Blueprints

by Barbara Delinsky

  But three? Or four? With walkways connecting one to the other and the house? Would the Weymouths like seeing a circle out back with a courtyard in the middle?

  Not if there was a circle out front.

  A landscaped courtyard might work if it had grass, flowers, and benches.

  Then came another thought. There had to be access to the pool and tennis court from the main house. But how close should they be? Too close and those owning the condos would hear noise. Too far and they’d need a frigging golf cart to get there.

  She glanced at her watch. Another hour gone, with too many decisions, too little input, and little progress. She was starting to hyperventilate when Chip appeared.

  “Ignore me,” he whispered, pulling a chair up to his own computer. “I need printouts for tomorrow.”

  She gasped. “The field day.” She had been so obsessed with her own work that she hadn’t thought about his. “I’m so sorry, Chip. I forgot. And here I left you alone with your sister. Where is she?”

  “Sleeping. It’s after ten.” He shushed her with a finger to his mouth and pointed at her screen. “Work.”

  She would never have been able to—would have sat watching him do his thing—if she hadn’t been so aware of the time. After ten? The clock was ticking.

  Postponing exteriors, Jamie turned her thoughts to the interior of the house. The Weymouths had memories of growing up there. She wanted to tap into memories, but intimate and close didn’t work. She wanted the condos branching off from an impressive foyer that incorporated a grand staircase in the front hall. She had made sketches of this in her dreams.

  But, again, how many condos? If four, each unit would be smaller and more reasonably priced. If three, the units could be larger, with luxury elements like his-and-her walk-in closets and a solarium. Which would the Weymouths prefer? Which would potential buyers prefer?

  Roy had been the marketing genius. He would have known instinctively which route to take. In his absence, Caroline might have thoughts, since she was taking the lead in this project. But Caroline hadn’t called, and design was Jamie’s thing.

  She went with luxury, partly because of what Chip had said about the Weymouths, but even more because three units would take less time to draw than four.

  But wait. She had no existing floor plan, no starting point. She told herself that was fine, since the brothers wouldn’t have a floor plan handy either, but she had never worked this way. It was disorganized. It was messy.

  Thinking that she had no choice, she was about to start when she heard a gagging sound, then a shrill cry.

  In a flash, she ran to the boys’ room. Tad had thrown up and was sitting on his bed in a gross mess, crying pitifully. She snatched him up and cradled him, cooing softly, “It’s okay, monkey, Mommie’s here.” But she wasn’t a vomiter, had never seen Tad do it before, didn’t know where to begin to clean up.

  “The bathroom,” Chip said with a calm hand at her back. “Put him in a tepid tub while I change the sheets.”

  She might have marveled at his composure if she hadn’t been so concerned about Tad, but the bath seemed to work. The water soothed him. Once she had him soaped and rinsed, she refilled the tub so that he could soak in clean bubbles, and all the while, ignoring her fear-filled heart, she played with him as if it were just another night in the bath.

  “What now?” she asked Chip when he appeared.

  He touched Tad’s forehead. “He’s cooler. That’s good.”

  “What was it?”

  “Who knows. Maybe something he ate. Maybe something going around at school.”

  “Do I call the doctor?”

  “Nah.”

  “Give him Motrin?”

  He considered that. “Let’s wait. If his temperature spikes—”

  “I don’t even know how to take his temperature.”

  Chip slid her a tired smile. “Not to worry, wife. I do.”

  * * *

  Tad’s temperature was only mildly elevated, no cause for alarm, Chip assured her. She gave the child water to sip, but he seemed happiest clinging to her, arms and legs. So she brought him back to the office and let him doze against her that way while she tried to work—“tried” being the operative word. She couldn’t settle into it. She was a creature who worked with facts and figures. Without them, she was groping around in the dark.

  Thinking she might do better if she set the manor aside and worked on the rest of the acreage, she pulled up her work e-mail and scrolled through a fearsome list until she found the plot map that the Williston town assessor had sent. Unfortunately, it was as crude as every other assessor’s plot plan she had ever seen.

