing my 2001 Ford Taurus to my 2013 Mercedes SLS—different products at different price points.
"Thank you, Mr. Larson. And now, Spencer Executive Services makes its first sales call. May we be of service to your firm, sir?"
Steve looked at her eyes once more, saw no levity, stopped to consider for a moment, then decided that this was a time to listen. "Please sit down, Betty." He did likewise before continuing. "What do you propose?"
"Insofar as I am aware, Mr. Larson, your new firm will need executive services familiar with the local real estate industry. My company has expertise in this area."
Now this is becoming painful. What's gotten into her? "Betty, I can't afford it," he said, as gently as possible.
"You already have. My records reflect that you have made six months of advance payment on our services. To refund that payment would be a great hardship for my company, though if necessary, I will."
She's not joking.
"By my reckoning, should you contract with my firm, you will be entitled to all reasonable executive assistance services we can provide for six months. At that point, I hope you will find the relationship more than satisfactory, and will wish to renew our contract. At that time, we can negotiate the future financial relationship. Our goal is to shoulder headaches so that you can focus on your business."
"Betty, it's hard for me to know what to say."
Betty smiled. Nowadays she is more elegant than gorgeous, but before I was born, she was making jaws go slack. "That sounds like a headache in need of shouldering," she said, standing up and extending her hand once again. "Let me provide a free sample of our services. We can solve this in seconds, Mr. Larson. If you but take my hand and utter the sentence 'it's a deal,' this headache will disappear."
Steve Larson had not become a real estate magnate without learning when to gamble, even if not every gamble had worked out. Checkmate. She even knows to ask for the sale. She leaves me no viable option. Plus, she's right, and I'm beaten, and I'm happy to lose this round.
He stood up and shook her hand. "It's a deal."
Betty beamed. "Thank you, Mr. Larson. I know this relationship will work well for both our companies. And since I was fairly confident it would, I have taken the liberty of making a few arrangements."
"You mentioned a contract. Shouldn't we sign it?"
Her eyes sparkled. "It is policy at Spencer Executive Services to do business only with companies whose reputation enables business contracts to be executed by handshake. We are contracted."
The next time I hear some blowhard make a comment about dumb secretaries, thought Steve, it will be all I can do to refrain from kicking his ass. "Very good," he said, striving for formality. "You mentioned a few arrangements?"
"That's correct, Mr. Larson. Two days hence, I will be picking up Mr. Bayani Alidon at the airport."
"What?"
"When I learned that you would be renovating homes, I contacted Mr. Alidon. I knew that you would need a trustworthy superintendent, someone resourceful and absolutely committed to your success. The work permit is in his hands. He will know where to recruit and manage other capable artisans. I did some reading on Filipino culture, and I learned that prestige is very important. There is a significant local Filipino community, and your prestige among them is already high in ways you do not realize. Mr. Alidon has relatives in this area. While he can probably expect a rush of cousins who think they have an in, I have explained to him in tactful terms that it will be some time before your company can afford much patronage. He understands."
Steve was silent for a couple of moments. "And you financed this how? Larson Industries is broke."
"Spencer Executive Services, however, is not. We will request reimbursement in good time, when the revenue stream begins. Mr. Alidon and his family will live in a motel until he can renovate your first purchase to habitability—which I might remind you carries a slightly lower standard back on Palawan—then move in. The home will therefore be safe from vandalism or materials pilferage. Mrs. Alidon will apply a woman's eye to the household fixtures, and in time, the family will be able to afford a home of their own. I can even imagine a day in which Second Chance Remodeling works out an outcome involving a renovated dwelling for the Alidon family, though of course, no such promise has been made. All Mr. Alidon knows is that we will take care of his living arrangements and basic family needs for the time being."
Steve Larson looked very much as if he would cry again.
"Do you approve, sir?"
God, she's enjoying this! But it's not at my expense. I am a fortunate man.
"I do, Betty. Shouldn't I address you as Mrs. Spencer from here on out, though?"
"I would very much prefer, in honor of our continuing association, if you would continue to use my first name." Her eyes laughed, even if her voice remained decorous. "Thanks for working with us, Mr. Larson. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have some important work to do. I'll be in touch."
He shook her hand one more time, saw her to the door, and went back to his chair.
Steve looked out through the open door of his office and saw two men moving one final desk, on which rested a sad little potted ficus, toward whatever office liquidation center was cleaning the place out.
He dropped the Larson Industries card into the trash can under his desk and put a small handful of the new cards into his suit jacket pocket. This won't be so bad. Before college, I worked on a framing crew for a contractor that did work for my dad. It was good for me, and I liked creating something with my hands. I'll get to do it again.
Two men appeared at his office door, looking apologetic. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Larson, but we’re supposed to clear this floor before we can go home tonight.”
Steve smiled. “No problem.” He reached out, turned off the desk lamp, and walked out of Larson Industries for the final time.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Twenty minutes later, Steve walked into his condo and nearly tripped over a vacuum cleaner hose. “Oh, sorry!” Elizabeth said. “I was trying to clean up from the packing.” She wrestled the hose into semi-submission and kissed Steve hello.
