“This is Greg Porter of Porter Plumbing,” rumbles the voice on the other end of the line. Oh, Jesus, I forgot all about the message I left at the first plumbing company that popped up in a Google search. The realtor had someone come out and shut off the water, so the pipes aren’t actively leaking—at least, I hope he’s not calling to say there’s been a flood.
“Hi, Greg,” I say smoothly, my PR training kicking in. “Was Sherrie able to let you into the house?”
“Yes,” he says, but there’s a hitch in his voice that tells me all is not well. “But Ms. Campbell…”
“Lay it on me, Greg. What’s the deal with my basement?”
“The situation is going to involve more than pipe repair.”
“Okay?”
“The water wasn’t shut off quickly enough to prevent any damage to the drywall and the carpeting.” His sigh comes over the line clear as a damn bell. “It’s only lucky that you’ve moved out most of the furniture and possessions. Look, Ms. Campbell, we can fix the pipes, but I think you’re going to need a contractor to come down here and take a look at the drywall. At the very least, the carpet will need to be professionally cleaned, and with the amount of time the water’s been sitting—”
It occurs to me that Sherrie had the water turned off. She didn’t have it removed from the basement. Fuck.
“I understand. Are you able to do the repairs on the pipes, at least?”
He takes a second to answer, and my heart sinks. What the hell happened at my house? I turned the keys over to the realtor two weeks ago so that I could have stagers come in. Sherrie assured me that if I was out and everything was properly arranged, the house would go much faster. It’s like Colorado has me clamped in its jaw and doesn’t want to let go. It’s practically begging me to fly back and sort all of this out by myself.
I grit my teeth. I’m not going back there. Not for fucking anything.
“Yep,” he says, and from the way he says the word I get the impression that he’s standing in several inches of water in the basement of the house that shouldn’t be mine any longer. “We can get that squared away by five, six o’clock tonight.”
“Thanks, Greg,” I say. “I’ll speak to someone about the drywall.”
“That’s probably the best idea.”
I disconnect the call and flop back onto my plush, firm pillows.
Go ahead, universe, I think to myself. Hit me with it. I can take it.
Half an hour later, I’m riding the elevator down to the lobby of Carolyn’s building—my building—wearing a summery dress on loan from her closet, my hair piled on top of my head in an elaborate bun that looks more complicated than it is. I’m meeting Carolyn for lunch in three hours. In the meantime, I’m shopping.
I browse some of the boutiques I saw last night on my rainy trek through SoHo, goddamn treasuring it every time I come out of an air-conditioned clothing store into the gentle morning sunlight. The rest of my life might be waterlogged, but this—this is perfect.
Until my phone buzzes in my purse as I’m making my way back toward the sushi restaurant I wanted to try. It’s not far from the building where Carolyn works—one of her favorites, she said when I told her about it last night.
“Hello!” I lilt into the phone, my mind on a coral dress that’s inside one of my shopping bags. It’s going to look sharp as hell under a blazer for work, and classy but hot for a night out. Not that I’m planning any nights out. I’m perfectly content to watch Lifetime movies with Carolyn every night until forever.
“Quinn Campbell?”
“This is she.”
“This is Bennett Walker from HRM. I’m calling to check in—have you arrived in the city yet?”
“Yes, I have!” I say. A cab pulls slowly up to the curb next to me, and anxiety spikes down my spine. Is it that psycho coming for his revenge? A guy in a suit jogs up to the car and hops inside. My pulse slows.
“Ms. Campbell?” says Bennett Walker, and I realize I must have missed something in my distraction about the cab.
“Sorry about that—my attention was on something here. What did you say?”
“No problem. I said that I hoped the city was treating you well.”
I can’t help but laugh at that one, but there’s no reason to burden my new boss with the story of my arrival. “It’s wonderful. Thanks for asking.”
“The reason I’m calling,” he says, “is that there’s been a change here that’s going to affect your job description.”
My heart plummets into my shoes. Jesus Christ. Am I getting fired? Demoted? It would be right in line with everything else that’s happened, with the one exception of Carolyn’s awesome apartment.
“We’ve just brought on a high-profile client. It’s a new account,” Walker continues. “Instead of coming in on the associate level, we’d like to bump you up to an executive of reputation management. Obviously we’ll have a new salary offer commensurate with the increased responsibility.”
“You’re giving me a promotion?” I say, unable to keep the relief out of my voice.