Blueprints

by Barbara Delinsky

  Jamie didn’t think that warranted drop-everything-and-come insistence, but he wouldn’t be denied. The best she’d been able to do was get him to meet at seven, so that she could still see Caroline before work.

  And there he was, crossing the lot at Fiona’s as she pulled in off the street. She waved through her open top and parked. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she ran quick fingers through her hair, but all she saw, to her dismay, were the freckles on her nose. So much for her expensive new concealer. The heat apparently melted makeup just as it swallowed up breathable air.

  Resigned, she groped around for her shoes in the floor well and slipped them on, then slid out of the car as deftly as her short black skirt and those high heels allowed. The skirt showed off slim hips; the heels added inches she desperately needed. Pairing them with white silk, she was dressed to impress, though not solely for her dad. This was her typical take-me-seriously look for days that were filled with meetings. Most architects doing her level of work were older than she was, and while the family business gave her a leg up, it also gave her a name to uphold.

  Freckles didn’t help, but there was no erasing them now. The best she could do was to put her shoulders back and set off with a pretense of confidence—only to ricochet right back when the long strap of her shoulder bag caught in the door. That wasn’t impressive, she mused, though it was nothing she hadn’t done before. As physically coordinated as she was when focused, when distracted, she was pathetic.

  Freeing the bag, she strode forward.

  Fiona’s was an upscale diner that offered the best breakfast in town, which meant that even this early in the day, it was humming. The parking lot was comfortably full; the air held the lure of hot corn muffins, chunky hash browns, and local maple syrup.

  By the time she caught up to Roy, he was talking with two of Williston’s finest, on their way home after a night on patrol. They had admiring smiles for Jamie as she hurried to keep up with Roy, who was entering the diner. He immediately began working booths filled with real estate agents, lawyers, plumbers, shopkeepers, husbands and wives—all local, all friends. Williston lay twenty miles west of Boston. Home to fifteen thousand residents, it was ruled by a Board of Selectmen, but if there had been a mayor, Roy would have been it. He was always smiling, always up for a meet-and-greet, always remembering names. Theo had done this for years until age crippled his mornings, at which point Roy smoothly stepped in. As the single largest employer in town, not to mention the raison d’être for many town shops, MacAfee Homes treasured local goodwill.

  Roy made it happen. That he was strikingly handsome didn’t hurt. With his keen brown eyes and perpetual tan, he looked younger than fifty-two. The gray that had spattered his hair a decade before had miraculously turned sandy, and, though Jamie didn’t know for fact, she would bet that his forehead was medicinally smoothed. Not that she criticized him for it. He put in the effort to stay in shape—had likely gone running at dawn that morning, even in the heat. Now, dressed in a crisp blue shirt and fine gray slacks, he had a fresh-from-the-shower sheen.

  For Roy, it was all about looking young—young body, young face, young wife. The irony, of course, was that with Jamie always trying to look older than twenty-nine, they were occasionally taken for brother and sister. Roy loved that, and while Jamie was proud of her father for his efforts and, yes, for his looks, she found the brother-sister comparisons awkward.

  This day, she didn’t get a formal greeting from him—no hug or kiss, no hey, honey, thanks for coming—just a possessive arm around her shoulder, drawing her into the small talk.

  But small talk wasn’t her strength. She could speak at length about architectural design, energy efficiency, or repurposed barnboard, but she wasn’t good at keeping track of whose mother was sick, whose son had gotten into college, or which tree service would take down the rotting pine in the center of town. Roy knew all that and more, in part because Jess picked up gossip at the local hair salon and shared it with him. Jamie would have forgotten it in two seconds flat. Not Roy. He remembered every last detail, pulling out whatever was appropriate in a way that endeared him to his audience.

  Today, the talk was of the weather. Beastly hot … not right … fierce storms coming. Jamie smiled and nodded, but after a minute began to shift from one high heel to the other.

  Her mother was waiting. Today was her birthday. And she’d had surgery on her wrist less than twenty-four hours before. Jamie had texted her earlier but wanted to be there.

