Household Gods

“He sure did,” Kimberley agreed. She made a face. “It was disgusting.” Then, with a giggle, she stuck a finger in front of her nose and trumpeted. So did Justin. They ran around being elephants, at impressive volume, till Nicole snagged them and pitched them into the bathtub. They splashed enough water to turn the rest of the bathroom into a swamp. That might have been fine for elephants; their mother was not amused.

When Monday morning came, the elephants were magically transformed into preschoolers. They were eager preschoolers, as eager to head to Wood-crest as they’d ever been to go to Josefina’s house. That was good news – very good indeed. So was the trip to the office, short, sweet, and simple. She was definitely getting to like that part of her day.

This Monday’s return was rather different than her last one. The outpouring of good wishes had stopped. And yet there were still greetings, smiles, welcoming waves: a friendliness and sense of being wanted that she couldn’t remember from before. Was it new, or had she been too harried to notice it?

She took a warm feeling into her office with her. It helped as she tackled the mountain of work she’d neglected in favor of Sheldon Rosenthal’s analysis. More had come in while she was doing that, and some was urgent. The fact she hadn’t heard from Sheldon Rosenthal didn’t concern her too deeply. Word would come down from Mount Olympus, or it wouldn’t. There was no point in worrying about it.

By the time she came up for air, it was Thursday. She had a vague memory of the week, including at least one food fight between Kimberley and Justin – the kitchen curtains would never be quite the same – and a birthday lunch for one of the other women associates.

By Thursday morning, she was beginning to think she’d reach the bottom of the pile sometime in the not too indefinite future. She was so pleased to realize that, she didn’t even snarl when the telephone rang. Cyndi’s voice said, “Mr. Rosenthal’s on the line, Ms. Gunther-Perrin.”

“Put him through,” Nicole said – strictly pro forma, of course. One did not, no matter how wickedly tempted, put the founding partner on hold.

“Good morning, Ms. Gunther-Perrin,” Rosenthal said in his smooth, polished tones. “Could you come up, please, to discuss the analysis you prepared for me?”

Could you come up, from the big boss, meant, How close to yesterday can you get your fanny up here? “Of course, Mr. Rosenthal,” Nicole said with what she hoped was suitably bright willingness – and no apprehension. “I’ll be right there.”

The seventh floor was as hushed and august a place as ever. It had, now she had a basis of comparison, a certain Roman feel – but she doubted very much that the decorators would have been pleased to be informed of real Roman taste in decor, including the nauseating color combinations and the gaudy, and X-rated, statuary.

She was keeping her spirits up rather well, she thought. Not stressing out. Not letting herself imagine horrors, or flash back too strongly to the last time she’d answered a summons from on high. She’d come up with such lofty hopes, and gone down like a soul into Hades, all the way down the helix of time to a tavern in Carnuntum.

Lucinda was sitting as always in the outer office, door dragon par excellence. She nodded as Nicole entered. “Go right in,” she said. Was that cordiality? It couldn’t be. It was just – a touch more than her usual civility. Maybe it was Nicole’s nice gray suit. Power dressing had its uses. “He’s expecting you.”

The office hadn’t changed at all – but it had only been three weeks of this world’s time since she’d seen it. Rosenthal stood up to greet her. She couldn’t read his expression. “Coffee?” he asked, just as he had when he’d dropped the bomb on her.

“Yes, thanks,” she said, and let him pour her a cup. There was a subtle protocol in that, and she was as well aware of it as he was.

It was excellent coffee. She sipped at it for a moment, admiring the view from his window, before she sat down across from that battleship of a desk.

She couldn’t tell what, if anything, he was thinking. Her gray suit, her cream silk shell, and her understated professional makeup wouldn’t offend his eyes, she didn’t think. Maybe she was a little more confident than she’d been, or a little less worn down by the world in general. She was definitely happier, now that she had a basis of comparison. Historical perspective, she thought, is an amazingly underrated thing.

Sheldon Rosenthal studied her for a moment, a scrutiny she endured with what she hoped was suitable equanimity, and tapped his forefinger on the analysis. “You think a challenge to developing this parcel, should one occur, would be likely to succeed.”