“As long as you kiss me like that, I don't mind if you let household appliances set traps for me.”
After a moment with her head on his shoulder, Elizabeth pulled back enough to meet his eyes. “How bad was it?”
“Shutting the office down? Oh, not bad at all, as those things go. There was one very bright spot.” He told her the news about Betty's freelance services.
"That is a bright spot. What about the rest?"
“Okay, it wasn’t great, but now it’s done. As soon as we get moved into our new place—"
“Once we find a new place.”
"—we can settle down.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, but first, we’ve got the wedding to plan.”
"Or the elopement."
"And why would we want to do that?"
“Wouldn't it be great to just run off and get married in Vegas?" He dropped his voice. “Ah’ve always wanted to get married bah The King, baby.”
She sighed. "And someday you may find a woman who would go along with that nonsense. She isn't me. I don’t have a lot of friends, but those I do have, I’d like them to share our day with us.”
“Maybe that’s part of why I want to elope,” Steve mused. “Now that I'm broke, I don’t know where I stand with everyone.”
“Maybe a lot of people wouldn't take your phone calls now. That's a good way for them to let you know that they don't belong in your world. But where you stand is right where you belong: next to me, getting married in front of all our friends.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Nothing big. Gail can help me. We could even hold it here, in your place, but it’s going to be mostly packed up by then.”
“Then? When is ‘then’?”
“Oh, I don’t know…maybe Christmas Eve?” she said, trying a bit too hard to sound casual.
“Won’t everyone have other plans?”
“Some might, but I’m not thinking of inviting a whole bunch of people. Your Mom and Gordon, Gail, Mr. Bartleby, Mrs. Spencer, and oh! Wouldn’t it be nice if Bayani and Chona and the kids could come?”
“Funny you should mention that." Steve filled her in on that part of the Betty episode, letting his mind wander back to Eden’s Bay in the Philippines, and the exceptional food Chona had made for them with limited resources. What could she accomplish with a full kitchen?
When Steve finished, Elizabeth laughed in pure delight. “Betty is my hero! That's a woman who knows where her power is!”
“She really is something," said Steve. "I now begin to wonder if I shouldn't have made her CEO and become her secretary, but anyway. So, if we’re holding costs down, and it’s the middle of winter, where are you thinking of having this small, intimate ceremony that seems to be growing larger with each passing moment?”
She looked a little hurt. “Do you really mind so much?”
Steve smiled. “No, of course not. In the end, however we do it, the result is what I want most. Wait a minute...” Steve snapped his fingers. “Mom will still be in the rehab center. We could use the house. There’s the big room that mother used to call the Grand Hall. She held parties with a hundred of her favorite snobs in—"
"Steve!"
"—in there, so our 'little' wedding should fit.”
“Well, we need to ask her.”
“She'll say yes. She’s had Gladys there, keeping the dust off things and vacuuming every day the whole time she’s gone, so I’m sure she won’t mind. Let’s go talk to her about it in the morning. There’s something else I want to show you on the way there.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
The next morning, Steve and Elizabeth bundled into the Taurus and headed out. Thanks to the occasional intervention from Suzi, Steve had adapted to his modest new vehicle. He could now change the radio station, move the seat, turn on the defroster, and even check his own oil, a necessity when driving a Ford that had logged 125,000 miles driven by God knew who.
Instead of heading straight for the Park Central rehab facility, Steve drove them out into an upper-middle-class residential neighborhood called The Vista, just a few miles from Steve’s mother's home. “What do you think of this area?” Steve asked.
“I’ve always liked this part of town. When I was a kid, I dreamed of living someplace nice like this. Why? Did you find a rental here?” He could hear a trace of excitement in her voice.
“No, not a rental.”
“I thought we didn’t want to tie ourselves down just yet?”
“Well, don’t get too excited, because you haven’t seen it yet. I think maybe I found the first house we could flip. The first rule of flipping is to buy the worst house in the neighborhood. I’ve found a place that qualifies.”
He pulled the Taurus to a stop in front of a rambler almost hidden from the street by overgrown grass, trees and bushes. A crooked real estate sign hung on a chain-link fence in poor repair that surrounded a sad, forgotten-looking house. The roof was missing shingles, the cedar siding showed through the peeling paint, and all the front windows were covered with plywood.
“Isn't she gorgeous?” asked Steve, affecting an Australian accent.
Lizzie laughed a little, then looked at the adjacent homes. “This is what broken dreams look like. The neighbors will love you.”
“That won’t pay any bills, but, yes, I think the neighbors will love whoever fixes this house up.”
“Was it a drug house?”
"Fortunately, no, since that brings its own set of challenges. When the real estate market imploded in 2008, a lot of homeowners just walked away from underwater mortgages. So many of them just mailed their keys back to the lender that the banks started calling it ‘jingle mail.’ Eventually, the banks would foreclose, but their foreclosure people were a bit overworked. Sometimes a home slipped between the cracks and sat there for years, like this one. The previous owners moved out in 2012, but the bank didn’t foreclose until a few months ago. Now they want to get rid of it, but you see what buyers see." He gestured toward the house. "You said it well. A failed American Dream."
