February 9, 2004

More of the story

Here's another chunk of the story. You may have to read through the intro again. Or if you haven't read it before ENJOY! *Understand this: this is a work in progress that does need critiques. Yell at me if you wish!

The pairs of steps stopped clacking the granite floor as the button, tarnished yellow from too many pushes, lit.
With long gray hair in disarrayed braids, Grace let her cane thump faintly against the polished surface.
Grace noticed the young lady first, for she knew she was a lady, with all that tailored pink tweed. Then she angled her gaze to the tall middle-aged fellow at the young lady’s side; with a neatly clipped beard and a prodigious comb-over of Men’s Grecian Formula, the man insisted on pressing the glossy lit button like a child caressing his favorite Aggie. Grace waited in silence, listening to the pair converse in the brusque tones of business.
“You see Mr. Fromwell, I have many plans that I would like to incorporate here at Fromwell & Fromwell,” the young woman gushed with a pink hue tinting her cheek, “I think I am just the person you need to promote this firm’s image of wholesomeness in family justice. Just give me a chance. I am sure I won’t let you down.”
“Yes, well, we could talk this over for lunch. Are you free, Miss Faith?” a light baritone responded.
He stepped a bit closer and looked into Faith’s eyes.
“I don’t believe I have anything planned. I would love to go, Mr. Fromwell.”
“Henry, please. We could go to Georgiania’s over on Fifth…Have you ever been there before?”
“No—”
A muffled ding called from the rectangle, and the slow door opened the dam of briefcases, suits, and pumps; a flow that left as quickly as it had come.
Clinging to a purse as large as her head, Grace slowly emerged from her concealed spot behind a great potted fern, pushing the boughs out of her eyes.
The couple was already inside the elevator. Standing side-by-side, Mr. Fromwell, held Faith’s hand to his chest for a moment and brought it to rest at his side, a smile slashing Faith’s porcelain features.
Grace shuffled toward the entrance, hesitating, looking down between the cracks, as she made the last pregnant steps onto the short, gray carpet.
Grace stood in front of them, looking at the grimy yellow buttons, as the Mr. Fromwell, leaned close to her shoulder and pushed the button for the first floor, dingier than the rest.
“Do you need a floor?” he asked with indulgence looking down at Grace’s long hair.
“No, I am going down too,” Grace said, fiddling with the strap on her purse as the door closed.
Sighing softly, the young woman looked to the tiled gold ceiling. “What’s good at Georgiania’s Mr. Fromwell—Henry?” she quickly added with an alluring smile.
“Well, I usually have the—”
Stopped in mid-sentence, Mr. Fromwell looked at the numbers above the door; the lights were between one and two. The elevator drifted to a complete stop sluggishly.
“Damn, one more floor and we would have been out.”
Now at Grace’s side, Fromwell opened the emergency call box and held the receiver to his ear, waiting for an answer.
“Nothing,” he muttered. “Damn people. It looks like we’ll miss Georgiana’s today,” a frown puckering his shiny forehead. “I suggest we all sit. We may be in here a while.”
Grace knelt with a grunt, holding onto the gold handles that circled the interior and sat with an audible thud in the buttoned corner of the car, her cane resting at her hip. Following suit, Faith splayed her manicured nails over her Henry’s forearm for support, and then softly placed herself on the carpet in the center. Finally Fromwell sat with legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles, looking toward Grace with a newfound awareness.
“Well, we might introduce ourselves. I am Henry Fromwell, and this is Faith Aster,” he said turning himself toward Faith.
Grace lifted her head from her purse and nodded.
“I’m Grace Gibson.”
“What brings you to Fromwell & Fromwell, Ms. Gibson?” Fromwell said, taking obvious interest at the mentioning of the newly-deceased billionaire’s name.
“Mrs. Gibson, Mr. Fromwell. I am the ex-Mrs. Gibson. I came today to hear my ex-husband’s will. You see,” she said raising her head higher, her green eyes shrewdly scanning them, “my husband found a woman in his office, his secretary. That was after ten years of marriage. It took me eight more years to divorce him, and all the while I knew it.”
“I am very sorry,” Fromwell said in an overly sympathetic tone.
“Well, yes I am too,” an edge rising in her voice.

Posted by Amanda Cochran at February 9, 2004 8:40 PM
Comments

I love how Grace sits herself on the floor while Mr. Fromwell watched. He sounds like a great guy already. Think you could kill him off in the next section you give us? Just an innocent request.(insert halo here) haha

Posted by: Puff at February 10, 2004 11:02 AM
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