Viewing it this way, it's harder to blame Jeremy for all my misery. And if that's the case, I pick clueless.
"Mmm," I say, feeling fidgety and ready to change the subject. "Well, anyway, so you're giving Jake clothes? Then I'll buy the puzzles." I spied these cute Melissa & Doug puzzles with construction vehicles in the Toys "R" Us sales mailer, which I receive, I'm sure, because of the staggering number of gifts I've bought for my siblings' offspring. Jake loves trucks, so I know the puzzles will be a winner. But since he's the third kid in the household, I also know Chris and Christine's playroom is already overflowing with toys.
Oh, to have their problems.
* * *
The next afternoon, I take a deep breath and brace myself as I round the corner and turn onto Chris's street. Their driveway is already full, so I park in front of the house next door and open the hatch on my Prius to grab Jake's gift. As I walk around the car, Eleanor and Brian's massive SUV turns in, and I wave to Eleanor as she drives by, turns around in a neighbor's driveway, and pulls up to the curb across the street. Distracted, I pull out the package without watching what I'm doing, and a corner of the wrapping paper catches on the edge of the door frame. I hear a loud ripping sound.
"Aw, crap," I say, glancing down at the ruined package, the bright-colored puzzles poking out from the balloon-printed wrapping paper.
"Eh, he's two," Eleanor calls out to me. She's already out of the car, swinging a gift bag with a giraffe on it from her left hand. The kids aren't with her, so she and Brian must be driving separately. I wonder if she's been at the spa. Mother's Day was last weekend, and she told me on the phone last night that Brian had given her a gift card for a massage and a pedicure. As she catches up with me I peek down at her feet, and sure enough her toes are buffed to a high shine and glossed with perfect violet polish. "He won't know the difference," she continues. "Besides, it'll be easier to unwrap if the paper's ripped a little bit." She grins at me.
"Justification for my stellar clumsiness. I'll take it," I say, smiling back and feeling guilty for my jealousy over a little purple nail polish. In my single, childless, and miraculously still-employed state, I could go to the spa too, if I felt like it. But that's not the same as having someone love you enough to pamper you.
"I'm here for ya, babe," Eleanor says.
I smile to myself, thinking her words are as good a reason as any to quit whining. My career might be in shambles and my love life a hot mess, but at least I have the best friends and family in the entire world.
I can't tell anyone this, of course, but Eleanor is my favorite sister-in-law. She's my age, thirty-one, and we have loads in common. She worked as a high school art teacher before leaving to become a stay-at-home mom when the twins were born. The non-working life didn't suit her, so now she's working from home, writing a crafting blog that actually has some advertisers and designing handmade greeting cards that she sells from an Etsy shop.
Like me, Eleanor grew up with all brothers, and also like me, two of her favorite things in the world are shopping and going to concerts. We used to do one or the other together every month or so, but since the twins came along it's harder and harder to get our schedules to sync.
I'm not sure which of us is more jealous of the other.
"Look at your flat stomach," she says, eyeing my midsection with an envious glint in her eye as we walk side by side up the front walk. Guess that answers that question. "I don't think I'm ever going to lose these last ten pounds." She drops her free hand to her stomach and rubs it self-consciously, though I can't see the extra weight.
"You'd never know it," I say. I've reassured her of this before, but I can only imagine how it will feel one day to have my body stretch and change and no longer belong only to me. I'm sure I'll be thinking or saying the same thing one day. At least, I hope so.
Eleanor hops up the front steps ahead of me and reaches for the door handle, and the noise of my brother's household precedes the opening of the front door. As soon as I'm two steps in, my niece Charlotte has already wrapped herself around my leg. "Come see my new Elsa dress, Aunt Jen," she says in her trilling, sweet, four-year-old soprano voice.