  Finally, Roy guided her to a free booth. Fiona’s wasn’t so much a single railroad car as a square of four cars framing an open kitchen. The decor was a virtual history of the town, Fighting Falcon–blue wall after wall of framed high school senior class photos dating back to the mid-1900s, and laminated front pages of the Williston News, née the Williston Crier, memorializing the town during major events like the fire of ’56, which wiped out half the town center, the blizzard of ’78, which paralyzed town life for weeks, and the ’04 Red Sox capturing their first World Series title in eighty-six years, which had been out-of-the-park awesome for a town in which two team members had lived. More old newspaper clippings covered the tabletops and were covered in turn by a thick sheet of glass, but the clutter ended there. Benches were upholstered in a soothing gray, place mats woven to match. Cloth napkins, knotted around silverware, filled a slim tin by the wall. Jamie automatically reached for two as they slid into the booth, passing one to Roy, who placed his cell beside it.

  They were barely seated when the waitress brought the mud-strong coffee he liked and a pitcher of cream. Once both mugs were filled, Roy ordered his usual three-cheese omelet, Jamie her usual egg-white frittata.

  What she really wanted was a side of the thick, sizzling bacon that smelled so good, but ordering it was out of the question, (A) because it was unhealthy and (B) because Roy would have felt the need to discuss that, and the last thing she wanted was to distract him.

  Cupping her mug, she leaned in, anxious to hear what was on his mind. Before she could ask, he confided in a hushed voice, “See that guy behind me at the end of the row, the one with the red hair? He’s a Barth.”

  Not urgent news, Dad, and nothing to do with Mom. But Jamie glanced at the redhead in question. “Barths are blond,” she said for lack of anything wiser.

  “Not this one. He’s buying the house on Appleton and plans to live in it. He just moved back from California with his wife and kids and is rejoining the business. The Barth Brothers teardown at the corner of South Main and Grove? It has location, magnitude, and visibility. They’re making a statement with it. They want to make inroads here.”

  “Why here? Williston’s our base. They have the North Shore. MetroWest is ours.” MacAfee Homes had dominated the suburbs west of Boston since before she was born.

  “They want the Weymouth acreage,” he said, referring to the largest privately owned parcel in town.

  “It’s not even on the market,” Jamie argued, though she knew that preemptive buys, negotiated directly with the seller, were common. “Is it?” she asked on an uneasy note.

  “Not yet. But Mildred Weymouth has been dead nearly a year, and her kids can’t agree on what to do with the place, much less afford the upkeep. The grounds have gone to shit, and property taxes are in default. Mildred’s trustee says they have no choice but to sell.” With a soft whistle and both hands on his mug, Roy sat back. “Thirty acres of prime wooded land? Pretty tempting.”

  Seriously, Jamie thought. Speculation had run wild since Mildred Weymouth’s passing, and Jamie was deep in the mix. She envisioned a hybrid community of single-family homes and condos, all developed by MacAfee Homes. “We can outbid the Barths.”

  Roy checked his phone, put it down. “They’ll drive up the price.”

  That was a problem, Jamie knew, but nothing MacAfee Homes couldn’t handle. A single Barth moving to town didn’t supplant the power of three generations of MacAfees who had lived here forever.

  Roy proceede
d to say as much in different combinations of words, and all the while, the little voice in Jamie’s head was saying, Come on, Dad. We could have discussed this at the office. Why here? Why now?

  Their breakfast arrived, but she barely looked. Teasing—not scolding, never scolding—she said, “This wasn’t why you wanted to see me before I saw Mom.”

  Roy smacked the ketchup bottle over his omelet. “Hell, no. I only thought of it because that Barth was right there.” Setting the ketchup aside, he softened. “I hear you saw Taddy the other night. Sorry I missed you. I was at the selectmen’s meeting. How was he?”

  Jamie gave a helpless smile. “Adorable. He calls me Mamie. I love that he’s talking.”

