Five Hours a Year novel · Chapter 4 of 24

Chapter 4: My Rate Is Three Thousand

The basement meeting went well enough that on Wednesday morning, forty tenants had signed my name on a sheet of lined paper.

I was standing at the front desk reading it and grinning when the elevator opened.

Alec stepped out.

He was wearing yesterday's suit.

His tie was pulled loose, his hair was flat on one side from a plane seat, and he was carrying nothing at all.

Alec Kittridge never walked into a room without a briefcase.

The whole fourth floor stopped typing.

The office manager put down her coffee.

The dog got up, walked across the lobby, and sat on Alec's shoe.

"Leah," Alec said.

"You're in San Francisco."

"I flew in at five this morning." He looked at the lined paper in my hand, then at me. "I have an hour. I can give you an hour."

Somebody behind me made a small noise that was almost a laugh and turned it into a cough.

I put the sheet of paper down.

"An hour."

"I rearranged the day. It's the most I can do."

"You rearranged the day," I said, "to give your wife an hour."

"That's generous, for me."

"It is. I've seen the invoices."

He flinched, and I was glad.

Frances had come out of her office and was leaning on the door frame with her glasses in her hand, watching us.

"Alec," she said pleasantly.

"Frances. I'm sorry about Ray."

"So am I. You missed the burial."

"I know."

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