"I thought it was the birthday boy's turn to get all the presents," I joke, tugging on one of her light brown ringlets. As if my brother and Christine could deny her anything. Not only is Charlotte the only girl in the brood, she's also the kindest child I've ever met—the type of kid who shares without being asked, offers you her ice cream cone when you look like you've had a bad day, or cries when somebody steps on a spider.
I immediately feel bad for saying this because of the tortured look on her face.
"Mommy bought it for me days ago," she says. "Because it was on clea-wance at Target."
She pronounces it "Tar-zjay," the way her mom does, which makes me, Eleanor, and Chris, who's just walked into the foyer to greet us, all dissolve into giggles.
"Christine's mini-me or what?" Chris says as he leans in for a hug. "I am in trouble with a capital T." He looks so happy as he says this that it makes me squeeze him extra hard for a second. He leans back and looks at me with his brow furrowed.
"You okay, sis?" he asks after a long moment, and I think, And it begins.
* * *
"Are you looking for other jobs?" Christine asks, leaning toward me to be heard over the din of shrieking, laughing, and wailing children that have overtaken her suburban backyard. Even though Jake's only two, they've hired a giant inflatable bounce house that the birthday boy and his toddler-age day care friends are too scared to go into. Instead it's overrun with big kids, including Max, Jake's eight-year-old big brother, and my own brother and his thirty-something friends. As I watch, my dad yells out, "Do y'all have liability insurance on that thing?"
I snicker and then turn reluctantly to Christine. "No. Why? Do you think I should?"
I've just told the story of Candace's sabotage—starting with the moment she took over my client meeting and ending with Friday afternoon's childish display of passive-aggressiveness—to both of my sisters-in-law and to Christine's best friend, Meghan. The four of us are sitting on the back deck drinking lemonade through bendy straws. Maybe I've become too accustomed to my carefree, single woman's life, but I'm thinking, This could sure use a spike of vodka.
"Clearly she's not planning to fire you," Eleanor said in a rational tone. "Or she would have already."
"She's just trying to make sure you quit," added Meghan in her high-pitched voice. She's a former college cheerleader with round, freckled cheeks and blonde hair streaked with highlights that's cut in that trademark "mom style" so many women seem to get after having babies—uber-short in the back and stacked and feathered at the crown of her head so it resembles an upside-down bob. I've told Carrie to nail shut the salon door before she ever lets me do that to myself, and she expects the same favor from me.
Pretty much all of Christine's friends have that hair, but she doesn't, thankfully. Saves me an awkward conversation.
"Trust me, that's occurred to me," I say. "I'm not planning to give her that satisfaction." I've now told the story of Jeremy's and my breakup and how I humiliated myself on the most public platform at my disposal three separate times, and this is the second time today Eleanor has heard it.
"I think you need to get revenge by being awesome," Eleanor says. "Do amazing work. Show her she can't get you down."
That's Carrie's take on things too, and I'm inclined to agree. Besides, it's on my own comeback plan. I visualize my list, which I haven't thought about once since creating it a week ago.
"I think you need to get revenge by starting your own firm, and then doing amazing work," Christine says. "Why should that…woman… get the benefit of your hard work?" I can tell she really, really wanted to use a better expletive, but Christine's been trying to stop using curse words since the kids were born.
Meghan and even Eleanor are nodding emphatically, which takes me aback a little bit. Me, start my own design firm? How on God's green
earth could I make that happen? Starting a business comes with a pesky little thing called overhead, and with my mortgage, car payment, and student loans I'm already barely getting by, especially after losing the Brewster commission.
"Ha. Yeah, right," I say, looking down into my lemonade and taking a long, slow sip. A gnat is buzzing around the rim of my cup, and I swat it away.
"Yeah, right? Why?" It's Eleanor who asks this, and again I feel a little jolt of surprise, or indignation.
"Well, think about it," I say. "I'd have to find a space, then afford the rent—which, let me tell you, just isn't happening. And then I'd have to hope against all hope that my clients would follow me to the new place, and chances are that not all of them would. And then I'd have to figure out how to build a workroom, buy samples, advertise. All of this would probably mean I'd have to hire employees, which means I'd have to pay them. Honestly, this would take years to build. And I have no capital to build from. My house, car, and all my other expenses don't give me a ton of leftover income."
