Sophia didn’t answer right away, and that was the first time we noticed the tears.
“Hey, what’s going on?”
“It’s nothing,” she whispered, rolling her eyes as Mimi immediately crossed over to us in the tub.
“Don’t give us that. What’s going on?” I asked, struggling to sit back up and flashing her more thoroughly this time. This tub was really quite deep.
Sophia laughed, then two more tears fell. “I want a claw-foot tub, dammit!” she cried.
Mimi pushed her forward and slid in behind her, wrapping her tiny arms around her. “You sure it’s just the tub you want?”
“Yes. No. Fuck. Do I have to say it?”
“You want Neil in the claw-foot tub with you?” I asked, pulling a tissue from my purse for her.
She blew her nose loudly. “I do. I hate myself for saying it, but I do.” She looked around at the tub, then chuckled. “What’s funny is he wouldn’t even fit in here, the stupid lug. He’s so tall.” She blew her nose again. “I miss him so fucking much. Did I tell you he doesn’t even call me anymore? He stopped.”
She sniffed a great sniff, then looked up with determination. “I think—I think I need to call him. I’m going to call him,” she said, reaching for her purse as I met Mimi’s eyes.
“Sweetie, you sure you want to do that?” I asked, snatching up her purse and holding it just out of her reach. Impulse + Ex = Not Always a Good Thing.
“Why the hell not? You’re the one who’s been saying I should talk to him all this time.” She sniffled.
“Yeah, Sophia! Go! Go! Go!” Mimi chanted, always the Disney princess.
I gave her the purse and crossed my fingers. Sophia rarely made concessions like this. If it didn’t work, even after she’d put her butt on the line? I not only crossed my fingers, I crossed my toes too.
She took out her phone, then stopped. Started to dial, then stopped.
“Maybe you should think this through before you—” I started.
“Oh, stop it, Caroline, let her call him!” Mimi cried. “Do it,” she cooed in Sophia’s ear, like an angel perched on her shoulder. Or was she the devil?
Sophia took a deep breath, scrolled through her phone, and brought him up. The picture on her screen made her smile. Neil, covered in Gatorade at a 49ers game, when he’d gotten a little too caught up in a big game and the subsequent victory. That was the thing about Neil. People loved him. That’s why he was the most popular sportscaster in the Bay Area, maybe even on the West Coast.
Maybe this was a good idea. He obviously still carried a torch for her, and based on the stories Sophia had told about him in the bedroom, he carried more than a torch.
As the phone rang out, amplified by the porcelain acoustics of my bathtub, the three of us huddled close together.
It rang three times, then someone answered. A woman, breathless; then we heard Neil say, “Hey now, come on, gimme the phone,” and laugh.
Sophia hung up.
No one spoke.
“Wow,” Sophia muttered, then leaned back against Mimi. “I waited too long, didn’t I?”
“Maybe?” I allowed.
She gave a great sigh, then blew her nose again. No swearing. No screaming. No tantrums. That would have been preferable to this terrible quiet.
Her phone rang and Neil’s face appeared. She threw it across the bathroom, and it shattered on impact.
Mimi squeezed her little arms around her, hugging her close.
“Caroline?” she asked, her voice muffled in the napkin.
“Yeah?”
“I hate your tub.”
“I know, sweetie,” I said, turning around and leaning back against her. We pressed her together like a panini. I passed her Kleenex while Mimi braided her hair, in my hundred-year-old claw-foot tub with the sun setting in the distance.
When Simon came home and found us, he wisely said not a word. Not even when Sophia slugged him, blamed for someone else’s dick.
Before I went to bed that night, I overheard Simon on the phone with a travel magazine he’d worked with for years. He was offered a job in Greenland, highlighting the mineral pools and hot springs that drew thousands of tourists each year. He loved Greenland; it was one of his favorite places because of how beautiful it was.
He turned the job down.
