Crimson Footprints Part 19

"Twenty-three days away and 'satisfactory' is your a.s.sessment? A disappointing conclusion for those of us who continue to toil."

"Well, no sir. I'm enjoying my immensely. I-"

"Perhaps my abrasive tone continues to escape you. Could it be that your idle time has led to atrophy of the mind, leaving you unable to a.s.sess an individual's given demeanor?"

"No sir, I can tell that you're upset."

Deena glanced at Tak.

"Good. Provided you're still interested in work as an architect at the Tanaka Firm, I would recommend you report to my office on Monday morning, 9 a.m."

Deena swallowed. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I'll be there, sir."

Daichi hung up.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.

Deena hustled into the Tanaka Firm Monday morning and rode the elevator to the thirteenth floor, hands trembling. Sliding gla.s.s doors parted for her as she stepped off the elevator and onto the gleaming marble logo. Angela, Daichi's secretary, greeted her with a tight-lipped smile.

"He's waiting for you, sweetheart."

Her eyes were sympathetic.

Deena swallowed and gave a nod, unwilling to speak and thereby give voice to the extent of her fear.

She'd only been to the thirteenth floor a few times. It was vast. Once past the sound proof sliding gla.s.s doors, the receptionist lobby where Angela was housed, featured a twenty-foot high ceiling, lacquered maple wall paneling and chocolate Spanish marble flooring. An acoustic sound system mimicked a babbling brook, while a seating area comprised of sleek Italian furnishings furnished the waiting area. She'd seen the same set in an interior magazine with a list price of nearly 30 grand.

The entrance to Daichi's office was nearly as daunting as the man. Ma.s.sive round-top double doors of thick African mahogany were made even more prominent by the polished Tanaka logo inset in stained Tiffany gla.s.s. The doors, she suspected were worth more than her salary for the year.

Deena raised a fist to knock, took a deep breath, and shot Angela a single look of poorly suppressed distress. But the older woman was distracted, her face in files, so Deena returned, fist wavering, only to find the door open.

Daichi stared at her, his square face hardened by a perpetual frown. He stepped aside and let her enter, lids heavy with his watchful gaze. When Deena entered, he slammed the door behind her, and took a seat behind a dark, broad desk.

"Close to a month of vacation, Ms. Hammond, and you've have earned my undivided attention. Do share what one does with such an abundance of time."

Deena froze. She'd spent close to an hour with his son, trying to antic.i.p.ate his questions. But they had not antic.i.p.ated this, the first.

Daichi's fingertips formed a steeple over which he shot a critical frown.

"Are you...unable to recall?"

"Yes, sir. I remember."

"Well, I've not the time to linger, in case you were wondering."

She lowered her gaze.

"I went on a road trip."

"Oh? Where?"

"A few places. Atlanta. Memphis. St. Louis." She wanted to stop, but his silence seemed to demand more. "Chicago. Cleveland. New York."

"Ah. And did you see the Gateway Arch? The Willis Tower? The Empire State Building, perhaps?"

"Yes, sir."

"How charming." Daichi's smile was ice. "And do you feel that you've earned such a celebrated vacation by way of the caliber of your work here?"

She lowered her gaze. "I don't know, sir."

"Well I do." Daichi stood. He rounded the desk, hands clasped behind his back.

"You are an undisciplined talent, Deena. Neither hot nor cold. Idealistic yet ambivalent, presumptuous and timid. You are as inconsistent as you are capable, a greater sin than ignorance. And with your tepidness, you've proven yourself dispensable."

Daichi ventured to the broad floor-to-ceiling windows and frowned down at the cobalt waters of Biscayne Bay.

Deena's vision blurred. Even as a pig-tailed girl she'd wanted to be an architect. It was her father's dream that she become one. The two of them would spend hours holed up in a single room, drawing and planning, measuring and building a small-scale community they called Hammondville. The name still made her smile; it was so stupid. Back then, they'd maneuver the streets of Brickell, admiring the brilliant towers of Miami. "That one there," her father would say, "nothing compared to what you'll make." And Deena would look at him and feel pride and purpose.

But he'd been wrong. She'd make nothing important. At twenty-five, she was done.

Daichi whirled, startling her from pain-filled nostalgia. His approach was quick, confrontational, as he closed the s.p.a.ce between them.

"I ask you, Deena. What good is talent without gall? Brilliance without conviction?" His dark eyes narrowed in disgust. "It's but spilt milk before the mouth of a hungry babe. You have nothing because nothing is what you desire. You lack the audacity for greatness. You've not the stomach for it."

When Deena opened her mouth, she found her voice small, weak against the weight of accusations.

"That-that's not true," she said.

Daichi stared down at her, as if disgusted with her presence.

"No?" He raised a brow. "How many designing compet.i.tions have you entered? Prizes have you vied for?"

Deena shook her head. "I-I've been busy with other projects. I've had a full load-"

He stared at her until she lowered her gaze,, too ashamed to continue.

"What good is it, Deena? What good is any of it? Encyclopedia-like knowledge? Limitless talent? What purpose does it serve when you sit on your laurels, content to design wheelchair ramps and take month long vacations?"

He was shouting at her, and she was crying. She could think of nothing to stop it; she knew it disgusted him, yet she could continue and murmur heartfelt apologies for disappointing him all the while.