  Disconcerted, she bowed her head against Tad’s warm curls. If construction ever became a reality, MacAfee Homes would bring in engineers to determine the location of access roads and the positioning of each house. But she had no engineers now. She had no marketing advice, no Realtor advice. She had no Caroline. She had no Chip, who had finally gone to bed. She had Tad, who woke each time she tried to put him down, and she was exhausted. It was past midnight. Fear alone kept her at her computer. But fear wasn’t conducive to design.

  Thinking that an hour or two of sleep might help, she tucked Tad close and climbed in with Chip, who stirred. “I don’t know if this is allowed,” she whispered, “but he starts to cry when I take him to his own bed, and I don’t want to wake Buddy, and I need to feel you here.”

  His answering whisper came against her hair as he drew her back into the curve of his body. “It’s good. Sleep.”

  * * *

  An hour was all she managed. This time it was Buddy who got sick, and they were up again, repeating the drill of bath and laundry. Though Jamie felt less guilty knowing it was Chip’s son now and that she was doing her part, she was exhausted.

  The good news was that both boys settled down in their own room.

  The bad news was that it was three in the morning before that happened.

  Determined to work, she made coffee and went to the office, but where to start? Forget the manor. Forget carriage houses and courtyards. Forget even the clubhouse by the pool, which would double as an event room and be constructed in the style of the main house … or in the style of the original carriage house … or maybe in the style of one of several different house plans she envisioned for the outlying acres. Forget the gazebo and the trellis and the huge fire pit. That was all detail.

  She needed to think big picture, bird’s-eye view. That would impress the Weymouths. But not only didn’t she have an engineers’ report, she had never walked through the wooded part of the land, didn’t know which sections were wet and which were not, which were underscored with granite that would require blasting, which were embedded in stands of pine or birch or beech so dense and beautiful that removing even a single tree would be wrong.

  Caroline would understand this. She had a keen perspective on these kinds of issues and might have pertinent thoughts. Jamie would have given anything to call her, if for no other reason than to share the responsibility. But this was her job to do.

  Just do it, she ordered herself. The Weymouths won’t know where boulders or trees or low-lying wetlands are. Scatter homes over the land in a way that looks interesting. You’ve done this before. Just do it now.

  Desperate, she did. She spaced houses on the computer in a way that looked plausible. Pretty. Maybe even interesting. Same with siting the swimming pool, tennis court, and clubhouse, though she hated working this way. It reminded her of the year she had tried to bake gingerbread for Caroline’s birthday and, not having molasses, used honey instead. Caroline had said it was perfect. But Caroline was her mother, what else would she say? Jamie tasted the gingerbread and knew it was flawed.

  Flawed was how she felt about what she had done here.

  She redid it once, then looked in on the boys. Back in the office, she saw more flaws, so she redid the design. She was in the kitchen filling her third cup of coffee when Chip hurried in looking as t
ired as she felt. It was seven. He had showered, and his messenger bag was stuffed, but he sidled up close to her as he reached for a travel mug.

  “How’s it going?”

  She waggled a hand and opened the fridge. “At least the boys haven’t thrown up again. Will they?”

  “There’s not much left in their stomachs,” he said as he filled the mug with coffee. “They’ll need liquid, but make it watery.”

  She topped off his coffee with cream. “What about milk?”

  “Only if they ask. If they keep down lighter stuff, it’s probably okay. If there was ever a day when I’d stay home and help…” He scowled. “Make Sam watch the boys.”

  “Is she staying?”

  “Tell her if she doesn’t, I’ll call Mom and rat her out. And I’m serious.” He screwed the top on the mug, looped an arm around her waist, and pulled her in. “Will you be okay?”

  “I have to be.”

  “You can always call your mom.”

  She didn’t answer, just mined his blue eyes for strength.

