A Woman's Place: A Novel Read Free

Dennis, he was backing away from the stench and returning to his breakfast. I disposed of the onion, grabbed the air freshener, and gave a spray.
    "See?" I said on an up note. "You're good at finding things. Much better than me."
    He shot me an irritated look before returning to the stock market report.
    Brody arrived thirty minutes later. He helped himself to a cup of coffee and talked business with Dennis while I finished packing our bags, made the beds, and slipped into a suit. It had soft gray pants, an ivory Page 7
    Barbara Delinsky - A Woman's Place
    vest, and an apricot jacket, and would be perfect for the work following Cleveland. More, my mother would love it. She loved fine things, loved the feel of them against her skin and the sight of them on her daughters, and understandably so. She had known hard times and was pleased they were past.
    Once everything was in the car and Dennis had been hugged and kissed and left waving on the front porch of our Cape Cod Georgian, which wasn't on the Cape at all but in a small township just north of Gloucester, we joined the Boston commuters and headed for Logan.
    Settling into the seat of Brody's Range Rover, I exhaled.
    "Tired?" he asked softly. I smiled and shook my head, then moved my hand in a way that contradicted the headshake. Yes, I was tired. And worried. I was also, at that moment, relieved to have Dennis behind me. He hated my traveling, saw it as an imposition on our lives, even in spite of my attempts to minimize the inconvenience. Actually, he hadn't been too difficult this time, more grumpy than belligerent. Maybe he was mellowing. Or feeling bad about my mother. Whatever, there hadn't been any major explosions.
    Now, with Brody at the wheel, I could relinquish responsibility for the hour it would take us to reach the airport. "You're a peach to do this," I said, turning my head against the headrest. He was as easy on the eye as he was on the mind--light brown hair, wire-rimmed glasses over deeper brown eyes still soft from sleep. He was loose and laid-back, a welcome balm.
    "My pleasure," he said. "By the way, I think Dennis is onto something with the Ferguson thing. The company has suffered some bad breaks, but it has solid management and mega-brains. It just needs a little money to work with. If Dennis can arrange that, he may have a winner." I hoped so. He had had too few of them of late, which made my own success with Wicker Wise more difficult for him. Not that he worked that hard. Not that he wanted to work that hard. But it wouldn't bother me if he hit a bonanza. My own ego needs were small.
    "I should get the St. Louis franchise contracts back today," Brody went on in his quietly competent way. "Once the franchisee is locked in, I can finalize a deal with a builder for the renovation work. I'll have that information faxed to the hotel by the time you get there Wednesday. He'll handle the subs. Do you have the design plans?" I touched the briefcase by my leg. "Hard to believe this is number twenty-eight." It had been twelve years since the first Wicker Wise had opened. That flagship store still operated out of an abandoned fire station in Essex, a short fifteen-minute drive from the house. It had become the model for a chain of stores that stretched from Nantucket to Seattle. We kept a tight rein on our franchises, Brody and I. All were in freestanding buildings--old schoolhouses, abandoned bars, service stations, general stores, even a retired church or two. That was part of the charm. The rest came from the internal design, based on our central plan, and the presentation of the wicker furniture we sold. Brody and I controlled that, too. All ordering went through us. One of us directed the opening of each franchise and revisited twice yearly.
    Twenty-eight franchises, another dozen boutiques in upscale department stores, a wicker plant in central Pennsylvania, rooms in numerous charity show houses--it boggled my mind, when I stopped to think about it. So