  “Mostly he says no. Jessica’s struggling with that.”

  “She seemed okay to me.”

  Roy frowned. “I’m talking tantrums. She has no idea what to do when he throws himself on the floor and kicks and screams.”

  “But all kids do that. Sometimes it’s the only way they can express themselves. I saw one of his tantrums. It was actually pretty cute—I know, easy for me to say, since I leave when the going gets tough.” But that couldn’t be why her father had wanted to see her, either. “So, Dad. You got me here good and early.”

  “The early was your doing.”

  “And you know why.” Caroline.

  Ignoring the bait, Roy checked his phone, this time swiping once, then again. It wasn’t for work, Jamie knew. He was checking Twitter and sports news. “There’s a good point guard on the summer league team,” he murmured, “but if the Celts don’t trim their roster to get under the max…” With a grunt, he returned the phone to the table, then brightened. “How’s Brad?”

  Jamie sighed. There was nothing urgent about Brad—well, there was, but her father didn’t need to know that. “Brad’s awesome,” she said, as was expected.

  “You know that I think of him like a son.”

  How could she not? He said it often enough.

  “He’s good for you, good for the business. Someday…”

  He didn’t have to finish. Someday, Brad would head MacAfee Homes. He had come to the company straight from law school, hired as an assistant to the in-house lawyer, who had become pregnant soon after and opted to be a stay-at-home mom. Though barely thirty, Brad had taken over. That was three years ago, and he had more than proven himself since. In his quiet, competent way, he had shown an understanding of the business that went beyond law. Since Jamie had no interest in these things, once they were married, Brad would be right behind Roy in the line of succession.

  Theo liked that idea.

  So did Roy, who, while he certainly wasn’t ceding any real power to his future son-in-law yet, had already begun to share some of the more onerous tasks that he didn’t care to do himself.

  Grinning in a self-satisfied way, he tapped the plate with his fork. “I have to tell you, the stars are aligned. I thought Brad was the icing on the cake, but now there’s more on top of that, and it is sweet indeed.” Fork in midair, he came forward, brown eyes alive. “I met with Levitt and Howe yesterday to discuss the future of Gut It!” Brian Levitt was the general manager of the station that hosted the show, Claire Howe the show’s executive producer.

  Jamie was confused. As far as she knew, the future was decided. The fall project was in its final stages of production prior to taping, and the spring project had been picked, preliminary designs drawn, permits filed.

  Roy’s mouth curved into a smug smile. “You’re the new host.”

  She drew back in alarm. “Mom’s the host.”

  “They say we need a change. Things have been the same for a while. It’s time for a facelift.”

  Scrambling for an explanation, she said, “A facelift would mean changing the format or the graphics or maybe taking on different projects. But I’ve been giving them cutting-edge designs. Don’t they like them? Do they not want me to be the architect anymore?”

  “They love your work, honey. They love you. That’s the point.” His fork urged her to eat her frittata.

  Wishing it were bacon, she managed a small piece, but there was no comfort in it. She was thinking how much more satisfying the bacon would have been when he said, “They want you to continue doing what you’re doing and be the show’s host. It’s really a no-brainer. You’re beautiful and smart and talented. This would make your career, honey. You couldn’t ask for better exposure.”

  “As an architect,” Jamie said, setting her fork down with care. There was a whole other problem to changing the host. “What I do is intellectual. I’m more of a paper person than a people person.”

  “Who says? Not me. Not Claire. She gave you a leading role in several segments this season. Why do you think she did that?”

  “Because the segments dealt with architectural design?”

  “Because she was trying you out. You passed. You were great.” Chiding, he added, “You told her you loved it.”

  Jamie might have, but specifics were a blur. “What else would I say? Claire’s our EP, and she’s tough. But talking about my own field is one thing. Talking about every other field in home construction is something else. And anyway, Mom’s the host,” she repeated, more loudly now, because this was the other half of the equation, and it was huge. “Our audience loves her. Ratings are good.”