  “I’ll call in sick,” he offered.

  “You will not. It’s the last day of school. You’ve been planning this field day for weeks. Go.” She pulled away.

  He leaned in for a kiss, started off, came back for a second, then left.

  twenty-eight

  Caroline was twisting to get a rear view of herself in the cheval mirror when she saw Dean staring at her from a corner of the glass. Much as she’d grown used to having him around, there were times when it was embarrassing. Blushing, she felt the need to explain. “My hips look big. Should I tuck in the shirt?”

  The outfit was new—a slim white skirt that ended in a soft flare at the knee, a fitted brown silk shirt with clingy tails, and cork wedge sandals. Jamie would approve. But she hadn’t bought these things for that reason alone. She had important meetings this week, and her funeral outfit had exhausted its stay. It was black. She didn’t like black. Dean did, and a good thing that was, or he would clash with the floral wing chair in which he was now sitting to lace his boots. Today’s black shirt, already tucked into belted jeans, had its sleeves rolled to the elbows and its neck open.

  Holding her eyes in the mirror, he left the chair and came up behind her. “Your hips aren’t big, and leave the tails out. You look very chic. Grown up but still you.”

  She gave him a puzzled smile. “Grown up?”

  “Sophisticated.”

  “Am I not usually sophisticated?”

  “Yes, but in a craftsman way. This is cosmopolitan.” He paused, speculative, but not quite. “It could use something, though.”

  Frowning at her reflection, Caroline touched her watch, then the studs in her ears. She wore a hand-carved silver ring on the middle finger of her left hand. It was a gift from her parents, marking no special birthday, but its heft so fit who she was that it she wore it often. Her mother’s own filigree bangle-and-cuff set was a delicate heirloom, and though Caroline treasured it, she would no more wear it than she would wear a wedding gown of Victorian lace.

  Then again, who’d have thought she would willingly buy a white skirt and wedge sandals, much less feel good in them? But she had, and she did. Who’d have thought she would be power dressing—well, as much as her carpenter side would allow—and auditioning for a role that she didn’t want? Or hadn’t wanted. Only it wasn’t so bad. She was actually good at it, mainly because it entailed dealing with people. That was what she loved about Gut It!—not the eye of the camera or the public recognition, but working with people to produce something that other people would enjoy.

  The woman she saw in the glass was interesting. Oh, she looked her age. Neither her neck nor her hands were as smooth as the silk of her blouse, and her bare legs no longer tanned as evenly as Jamie’s did. But there was something different about this woman. With Dean’s nearness evoking the memory of sleeping with him last night, she might have said that the something different was confidence. She might have even added the word “complete” had it not been for Jamie. There was nothing complete right now in Caroline’s role as a mother.

  But that couldn’t have been what Dean meant when he said her outfit needed something. He was a literal guy.

  One hand left his pocket, then both touched her nape, and suddenly something was sliding down a platinum chain to nestle between her breasts. By the time her fingers were there, he had both hands on her shoulders and was looking at their reflection in the mirror, his ruddy skin less ruddy as he waited for her response.

  “Dean,” she warned softly. She knew just what it was, but that didn’t prepare her for the real thing when she found the nerve to pull it out and look. He had chosen an emerald-cut diamond flanked by vertical baguettes—and her very first thought was how much more the straight stones fit her than the round stone she had once had. Set in platinum, the ring was simple but elegant, traditional but new, exquisite any way she put it.

  His fingers found hers inside the shirt, work-roughened skin against the swell of her breasts. “Wear it for me?” he whispered. His hazel eyes, always magnetic, were suddenly a truer green, as if the brown had been overrun by a surge of life inside. Her heart positively ached.

  “Oh, Dean.”

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “I love it,” she said, closing the ring in her fist. “But I don’t want marriage. I like what we have.”

  “So do I. That’s why the chain. It’s a long one. No one needs to see the ring.”

  “But you want people to know. You said that.”