I probably need to advertise for a roommate, I think, feeling depressed all over again. I'd been counting on Jeremy moving in soon and lifting part of the mortgage burden off of my salary.
Eleanor starts to protest, but just then Christine jumps out of her chair and runs to the edge of the deck. "Christopher Maxwell Dawson, shut that hose off and leave your sister alone. Are you kidding me?" She turns to us. "He's eight. Eight. He should know better than this." She stalks down the deck steps as Charlotte runs toward us, wailing at the top of her lungs. The bottom half of her dress is soaked through and sticking to her legs. "Max, the Xbox is off for the rest of the weekend."
Eleanor is trying not to laugh, and Meghan says, "God, what are we in for?" She pats her stomach, where baby number three is nestled in a cute, low-slung baby bump under her maternity dress. Her first boy. And then Sadie and Sam, who've been playing on the big wooden playset on the far side of Chris and Christine's sprawling, fenced backyard, streak toward the deck, both screaming as loud as their little voices can manage. Sympathy cries, from what I can tell, because Charlotte is still wailing. Brian trails behind them, and he raises both hands in a helpless gesture, looking at Eleanor.
As she jumps up to calm the waters, I stare silently into my sticky cup, which by now is just a sugar-flavored bug collector. At least I'm out of the hot seat.
I try to push work completely from my mind and enjoy the afternoon with my family.
* * *
Monday afternoon, after presenting Mrs. Kennedy's sitting room, which, thankfully, she loved, I'm on my way to a project installation—an office for a clinical psychologist who's in the process of moving her practice from an outside space to her own home. I did the rest of the house early last year, and I designed her downtown condo more than five years ago—it was one of my first big solo projects after Candace hired me.
I love repeat clients, not only because they now make up at least half of my commissions but also because when a client comes back to me with a new project, I know they're happy with the spaces I've already designed for them. There's no better feeling than that as a designer. It's one reason I've always worked so hard, asking a million questions, spending more time than I could ever possibly be paid for making sure the space plan, lighting specifications, paint colors, and a million other tiny details are exactly right. I want the rooms I design to be beautiful and functional but also to reflect the personalities and tastes of their owners—not my personality or taste. It's a hard line to walk sometimes.
I've learned of one problem already with today's installation—the desk, which was supposed to arrive by freight last week but didn't because of a manufacturer delay, was delayed again this week by an interstate closure. The rep promised the truck would arrive this morning, but alas, my beautiful, custom desk that forms the centerpiece of the room is currently rambling along in a tractor-trailer somewhere this side of Knoxville. That means I can't complete my favorite part of the project today, that magical moment of watching a previously empty space spring to life from my 2-D renderings and transform into the picture in my head.
Instead, there'll be a stately leather desk chair floating at the center of the room and two perfectly adorable guest chairs facing it, with a gaping hole in between. Along with the desk, I'm waiting for the custom hutch and bookshelves, which means I can't accessorize either. Basically all I can do is place the rug, arrange the furniture we have, oversee the drapery installation, and put together the waiting area. At least I have what I need to complete that space.
Such is a day in the life of a designer. Between products getting discontinued, clients changing their minds, and freight delays, installations almost never run a hundred percent as planned.
I pull up at the client's house, on the phone with Carson to get the latest update on my items in transport. As I ease my car to the curb, I notice that a slightly banged-up truck is parked in the driveway, with a man's head bent down in the driver's seat, probably looking at a phone. Must be the art hanger, I think, because it's not the drapery installation guys. I'm very familiar with their white van with blue lettering on the side—I've been working with them for years. But I'm using a new art installer today because my old subcontractor, a one-man operation, just retired with his wife to Colorado.
