“What do you mean?”
“My daughter is… going through a very difficult time,” she said, a brief shadow of sadness crossing her face. “At least, she has been since the accident. I’m hopeful that things will improve, now that we’re here.”
Cantrell sensed that the opening was closing and that further questions would be intrusive. He took another look at the little girl, noticing how the dress and blouse she wore seemed expensive, quite unlike her mother’s attire.
She was pretty, slight and delicate, about five years old. She made no eye contact, either with him or her mother, focused intensely on her scribbling.
“Is there anything else I can do?”
She smiled again. “I think I’m about done for today, but thanks. Now comes the fun part—figuring out where everything goes.”
“I’m only two stories up. You know how to reach me. Call if you need anything, okay?”
She nodded.
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
Cantrell’s pen glided across page after page of the permanent loan documents as his banker, Ted Ballens, beamed across the desk. It was a tedious but necessary process, the legal culmination of the past two years of Cantrell’s life as developer and creator of the Exeter.
The documents represented the final financial phase of the project, a loan for tens of millions of dollars—a sum Cantrell had never dreamed he would one day be personally responsible for.
The late afternoon sun sparkled through the opaque glass of the clock face which served as the visual centerpiece of Cantrell’s study. Every 60 seconds, the eight-foot long minute hand clicked another notch.
The middle-aged Ballens, immaculate in his gray flannel and Ivy League haircut, poured through the lengthy contract with a watchmaker’s precision. He checked each signature, each initial, each date and each figure, and there were many.
At last, he closed the documents and regarded Cantrell. “Congratulations, Alex. You’ve just signed your life away.”
The two men laughed, and Cantrell poured two fingers of his best scotch. They clinked glasses and smiled.
“Thanks for all your help, Ted. I appreciate your trust in me.”
“I’m just your banker, Alex, but you’re right—I do have trust in you. You’re going to make this work. I look at you as a very good risk.”
“Thank you, my friend.”
“So tell me, what’s bugging you?”
The question caught Cantrell off guard.
“What do you mean?”
“After this deal, you should be the happiest man in the world.”
“I’m happy, Ted. Believe me.”
“To be frank, I’m not sure that I do. I’ve watched you since the beginning, the planning, schmoozing investors, your performance with the press, the tenants… you’ve done a fantastic job with all of it. But now something’s wrong. I can see it in your eyes.”
Cantrell laughed at Ballens’ uncanny insight. Despite everything, he was unhappy, or at least unsettled. He felt the culmination of the project in an almost voyeuristic way, as if it were all happening to someone else, someone far more fortunate and deserving.
What he couldn’t deny was the fear. The project was so huge, so demanding, so complex, that he doubted his ability to master it; to make the Exeter into what everyone expected it to be.
He wondered what his father would think if he were still alive. Would he be proud of his son? Or would it be like that football game, so long ago, when Cantrell ran the perfect pattern, caught that long difficult pass, pulled it in, eluded two defensive backs and dove into the end zone for the winning touchdown?
Amidst the celebrations, all his father had to say was that he didn’t like the way the boy bobbled the pass before he secured it, and that his foot was just inches away from the sideline.
Only his father, who elevated negativity to a high art form, could turn a moment of glory into humiliation.
He returned his focus to Ballens.
“I’m fine. Just finish-line jitters.”
The banker regarded him, smiling. “Well, you’ve got lots of time, Alex. Thirty years, to be exact, not to mention the interest.”
They laughed again.
“But seriously, I meant what I said: I have a lot of faith in you.”
Ballens rose and picked up his briefcase.
“And here’s my two cents’ worth,” he added, “and worth every cent of it. No matter how hard it is for you, enjoy the fruits of your labors. You, of all people, owe it to yourself.”
“You’re right, as always.”
The banker nodded.
“I’ll show myself out,” he said, doing so.
Cantrell leaned back in his leather chair and finished his drink. It actually felt good to be alone right now. No phone calls. No speeches. No problems to solve. Nothing but the ticking of the clock.
The study was the main room in Cantrell’s flat. He allowed himself the indulgence of the Exeter’s largest space. Unlike the other residences, his flat was designed strictly for himself. The book-lined study and office was dwarfed by the two story tall clock, the rest of the apartment furnished in a combination of art deco and neo-modern, along with one or two touches of the unexpected: One corner boasted a 1940s Fina gasoline pump, complete with glass globe and nozzle, another the restored grill of a 1940 Cord.
He closed his eyes, listening to the to the building’s rhythmic respiration. He’d lived here for over a month as the lone tenant, and had grown accustomed to the building’s assorted creaks and groans. It struck him as almost human in some ways; in its cyclical predictability—noises caused by air conditioning, structural settling, water coursing through pipes.
But now he heard something he’d never heard before.
It was mechanical, and it sounded big, like large metal gears meshing, or pistons pumping against a shaft of steel.
He opened his eyes and listened closer. Maybe one of the systems having trouble? Or something there that isn’t supposed to be…
Cantrell was about to rise from his chair, when it abruptly stopped.
4
The Exeter at last began to feel its heart beat, to breathe, to flex its muscles…
Bill Sloane had another ten minutes to endure on the treadmill in the second floor exercise room. He was having a tough time of it today. The remaining minutes would feel like hours.
His t-shirt was drenched with sweat, his face a florid red. The only sounds to accompany him were his raspy breathing and the monotonous rhythm of the belt.
He put his hand to his chest. His heart was beating fast, a dull soreness spreading throughout his chest, the whole area taut and trembling.
Sloane had seen the cardiologist just days before. He made monthly visits without fail, despite the doctor’s repeated assurances that he was in remarkably good shape for his 65 years.
“You’ll live another 20 years,” the doctor said, “unless you develop a sudden fondness for doughnuts and cigarettes.”
But Bill wasn’t sure.
He knew, as an attorney, that things could change in a moment’s notice: A microscopic obstruction, previously undetected with all of the best of modern technology, could lodge in that crucial highway leading to the aorta… there would be no warning. He could be working out, like he was now, sweating and panting… the pain would strike in an instant, like lightning on a forlorn field. Worse yet, he would be alone, with no one to call an ambulance or perform CPR. He would die, writhing in agony on the floor, staring at the bleak ceiling of this lonely gymnasium as he gasped his final breaths. Waiting desperately for help that would never come.