  Roy ran a napkin over his mouth. “They could be better.”

  “Says who?” Jamie asked, frightened now, because, despite dozens of meetings with Levitt and Howe to prepare for the fall, no one had mentioned a ratings concern.

  “Brian,” Roy said. “He speaks for the network, and when he speaks, we listen. He got the show off the ground ten years ago, and he’s been fighting for us ever since. If it weren’t for him, Gut It! wouldn’t be in half the markets it is. He’s our guardian angel.” His voice tightened. “He’s the GM, and when the GM has his mind made up, crossing him is not wise. We need Gut It! Gut It! is good for MacAfee Homes.”

  The issue wasn’t money, Jamie knew. The station funded the show through grants and syndication fees. It paid MacAfee Homes on a contract basis, and MacAfee Homes paid cast members from that sum. What remained in company coffers was less than the profit from a major construction project—less than the condo complex they had built in Foxborough last year, and certainly less than the potential for development of the Weymouth land.

  No. Gut It! was about exposure.

  “Do you understand what a marketing boon the show is for us?” Roy asked, clearly irritated that he had to explain. “Easily half the work we get is from people who either watch it or know someone who does. And then there are endorsements. Tools, ‘as seen on.’ Gloves, ‘as seen on.’ And the books documenting each season? The Barths have brochures; we have stunning coffee table books. They’re a powerful marketing tool, but they’re worth zip if the show is canceled.”

  “I know,” she conceded. “We need the show. But Mom should stay on as host.”

  “It’s done, Jamie.” He lifted his phone, checked the face, put it down. “The station is not renewing her contract as host. She’s out.”

  “Just like that?” Jamie asked, appalled by both suddenness and finality. She knew the station could do it. But out of the blue? With no warning? That was no way to operate. Forget that Caroline was Jamie’s mother; she was a human being who had basically shaped Gut It! with her bare hands. “Aren’t our terms with the station meant to be negotiated? Can’t we call our agent?” When Roy gave her an arch look, she winced. “Our agent thought this was a good idea?”

  “He understands how things work.”

  “And how is that?” she asked quietly, but Roy got the point.

  Blunt now, he held her gaze. “We’re targeting a younger demographic.”

  Jamie wanted to weep. She had known this was his bottom line—of course it was—but hearing the words was something else.

  “We want to win the couple buying a first home,” he went on, “or the gold-mine techno-kids, or the Gen-Xers wit
h a growing family.”

  “They think Mom is too old.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  But it’s what you mean, said her little voice. It’s what you always mean. Jamie loved her father, but she had no illusions. When his marriage to Caroline floundered, Roy had blamed his infidelities on her age and appearance, claiming that she had “let herself go,” that he needed a more sexy wife. His second one was ten years his junior. His third was ten years younger than that.

  “This isn’t me, honey,” he insisted. “It’s Brian and Claire.”

  “But you can convince them they’re wrong,” Jamie pleaded. Her father was a consummate salesman. He could convince anyone of anything. “Mom is a master carpenter with incredible people skills. She’s authoritative. She’s experienced. She’s reassuring.”

  “She’s fifty-six.”

  “That’s not old.”

  “For television it is. Age makes a difference.”

  “She looks fabulous.”

  “She looks fifty-six.”

  “And not only does she look great,” Jamie rushed on, panicked on her mother’s behalf, “but her work gets better and better. She’s just hitting her stride.”

  Roy bounced an irritated glance at the window, then whined, “No one’s asking her to retire. Brian and Claire want her to stay on the show. She just won’t be its public face. TV needs young.”

  “Roy needs young,” Jamie blurted out, because her little voice simply couldn’t control the frustration, to which her father shot her a watch it, honey look. She might have taken it back, purely for the sake of keeping peace between them, if she hadn’t had a sudden, awful thought. “Oh hell, Dad. Are you breaking this to me while someone else breaks it to Mom? Is someone at the house right now telling her—like, giving her the birthday present from hell—because today is her birthday, you know that?”