I feel a twinge of guilt and wish I'd remembered to call and cancel the new guy because without the desk, there's really only one item we can hang today—an abstract painting that's going above a console table in the waiting room. It's big-ish and maybe a bit heavy, but it's a box canvas, unframed, and honestly, I could hang it myself. I typically only use a professional installation team for heirloom pieces or super-heavy items like mirrors or large, framed paintings.
I end my call with Carson disappointed—the desk definitely won't make it to Memphis until after hours, which means it'll be taken to our off-site warehouse. My carefully orchestrated installation process has officially fallen apart.
"Hi there," calls the art guy before I've even stepped outside my car. "Are you Jennifer?"
"Jen," I say, looking down into my bag to make sure I didn't leave my tape measure at the office. It's always embarrassing to show up at an installation without a measuring tool. I'm still scrounging around in my bag as I walk up my client's driveway. Art guy meets me halfway down the drive.
When I look up and take the hand he's extended, my breath catches in my throat. My, but he's a cutie. He's tall, probably six-two or six-three, with light brown hair that's a little unkempt—it's hard to tell if it's on purpose or not because in general he looks as if he might have rolled right out of bed and into his truck. His clothes are messy in a workman's kind of way, paint streaks on his jeans and a plaid, button-down shirt that's fitted enough to display his muscular arms and chest—necessary physical traits for an art installer, I remind myself.
"Todd Birnham," he introduces himself as our hands meet. His are rough and calloused, and to my utter dismay, I find myself blushing. I clear my throat.
"It's Jen," I say again, my voice catching in a way that's embarrassing. "Jen Dawson."
I'm not sure what's come over me. I'm not usually the type to go all giddy over a cute guy. But then again, I haven't been single for the last seven years. I don't know how I react to cute guys as a single person.
Todd follows me up to the front porch. The client isn't actually here—she's back at her old office, clearing out and packing up her files—so I let myself in with the key she's entrusted to me. Generally, I love the idea of the client arriving after the bulk of the work is done. It takes off some of the pressure, plus I get that awesome TV moment of witnessing my client see the "after" space for the first time. Truly, it's one of the best parts of the job.
"Um, I hate to say this, but you don't have a lot to do today." As I'm explaining the deal with the case pieces to Todd, the blue-and-white Munroe's van pulls up with my window treatments. For the next couple of hours, the bulk of my communications with my subcontractors cons
ist of short, imperative sentences punctuated by grunts and groans as we all lug around the pieces of furniture that actually made it onto the truck today.
Once I have the furniture and rug placed in the waiting room, Todd does his thing while I stand back and watch, chewing a fingernail and thinking that I never micromanaged Carl, our previous art hanger, quite so studiously. But then again, Carl's in his mid-sixties, with a beer paunch, a comb-over, and two grown daughters.
"That looks great," I say. "Perfect."
Todd steps back and eyes the painting critically, then backs up a little more so he's standing right beside me. I swear my arm hairs raise a little on the side closest to him, as if they're straining to touch him, or as if he has some sort of static pull. "Yep, spot on," he agrees. He looks proud of himself and maybe a little…relieved?
We both stand there silently for another minute, staring at the art—or at least, he's staring at the art. I'm kind of staring at the wall without seeing it because all I can think about is how close his right arm is to my left one.
"It kind of looks like two squirrels fighting over a bowling ball," he says, throwing me totally off guard. I glance over at him, and his head is cocked to one side, his very blue eyes still trained on the canvas. I'd almost forgotten it was there.
I look up at it and laugh. He's right, actually, though I feel a little guilty for agreeing with him. I love this artist. Her paintings are full of vibrancy and color, and this one creates a perfect focal point for this space—it's a spot of bright, happy color in a room that's otherwise designed in soothing tones and subdued fabrics to reflect the nature of my client's work. But the scene in this painting does look like two squirrels fighting over a bowling ball.
How to Look Happy (Unlucky in Love Book 3) Page 7