I’ll give you a nickel to do something about that pickle.
chapter nineteen
Turns out if you don’t deal with a pickle, it just gets more and more sour. Ever seen someone who just bit into a really sour pickle? Yeah, that was my face. More and more often.
A week had gone by, and things were moving steadily along. The Claremont? Almost done. The launch party was in a few days and Max Camden had people flying in from all over to see his latest property. I’d worked with their marketing team to make sure the hotel was photographed for several design magazines, and it was being covered in both local and regional newspapers.
We’d integrated environmental concerns into the hard materials we used in construction, so we had that angle to promote as well. In the land of California, ecofriendliness is taken seriously. But what we were really generating a great buzz about were the ongoing sustainability practices central to our design concept, which had made us stand out to the Camden team. These included little things like barrels for the collection and storage of rainwater to be used in cleaning. The vegetable and herb gardens created for use not only in the on-site restaurant but for the community. The classroom space dedicated for elementary schoolchildren to learn about composting.
And my favorite? The rooftop garden that helped to reduce the heating and cooling costs and turned it into a gorgeous space at nighttime, where we’d planned to host Movies Under the Stars evening all yearlong. Weather permitting.
The community was responding well to what we had created already, and with the opening of the hotel, we hoped the buzz would continue.
With Jillian back at work, I was able to focus once more on taking on new projects and continuing to mentor Monica. Business was booming, and I was actually busier than before. I’d even volunteered to speak to the senior design students in the program at Berkeley, the one that I had graduated from not so many years ago.
I was sitting in Jillian’s office, waiting for her. She’d scheduled a planning meeting with me to set up for the summer season. Which was great, because I wanted to make sure I could take some vacation time.
I badly needed some time away. I felt like I’d been underwater for months now, and was hoping to get out of town for at least a week. I hadn’t talked to Simon yet; I thought I’d see where things stood with the house. Maybe we could put Rio back on the table?
Simon was ready to put anything on the table, especially me. Sexually, he was at critical mass. He needed it; hell, I needed it. But O? Fucking fuckity fucker.
Can’t think about that now.
So, back to Jillian and planning. We usually tried to schedule three to five months at a time, allowing us to see spaces for smaller jobs. When we planned like this we usually bounced ideas back and forth, getting inspired and stretching budgets to accommodate the grander concepts we had. I always brought my sketchbook and a stack of colored pencils along; they came in handy.
“Sorry I’m late, got tied up at lunch with Benjamin,” she announced as she sailed into the room. I raised an eyebrow, and she realized what she just said. “Oh my, imagine that,” she mused, getting a faraway look in her eyes.
I wrote TMI on my sketchbook and held it up to her.
“Let’s try this again. I went to lunch with Benjamin, and it was longer than I thought— Oh, I give up!” She threw up her hands. “Anyway, thanks for meeting with me today, Caroline. We’ve got some things to talk about—exciting things.”
I sat up a little straighter. “Is it the Vandertootes? I heard they were thinking about making some updates to that freaking castle, but I never thought they’d actually go through with it. Please tell me it’s the Vandertootes! I’
d kill for that job!”
I got my own faraway look in my eyes, thinking of the huge turn-of-the-last-century mansion. It was the Holy Grail of design jobs in San Francisco. Owned by an incredibly wealthy, eccentric couple, the house took up almost an entire city block and allegedly hadn’t been touched by a designer’s hands since 1977. And I thought I had it bad with my mauve wallpaper?
My brain began to buckle with all the possibilities, and I almost didn’t hear Jillian calling my name.
“Caroline. Come back, Caroline; come back from wherever you are.”
“Sorry, got lost in a shag carpet daydream. Anyway, are we pitching the Vandertootes?”
“No, we’re not talking about the Vandertootes. I’m making some changes around here. Big changes.” She sat back in her chair. “I’m semiretiring.”