  “I changed my mind. This isn’t about other people. It’s about us.”

  That was the moment she knew it would happen, the moment she knew they were both old enough to make it work. It was the moment when she realized that the important part of growing older was the growing part, and that resisting change meant forever standing still, which was a sad way to live.

  It was also the moment when she saw that holding little grudges was as paralyzing as insisting on hosting Gut It! season after season.

  Letting the ring settle between her breasts as it seemed made to do, she turned, looped one arm over his shoulder, and framed his whiskered cheek with the other. “Thank you.”

  “Is that a yes?” he asked with such boyish hope that her heart squeezed again.

  Through a sudden sheen of tears, she smiled. “It is.”

  * * *

  With Chip gone, Jamie set the monitor beside her computer. It gave her a full view of the bunk bed, and while she was desperate to creep in for a real look at Tad, she resisted the urge. One boy shifted, then the other; neither was sleeping soundly. But both were alive, and with no sign yet of Samantha, she grabbed at the chance to work.

  Worried that her bird’s-eye view was BLAH but not sure what it needed to make it WOW, she saved what she had, pulled up a new screen, and focused on individual houses. All she needed for tomorrow’s meeting was a prototype or two to show what MacAfee Homes would build on Weymouth land.

  She had dreamed of designing six different options for buyers, each derivative of the manor house but with its own unique personality. Among them would be an elegant miniature manor house done in brick, another done in stucco and stone, a lake cottage option, a farmhouse option—the presentation would be awesome. But which to draw first, whether to aim for luxury or charm, whether to aim for the Weymouths or the buyer, whether to site it flat or on a knoll—and how could she determine the last without detailed knowledge of the lay of the land?

  Forget reality, she cried, losing patience with herself. Reality doesn’t matter. Just take an image from your head and draw it on the frigging screen.

  She was about to start when Samantha wandered in asking what the middle-of-the-night activity had been about. Hearing her voice, Buddy got up, and when Tad, still in bed, began a woeful “Mamie … Mamie,” work was shot.

  Daycare was out of the question. Both boys were still warm, unusually pale, and generally lethargic. If the constancy of the AC was any i
ndication, it was hot outside, not that Jamie had been out to look. She could see patches of condensation on the windows where hot and humid air met cooler glass.

  “What do we do?” Samantha asked. Despite her caution about lifting Buddy yesterday, she was holding him now.

  Jamie had a quick vision of different-color construction paper cut in triangles, circles, and squares, with toothpicks and string, markers and glue, a perfect sick-day project for boys who didn’t feel great. She had grown up on projects like this. Art was her thing. She would do this with them in a minute if she didn’t have to work.

  But she did. So in lieu of arts-and-crafts?

  Pressing Tad’s face to her throat, she said, “You’re asking the wrong person. I’ve never done this before. They need to stay quiet, but we can’t just hold them all morning. What do mothers do when their kids are sick?”

  Samantha didn’t answer. Nor did she think for long. She simply walked into the living room and turned on the TV.

  * * *

  Caroline’s smile was gone, her eyes were dry, and while one hand touched the ring, her new talisman, the other held the wheel of the dusty MacAfee truck that should have detracted from her sophisticated look but felt right. The look was vintage modern, she decided—old car, new woman, traditional ring, new meaning. June magazines were filled with ring ads picturing two and three rows of tiny diamonds, sometimes in different colors, around a central stone, but that wasn’t for her. She liked the timelessness of what Dean had picked.

  Old, new. A person who blended the two was flexible enough to listen and hear and grow. She wanted to think she was that kind of person. She might have a shot at it, if she could fix what she’d botched with Jamie.

  Time worked against her. Jamie had to be feeling pressure right now even apart from being a new mom and new wife, which Caroline was still struggling to digest, and her own morning was booked solid. Rather than texting, Hey, when can we talk, ooops, no, not then, or worse, having Jamie tell her not to come, she figured that she would just show up.