Loose Screws

Uh-oh.

One acrylic nail—a subdued cinnamon color, square-tipped—flicks away the errant tear before it leaves a visible track in her foundation. She struggles for obvious control for a minute, then says, “Max told me—”

(Max Sheffield, Brice’s accountant. And I think Carole’s lover at one time, although I can’t confirm that.)

“—that he’d tried for years to get Brice to make provisions for the business to continue in the event of his death or incapacitation, especially after it took off the way it did in the late eighties. He suggested making the business a partnership with his senior designers, if not a corporation, or at least leaving it to someone in his will. A friend or family member, anybody.”

She lights up another cig and shakes her head, her Raquel Welch auburn hair shimmering in the hazy sunlight filtering through the buildings. “He refused. Said when he died, the business died with him.”

My immediate future flashes before my eyes, and it is bleak. “Which means?”

“Which means, as far as I understand it, we’ll all get whatever is currently due us and that’s it. Whatever’s left goes to pay outstanding bills, and if there’s anything left after that, the money goes to some obscure charity.”

My blood runs cold. “But what about our clients?”

Pale, glossed lips quirk up in a humorless smile. “They’re outta luck. And so are we, unless we all manage to find jobs with other firms.” She shrugs. “Get out your cell, honey, and start making calls.”

A great tiredness comes over me, followed almost immediately by a lightbulb flashing on in my head. “Hey—why don’t you start your own firm?”

Carole huffs out a stream of smoke that mercifully blows away from me. “Even ten years ago, I might have. But I’m going to be sixty-five in November. Way too old to start a business now. But why don’t you go into business on your own, designing accessories or something? The Jorgensons are still talking about that set of iron and marble tables you designed for them, Jesus—how long ago was that? Four years? You know your talent is wasted picking out wall colors.”

I smile wanly. “Hell, I haven’t designed anything in probably two years.”

“Well, you should.” She hisses out her smoke, tosses the second butt out past the curb. “You want to work for someone else the rest of your life?”

“Forget it, Carole. This gal doesn’t do Struggling Artist.”

“Chicken,” she says.

“But a chicken who eats.”

Of course, after today, that may not be true, which is why I suppose we both go silent for a little bit. Then Carole says quietly, “This hasn’t been a very good week for you.”