“Semi . . . retiring?” It felt like the floor had just opened and was threatening to swallow me whole. I pulled out a colored pencil and began to chew.
“Yep.” She grinned. Why the hell was she smiling?
“Okay, I totally don’t get what’s going on here. Do I need to get my résumé together?”
“Why, you planning on leaving me?” she asked, still grinning.
“What the hell is going on, Jillian?” I half shouted, my voice sounding more than a little crazy.
She swung her laptop around to face me and started scrolling through pictures. Her and Benjamin under the Eiffel Tower. Her and Benjamin in an alpine meadow. In front of Prague Castle. On a gondola in Venice.
She stopped at a photo of a tall, thin, five-story house in what looked like Amsterdam. “See that house?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said slowly.
“We bought it.”
“You’re moving?”
“Semimoving. Hence, the semiretirement.”
“I’m fully confused.” I sat back in my chair. “I still have no idea what’s going on.”
“Though I love what I do, I want more than work. This trip was a totally different way of living, one that I want. We’re young, Benjamin’s been very lucky financially, and we don’t want to be tied down any longer.”
“This is being tied down?” I asked incredulously, looking around her fabulous office in her fabulous design firm.
“We’d rather spend our time living our life now than waiting to live it tomorrow.”
“You sound like a commercial for fiber bars,” I grumbled, getting up and starting to pace.
“This world is too big to not try and see it all.”
“And now it’s a bladder control commercial,” I muttered. “So what exactly does semiretired mean?” I asked, turning and heading for the other end of the office.
“We’ll be here half the year, and in Europe the other half. We’ll have this great base in Amsterdam to travel from wherever we want, have friends come to visit, whatever we want to do. Who knows? I might even start up a little design consulting business over there.”
“And what happens here?” Pace. Pivot. Pace.
“I talked to my lawyer and my accountant, and we’ve come up with a plan that will enable me to keep my hand in the business and oversee things, but let me start stepping back.”
“Oversee things? That’ll never work!” Pace. Pivot. Pace. “Before you went on this honeymoon you were here all the time, all hours of the day!” Pace. Pivot. Pace. “You’re the Jillian of Jillian Designs, for Christ’s sake—how in the world do you think this place is going to run without you half of the year?”
“I’m making you my partner, Caroline.”
“You’re making me your—whuh?” Pivot, trip, face plant.
Thank Christ I was no longer chewing on that colored pencil.
• • •
“You face planted? Right in her office?”
“Totally. I ate carpet.”
“I knew you weren’t just experimenting in college!” Mimi yelled. I was on the phone with her as I drove home that night, still stunned over what had transpired.
“Funny,” I muttered, making the final turn and heading down my street. “Then she helped me up, and then she proceeded to make me an offer I felt like I couldn’t refuse.” And I could kiss Rio good-bye.
“Why in the world would you refuse to be a partner? You’re not even thirty, for God’s sake; that’s incredible to get an offer like that! Although we’re getting close to the big three oh, can you imagine? Thank God I’m getting married before then, I can’t imagine being over thirty and not being married—”
“Hey! Focus up—we’re talking about my day. And what the hell, I didn’t say I was going to refuse. And what the hell, Mimi, who gets married before they’re thirty anymore? Besides, I’m three years away from being thirty! And what the hell is in my driveway?” I yelled, swinging wide before I plowed right into . . .“Let me call you back.”
I hung up the phone. Because in my driveway was a white Mercedes convertible. With a red bow on it. What the actual fuck?
I parked the van, hurried up the walkway, opened the door, hurdled over a sawhorse like an Olympian, and dashed into the kitchen. Where I found Simon, on a ladder. Faded jeans. No shirt. Tool belt.
“Um, what’s that in our driveway?” I asked. He turned in slow motion, it seemed, and I noticed for the millionth time just how stunning he was. Sculpted arms, broad shoulders, dipping down to that sweet spot just above his bum. And a six-pack that, when he was really worked up, gave up a seven and eight as well. And then that V on either side that just seemed to slip into those jeans.