"I'm sorry. I don't know. I'm just sorry."

He turned away.

"You'll be handling the pre-design phase of Skylife. On my desk in one week, I expect to see the following:"

Stunned, Deena glanced around wildly before common sense instructed her to grab her briefcase. She fumbled with it for pen and pad, cursing herself for not considering the possibility she might still have a job.

He paused, his first showing of mercy.

"I expect to have the agenda for this project. Concrete goals. Antic.i.p.ated obstacles. Your design team."

"My design team?"

"Yes." Daichi turned to her. "The individuals you antic.i.p.ate will best be suited to carry out your vision. You should have covered this in an undergraduate course."

"Yes sir, I did. But where do I get them? From here? The firm?"

Daichi rolled his eyes. "From Bangkok if need be."

He began a slow pace. "Your work will serve as the blueprint for the entire project." Daichi paused to glance at his watch. "You have one week. Seven days, to the minute to deliver what I've asked for."

Deena nodded and tucked away horribly scribbled notes into a rough and tumble briefcase.

"Failure to provide this will be indicative of your desire to no longer be in my employ. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal, sir."

Deena stood and hesitated, briefcase in hand. "Daichi, I-I want to apologize for-"

He held up a hand. "You are young. And it is to this that I attribute your inability to ascertain the best time to exit. So I will tell you." He gestured to the door. "Now. And no more vacations."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.

Deena sat staring at her desk as she contemplated how to lay the groundwork for a structure worthy of the Tanaka name. In a week's time, she was to turn nothing into something and something d.a.m.ned good. Failure meant the loss of her livelihood.

She thought back to her initial conversations with Daichi about the project. In them, they'd agreed that originality, consciousness, sustainability and function were most important. And the more he talked, the more Deena came to know how he'd earned his rightful place as a brilliant mind in the annals of architecture.

"You err when you think of sustainability as a set of practices to reduce our carbon footprint," Daichi told her. "You must look at it as survival. Whose survival you might say? Ours is the obvious answer. Or the planet's, perhaps. But as an architect, you must look at it as the survival of the building. What is the building's unique contribution to the community? To our craft? To the world? When you can answer that, you've created a design that is truly sustainable."

Deena stared at her desk. Her task was clear. She was to create a building whose contribution to the world was unequaled. She had one week to lay the groundwork for it.

An hour later, she abandoned her staring contest with the desk in the hopes that fresh air would bring fresher ideas. When Deena stepped out of the posh marble lobby, heat and humidity accosted her like a wall to the face. She squinted at the sunlight, paused, and took a deep breath of the stifling.

Deena rounded the firm, eyes on the structure in admiration of its discretely layered symbolism. The gla.s.s sheath of the building invoked fluidity, the running water, renewal. Its triangular shape was a primitive symbol for fire; the only naturally occurring element man could create. Thus, fire as an element, bridged the gap between mortals and G.o.ds. At least that was the way she'd learned it.

The Tanaka Firm stared back at Deena, a towering prism of prestige. It taunted her, warning her that she never emulate all that it encompa.s.sed-that she could never emulate Daichi Tanaka. Somehow, she knew it was right.

Deena turned to the pristine blue bay at the building's backside and lost herself in the lull of the waves. It was there that the answer revealed itself, eventually. She could not be Daichi. That much was simple. And as she remembered his words, she understood. Understood that this was a dare. A dare to challenge his ideals, not as a scrubby college kid a.s.serting herself in a snow-covered parking lot, or as a green-nosed intern in the heat of debate, but where it counted-out there, in the world. And in doing so, she would fly in the face of those who claimed he was the last word in contemporary architecture-unapproachable, unequivocal and irrefutable.

She could do this. She lived through her father's murder, her grandfather's abuse, and put herself through the toughest college on earth. She could do this. She would have to.

"You lack the audacity for greatness," he'd told her. "You've not the stomach for it."

It was a dare. An attack. A lie. And she had one week to prove it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX.

Not long ago, there'd been a boy that Lizzie liked, an eighth grader who played basketball and made good grades. He was from a better part of town, had two parents, and wore the best clothes.

She made up her mind one day that she'd talk to him. That day, Lizzie dressed for school in the s.e.xiest getup she could muster without getting expelled. It consisted of a short-sleeved cinched corset that lifted and cupped the best t.i.ts around and shimmering, painted tights of the same cerulean blue. When she got to school that day, she found him he was in the company of a teammate, a power forward named Walt who rarely spoke. Together they stood in the school's hall.

"Lucas, right?" Lizzie said, knowing full well she knew her crush's name.

He lowered her gaze to her body, not with the appreciation she'd expected, but with a critical, a.s.sessing eye.

He could see through her, through the clothes she'd earned on her knees to the tainted blood that coursed through her veins. She wanted to walk away, not willing to stand the humiliation. But then, Lucas smiled.

"Yeah, I'm Lucas." He frowned thoughtfully. "You're Lizzie, right? Or something like that?"

Lizzie nodded. Her heart thundered. He knew who she was. And didn't mind.

"Well, what can I do for you, Lizzie?"

"Do?"

"Yeah. You wanted something, didn't you?"

Lizzie swallowed.

"Yeah. I, uh, thought that we could go out sometime."

"Go out?"

Lucas glanced at Walt, who raised a brow. Both seemed "You know, catch a movie," Lizzie explained.