Sparks

When the phone rang early the next morning, Simone and Dawn stared at each other over Dawn’s desk. They had spent the last few hours trying to pretend they were busy. The phones had been silent for a while.

“It could be a possible client,” Simone said.

Dawn bit her lip and reached for her box of croissants then remembered she’d already had two. She knew they weren’t healthier than donuts, but at least they looked it. “Or a bill collector.”

The phone rang again.

“Let them leave a message,” Dawn said.

Simone headed for the outer office to answer it. “I think it’s a client.”

Dawn sighed and glanced around her office. She once had a closet bigger than this room.

Simone’s voice came over the speakerphone. “There’s a call for you. Jordan Taylor from The Medical Institute.”

Dawn frowned. The Medical Institute was a well-established company that trained medical personnel. Why would they call her? “You mean A Mental Interlude?”

Simone laughed. “Cute. Pick up the phone.”

“Okay.” She switched lines. This was probably another one of Brandon’s tricks. She leaned back in her chair, resting her feet on the desk. “Dawn Ajani, how may I help you?”

“Hello. My name is Jordan Taylor. I am the new CEO of The Medical Institute. I read your ad in Washington Business and would be interested in using your services.”

She rolled her eyes. Sure, and I’m a five-eleven swimsuit model. “What can I do for you, Mr. Taylor?”

“I would like to make some changes to our company’s structure and I am interested in a consultation. I’d like to schedule an appointment with you right away.” He hesitated. “The issues I need to deal with are rather delicate in nature.”

Dawn shook her head. It was a shame he sounded so sincere. His accent wasn’t that of a Washington native. It had a slow Southern quality that made her think of Indian summers and the amber color of bourbon glistening in a crystal decanter. “Of course you would. When would you like to meet?”

“Tomorrow night. You could come to my place.”

“Your place.” Right. Another pig. “Mr. Taylor, may I suggest that you continue to play this little game on your own time? There are 900 numbers available for you. I’m sure Brandon could give you plenty to choose from.”

She expected him to get angry or deny it, but a thick silence seeped through the line. Dread made her skin tingle. Had she made a mistake? “Mr. Taylor?”

Eventually, he said, “I think I have the wrong number. Excuse me.”

Dawn sat up and swung her legs to the ground. Her foot dislodged a stack of books, causing two to crash to the ground. “No, wait! Mr. Taylor?”

“I’m still here,” he said with a note of regret.

“I am terribly sorry. No, please don’t hang up. There’s been a misunderstanding. I…well, there’s no excuse really.” Except for the fact that I’m a moron. “ Let’s try this again. Okay?” She waited. Soon the dial tone buzzed in her ear. Dawn squeezed her eyes shut and groaned. “I’m an idiot.” She replaced the receiver. “Score one for Brandon.” She stared at the box of croissants, then threw them away. She had to make serious changes in her life.

Dawn stood, rested her head on the window frame and saw the man from yesterday still looking for his alien friends. She probably should call the police. She rested her forehead against the cool window. Either that or join him.

Simone peeked her head inside. “Well?”

She waved a dismissive hand and groaned. “Don’t ask.”

The phone rang.

“I’m not here,” Dawn said as Simone went to the phone. Simone answered then listened. She hit the mute button then turned to Dawn. “You’d better answer this.”

“Why?”

“It’s him. That Taylor guy.”

Dawn lunged for the phone and hit her knee against the desk. She swore and answered in a breathless rush. “Dawn Ajani speaking. How may I help you?”

“Is this a bad time?”

Her heart raced. Yes, it was definitely him, bourbon and hot southern nights. She frowned. Where had that come from? “No, not at all.”

“Hello. My name is Jordan Taylor. I saw your ad and would be interested in using your services.”

She felt heady from his voice and the relief that followed. She fell into her chair. “Oh, I’m so glad you called back. I am terribly sorry for the mix up before. I guess I’m still recuperating from a bad meeting with a man who took up four hours of my time yesterday and I took my frustration out on you.”

“Ms. Ajani—”

“When you hung up I thought, Oh great, I’ve lost a fantastic opportunity. Should I call back?”

“Ms. Ajani—”

“But that would be difficult because he probably has an unlisted number. So you can imagine how—”

“Ms. Ajani!”

She halted. “Yes?”

“I thought the point of my calling back was to pretend that the previous conversation didn’t happen.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I would like to schedule a meeting,” he said with exaggerated patience.

She looked at her empty calendar. “Okay. When would be convenient?”

“We can meet outside my house. There’s a restaurant that is within walking distance. Parking is difficult so it’s easier to walk.”

“About my fee—”

“Just send me your invoice.”

She pumped the air with her fist. Money was no object. “Okay, also—”

“I’ll see you at seven tomorrow. I’ll give your assistant the directions. Goodbye.”

“Bye.” She transferred the call to Simone. “Simone, can you please get directions from Mr. Taylor,” she said then hung up. She sagged against her chair. A possible client. Time to treat herself! She looked in the trash bin and pulled out the box of croissants.