Her Man Friday(32)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

Air. She needed air. She needed to fill her nose and lungs with the pungent scent of autumn, needed to feel the kiss of the brisk wind on her face, needed to remind herself that there was more to a day’s passing than the little dramas that took place inside Ashling.

What Lily needed was a life. Unfortunately, on days like this, when she felt as if she were tending to other people more than she tended to herself, life seemed to be racing past her without stopping to even explain its rush. How had she arrived where she was, having planned none of it? she wondered, not for the first time.

Not that she was unhappy—not really—but she wasn’t entirely happy, either. She felt as if she’d spent the bulk of her adult life making plans for the future, thinking that after this happened, or that happened, or something else happened, then she could get on with the business of living. But always, something else seemed to intrude first, hindering her progress, keeping her from enjoying the plans she made. It had never once occurred to her to enjoy the here and now.

Now, however, here, it was beginning to occur to her. She only hoped that now, it wasn’t too late.

For some reason, such a realization made her think again about Caroline Beecham. And as Lily started for her bedroom to change her clothes, she couldn’t quite rid herself of the notion that Schuyler hadn’t fully appreciated the vehemence with which she had offered her warning some moments ago. Mrs. Beecham was a nice woman. That was the first reason Schuyler should leave her alone. And Mrs. Beecham did care about Chloe. That was the second reason Schuyler should leave her alone.

But the third, and perhaps most important, reason was that Lily suspected there was something going on with the woman right now that made her far too fragile to handle someone like Schuyler. Lily had no idea what that something might be, but Mrs. Beecham was clearly going through a rough time of it. She looked more tired than Lily had ever seen anyone looking in her life. She seemed defeated. She seemed hopeless. She seemed lonely.

She was easy pickings for someone like Schuyler. And Schuyler, damn him, had been in a surly mood ever since his return from Bermuda, and had clearly been spoiling for a fight. It would be just like him to take advantage of the weakness and fragility of a woman who, at another time, under other circumstances, would probably be a worthy adversary for him. As much as Lily cared for him, there was no getting around the fact that there were times when Schuyler could be a complete… a complete…

She sighed fitfully as she searched for the right word. A complete butthead. There, that would do nicely.

Goodness, she thought as her low heels pounded the black and white checkerboard of Italian marble that made up the endless length of Ashling’s gallery. She was in something of a surly mood herself today, wasn’t she? Normally, she didn’t mind being Schuyler’s keeper. Or Chloe’s keeper. Or Janey’s keeper. Or Miranda’s keeper. Or even Mrs. Puddleduck’s keeper. It was part of her job, after all. And she’d been doing it long enough now that it was almost second nature to her. Today, however, she wished the various and assorted Kimballs would just grow up and learn to take care of themselves.

Especially Schuyler. Honestly. He was thirty-five years old and, for all intents and purposes, headed up a multi-billion-dollar empire. One would think it would be all right to leave such a man alone for one morning. But noooo…

Lily had wandered off for less than fifteen minutes, and look what had happened. He’d gone after a perfectly nice woman who deserved to be heard and heeded where the care of one Chloe Sandusky was concerned. Lily made a mental note to call Mrs. Beecham herself and arrange for a meeting with her at the school later this week. How could she expect Schuyler to look after the girl when he wouldn’t even look after himself? As always, the responsibility would fall upon Lily.

Her thoughts spurred her dark mood, dogging her as she covered the distance of the house, reinforcing her conviction that she needed to get away for a while. But it was only when she closed her bedroom door behind herself that she finally, finally realized what had actually put her in such a foul mood today. It wasn’t her concern for Schuyler. Nor was it her concern for Chloe or Caroline Beecham. It wasn’t even because of the unsteadiness of her own feelings this morning. No, what had her feeling off-kilter and irritable this beautiful autumn day was really quite obvious.

She missed Leonard Freiberger.

It was Saturday, so he wasn’t working, and Lily, quite simply, missed him. She missed greeting him as she had every morning for more than a week now, and chatting with him as she accompanied him to Schuyler’s office. She missed the borderline lascivious looks she caught him throwing her way on those few occasions when they met during the day, and she missed the innuendo in their conversations when they broke for tea and coffee every afternoon. She even missed being suspicious of his motives and wondering what he was up to, even though she had double-checked to make sure he was indeed here at the behest of the Kimball Technologies board of directors. She just plain missed his presence at the estate.

And now it appeared that he wouldn’t be coming back. Yesterday he had informed her that, having found nothing in Schuyler’s files here, he would be taking his search for the income tax problem elsewhere. Then he had gathered up his pert little files, had rubber-banded his cute little computer disks, had adjusted his darling little glasses, and smoothed out his adorable little ugly tweed suit. And with a quick goodbye and an awkward handshake—handshake, Lily recalled with much disappointment now, thinking that a man who had starred front and center in her sexual fantasies for a week should be good for at least one heart-stopping grope—he’d left Ashling to return to work in Philadelphia.

And Lily had been feeling oddly dejected ever since, as if she’d been dumped by a lover.

It made no sense, her reaction. In spite of their daily chats, she didn’t really know the man all that well, after all. Yet as she changed out of her suit and into her off-duty uniform of well-worn jeans and thick, oversized, berry-colored sweater and hiking boots, she couldn’t quite stop her thoughts from lingering on the man. And then, suddenly, somehow—she really, truly, honestly didn’t mean to—she found herself going to her closet and pulling out the Philadelphia telephone directory, and flipping through the white pages until she located F.

Or, more specifically, until she located Fr. Fr… e. Let’s see now… Frederick, Freed, Freeman, Frehse, Freibaum… Ah ha. Freiberger, there it was. All three of them.

Lily frowned. But no Leonard Freiberger. Not even an L. Freiberger. Well, that didn’t help at all, did it?

She slammed the phone book shut and replaced it in the closet. It would figure that he would have an unlisted number. He had, after all, fairly exuded the warning, No Trespassing. And Keep off the Grass. And Access Denied. That sort of thing.