“Well, it was the funniest thing,” he started, climbing down off the ladder and setting down his belt sander. He gave great sander. “I was watching you drive off today in that ridiculous van and I thought, my girl needs some wheels.”
“So you bought me a car?” I asked, confused. Brain was not liking some of these words, but every other part of me was liking the walking sex coming right at me.
I couldn’t let him just buy me a car, could I? Oooh, he’s walking.
He crossed to me, slowly, and I walked backward as he advanced. Before I knew it, I was up against the wall. With a shirtless Wallbanger inches from me.
Now, for the record, when I went vaulting into the house, I was pretty sure what was going on. And what he’d obviously done. And I was pretty sure I was pissed.
Remember that.
Now think about how good he must have looked to make me forget how pissed I was.
“If you don’t like the color, we can go down and pick out another one,” he said, now only one inch from me. I could feel the heat from his body begin to penetrate mine. Penetrate? Yes, please.
But wait, he can’t just buy me a car!
“Yeah, you can’t just, just buy me a, ummm,” I breathed, my words getting fuzzy as he leaned into me. There was so much tension in my body I was starting to vibrate like a tuning fork.
“Yes, I can just buy you a car. It’s a gift—get over it,” he replied, his brow furrowing as if he couldn’t understand why I was giving him shit about this. And at that very moment, I couldn’t tell you why either.
I’d never gone this long without having sex with Simon, not when he was in town. It was starting to get to me. And he smelled so good!
“But a car, Simon? I . . . uh . . . what is that cologne?”
“It’s polyurethane.”
“They should bottle that shit,” I breathed, my voice going husky.
“It comes in a can.”
“It’s really working for you,” I moaned as he dipped his head down and dragged his tongue right up my neck.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmured, burying one hand in my hair.
“Did you do this on purpose? This whole handyman fantasy? The tool belt? The abs? The—holy fuck.” I gasped when he took my hand and pressed it against his . . . drill bit.
“You came home early,” he explained, thrusting into my hand. “I like early.”
“Lucky me.” I sighed and dropped my head back against the wall. He took
this to be a green light, because within seconds my shirt was ripped, my skirt was pushed up, and he’d wrapped my legs around his tool belt. “I liked that shirt,” I protested.
“You really care?” he asked, slipping his fingers underneath the lace of my panties. Slippery already, and he moaned at the first touch.
“Not really.” I marveled at his strength; I always had. The idea of being actually wall banged always seemed impossible to me. Until Simon. He was strong without being beefcake. And he could carry my body around like I weighed next to nothing, when that wasn’t the case at all.
“How much do you care about these?” he asked, tugging on the waistband.
“One guess.” I smirked.
Off.
And then we were off.
We were half naked on the stairs, where he made me walk in front of him. We were lying on the floor, half in and half out of the bedroom. We were on the window seat, highlighted against the bay window.
We were hanging off the edge of the blow-up bed when a particularly powerful thrust made the bed blow up and poof to bits all around us.
And when I rose above him, sliding him inside deep and thick and heavy and oh so deep, my orgasm rocketed through me, bursting behind my eyelids and tingling through my skin, and every single part of me cried out as he grinned from underneath me, saying, “There’s my sweet girl.”
I exploded again and again, our bodies soaked with sweat and gleaming as I rode him hard and fast, his voice now bellowing his own release. I slumped down across him, panting heavily. He lifted his face to mine, kissed me deeply, and before he coaxed my head back down into the nook, he looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Don’t ever shut me out again like that, you hear me?”
He knew.
I kissed him back. “I promise.”
He was still wearing the tool belt.
• • •
An hour later we were in the kitchen, heating up yet another microwave dinner. The avocado appliances had been removed, but the new ones not yet delivered. So every meal was prepared in the microwave, then usually eaten on a tarp-covered box.
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