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“You’re getting depressingly creepy,” I muttered.
As I opened my email browser, my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number.
“This is Tina Siegler of Siegler Designs. How may I help you?”
“Yes, Ms. Siegler...I have a delivery for you today, and I wanted to confirm that you are in the office today.”
My hopes dashed at the polite, professional greeting, and I looked at the time before answering. “Sure. I’ll be here until five.”
As I disconnected, I checked my emails and tried not to think about how much time had passed since the last time someone had called looking to remodel. It had been over a week, and I had to follow up by phone to see if Eloise Cantrell still wanted to move forward with the proposal. I wasn’t holding my breath.
A half-hour later and halfway through the email dreck of spam, employment inquiries, and other not-going-to-pay-the-bills crap, I finally saw one subject line that had my heart lurching to a stop.
Re: Your Proposal/ Loved it. I would like to discuss this in-depth.
Hattie’s Place was a non-profit organization that helped women in abusive relationships find jobs, new living arrangements, access to lawyers, and assisted with divorce procedures. As a non-profit, they had a small budget, but the word of mouth I would get from doing work for a place like Hattie’s could be phenomenal.
As I clicked to open the email, a shadow fell across my desk, chased by a brisk knock. I jumped.
A delivery man smiled at me through the glass window as I unlocked the door. “Ms. Siegler?”
“Yes…?”
“Here you go.” He put a long white box into my hands.
He was already halfway to his van before I’d relocked the door.
Curious, I took the box to the large workstation on the western wall. The wall was covered with pictures of my favorite projects, from an old children’s bookstore back in San Francisco to a kitchen redesign I’d done in old French country style.
Before musing about that, I shifted my gaze to the long white box.
It confirmed a niggling suspicion when I opened it and found a simple white card nested on the pale green stems of the flowers—tulips, many of them still not fully opened.
“Well, Maximus,” I murmured, picking up the card with a brief note. “You’ve got style.”
Tina, I hope you enjoy these. I also hope you’ll do me the pleasure of joining me for dinner this Friday. Maximus.
He included his phone number.
Sighing, I rubbed my thumb over the neat print before dropping the card into the wastebasket on the floor next to me.
Then, unable to resist, I stroked a finger down the velvety petal of one bloom. The tulips were a dusty pink at the top that deepened to red as it neared the stem. They were gorgeous.
Yeah, Maximus had style, all right.
* * *
“Hello again.”
The delivery guy from my office also showed up at my house several times that weekend. Now, at ten Monday morning, back in my office, I met his gaze with a sarcastic smile. “Any chance you’ll tell me how many more of these are coming?”
“I couldn’t say.” His smile was polite and professional as he turned over the box. “I just take the orders where they’re supposed to go.”
“Of course.” After saying thanks, I let the door close behind me, but I didn’t lock it this time. Not that I was expecting a client, but I was determined to remain optimistic.
This box wasn’t a flat white one. It was open on top and had a protective cardboard sleeve, keeping the potted orchid inside upright while protecting it at the same time.
The petals of the orchid were a rich blue and incredibly striking.