Chapter 8 - A Drawing on the Wall
Two weeks passed.
The Chicago winter began to yield, just slightly, to the faint promise of early spring. The sharp gray ice on Lake Michigan cracked into floating white plates, and the sun began to linger past five o'clock over the city skyline.
In Grant’s forty-third-floor office, things were subtly changing.
The cold, minimalist aesthetic was still there—the dark mahogany, the glass, the charcoal furniture. But on the high shelf directly behind Grant’s desk, sitting right beside his framed photograph of his first warehouse from twenty years ago, was a new frame.
It was a simple white frame, purchased by Claire from a shop down on Wabash Avenue.
Inside it was a drawing done in bright, aggressive primary colors on heavy construction paper. It depicted a tall black skyscraper touching blue clouds. On the top floor was a small man in a dark suit. And right next to him was a massive pair of bright yellow gloves that spanned half the building.
At the bottom, written in wobbly seven-year-old print, were the words: MR. GRANT'S HOUSE.
"You know," Claire said, stepping into the office with his morning mail tray, "the architecture digest photographer is coming at two o'clock to shoot the office for their cover story."
Grant didn't look up from his tablet. "I know."
"Are you going to leave that picture on the shelf?"
Grant stopped reviewing the morning yield report. He looked back over his shoulder at the drawing.
"Why wouldn't I?" Grant asked smoothly.
"Because it doesn't exactly scream 'relentless corporate titan,'" Claire teased gently.
"It screams that the owner of this company has excellent taste in local art," Grant said without a flicker of humor, though his eyes held a subtle warmth. "Leave it where it is."
Claire set the mail tray down. "Rachel called from the Oak Street complex this morning. The spring garden committee has requested permission to plant tulip bulbs in the main courtyard. She wanted to know if the steward's budget covers flower supplies."
"Tell her to double the request," Grant said. "And order yellow tulips."
Claire smiled, making a quick note on her tablet. "Yellow?"
"It's an operational requirement," Grant said, returning to his reports.
Claire turned to leave, but stopped at the door. "Grant?"
"What?"
"When was the last time you had dinner somewhere that wasn't a steakhouse with a client?"
Grant paused. He looked at his calendar. Every night for the next three weeks was marked with red ink: Dinner with Mayor’s Office. Dinner with Harbor Trust. Dinner with Tokyo Investment Group.
May you like
"It's my job, Claire," Grant said quietly.
"It's your life, Grant," Claire corrected softly. "There's a difference."
