Chapter 9: The Lamp

On Monday, the hotel buyer came for lunch.

She was a brisk woman in a green coat who owned eleven hotels and had a reputation for leaving meetings early.

Whitney had been preparing for three days.

She had ordered white orchids for the glass conference room and made every one of us wear black.

At noon, she stood at the head of the table and clicked her remote.

The big screen filled with a photograph of the Fieldstone lobby.

In the middle of it stood the brass Ember lamp, tall and curving, throwing warm light up a pale wall.

"This," Whitney said, in a low reverent voice, "is where Fieldstone found its soul."

The buyer leaned forward.

"I read about it," she said. "The magazine called it the best lighting piece of the decade."

"I designed it at my kitchen table, on a Sunday, after my mother passed."

I stood by the side wall with a tray of water glasses, wearing a gray apron.

Nobody looks at the person with the tray.

It was why I had volunteered for it.

Noelle was beside me, holding a stack of napkins, vibrating.

Cullen sat at the far end of the table, with a long cardboard tube across his knees and a pleasant, empty look on his face.

I recognized the look.

It was the look of a man about to throw a knife.

"It's extraordinary," said the buyer. "What was the year?"

"Sorry?"

"The year. When you drew it."

"Oh." Whitney laughed lightly. "Three years ago. In the spring."

"And the inspiration?"

"A candle my mother left me. A very simple one."

"Lovely," said the buyer.

I put down my tray.

My heart was knocking against my ribs, but my voice came out calm.

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