"Who was that guy you were with on Facebook?"
"Uh, hi," I say. "How was your weekend?"
She harrumphs. "He looks like a player," she says, pulling out the chair across from me and plopping onto it so hard that it pops, squeaks, and rolls back a few inches. She scoots it forward with her feet, folding her arms across her chest. "And why did you pull the photos down? Are you trying to keep your relationship a secret?"
"First of all, what does a player look like?" I say. "Clearly I need to know, so I don't keep getting played. Second, there is no relationship. Brandon was just getting me back for rejecting him."
This throws her off her warpath, and she pauses and studies me with her lips pursed. "Really?" Her expression is skeptical but intrigued. "That's crazy. So you guys aren't even going out?"
"We went out," I say, emphasizing went. "As in, a couple dates. Non-exclusive. And there won't be any others." Just thinking about Friday night makes me feel like the steaming teakettle again.
"Sex?" she asks.
"Quinn!" I say. "Not your business."
"Okay, no sex," she says. "Figures."
"What's that supposed to mean? And why are you so interested in my love life all of a sudden?"
"Since you rejected my cousin."
Now it's my turn to be silenced. I stare at her for a few long seconds before answering. "Rejected your cousin?" My voice sounds breathy, and my heartbeat is skipping into overdrive, but I try to feign ignorance. "What are you talking about?"
"Todd," she says. "He asked you out, and you turned him down."
"He told you that?" I'm not sure why this information seems ten times more vital than the work problems pressing in on my shoulders.
"Yes, goofball. He told me that." She rolls her eyes. "I'm the one who's been trying to set y'all up. You're making it shockingly hard, considering that you're single, he's single, and, despite the fact that we're blood related, I happen to know he's a total babe. And he's into you."
My mouth has gone dry, and I lick my lips. "You think he's into me?" My voice has just shot up an octave—so much for trying to play it cool.
Quinn looks amused and sort of smug. "He's into you." She uncrosses her arms, reaches forward, and hooks her finger into the loop at the top of one of the Romo books, pulling it toward her. She starts absently flipping through the large swaths of fabric samples as she talks. "He thinks you're wound up a little too tight, but he totally wants you. I can tell because he hasn't stopped talking about you since that first job he did of yours."
"He said I'm uptight?" I frown, even while thrilling over her last sentence. That's two for two on guys calling me uptight this week. Awesome track record.
"No, but you are uptight." She flips the pages of the fabric book over and shuts it with a snap. Then she looks right at me. "You need to relax, chica. You've been working your ass off, not even noticing or caring that this place is falling apart around you. You and I are the only ones holding it up at this point, and I'm startin' to wonder why I bother. I'm polishing my portfolio. I can tell you that much."
I glance around the studio, and Quinn is right. It's mid-morning on a Monday, prime work hours, and this place is as still and quiet as church on a Saturday night. Carson's up front, of course, and I can hear her muffled voice on the phone with someone, probably a fabric or furniture rep, checking prices for a job. But Candace hasn't bothered to show up yet, and for some reason, neither has Brice. Rachael is in the office, hunched over her desk at the front corner of the studio in her now-usual stance, as if she's trying to hide what she's working on from the rest of us. She's ignored me for so long now that I almost forget she's here.
"What about Rachael?" I say, lowering my voice even though I know she's probably got her earbuds in.
"What about her?" Quinn says, leaning her elbows on the tabletop and lowering her voice too. "She's checked out, gone. Most of the time when I try to peek past and see what she's up to, it doesn't even look like she's working on design projects. I have no idea who any of her clients are. She's always hunched over her computer screen with some sort of spreadsheet open. I think she's freelancing or something. You know she used to do bookkeeping for…somebody."
"Yeah, I know," I say. At one point, back in the day, Rachael and I were kind of close. I know she put herself through undergrad working some kind administrative job for a local dry-cleaning chain. I glance over at her, squinting into the sunlight streaming in from around the front partition, and then freeze in place. Rachael's shoulders are tight, and it appears as if her whole body is leaning in our direction, like she's straining to listen.
I sit back in my chair. "Well, anyway…" I say in a slightly louder voice, motioning with my eyes toward Rachael, trying to silently convey that we need to change the grain of the conversation. "You've given me a few things to think about." I can't wrap my head around the idea that Greenlee Designs is in trouble. This place is an institution in Memphis, and in the whole South, for that matter. Candace used to be a rock star. What's happened to change that?
For a split second I'm hit with a sinking sensation that it's me. That my stupid, drunken Facebook status had an impact on more than just my own image. But no. No! There is no way that's true. Quinn is right that I've been working harder than ever lately, which is saying something. And my clients and workload haven't seemed to be affected by the Facebook mess at all.
Something is going on. Quinn must be right. But what the hell could it be?
I glance back over at Rachael's desk, but she's disappeared. I wonder if she slipped into the restroom without me noticing, but then I hear her voice up front, talking to Carson, and seconds later I hear the jangling of the bell above the front door.
I look back at Quinn, and she looks at me, and we both shrug. I slide a fabric book toward myself, across the table, and she gets up from her chair and pushes it forward.
"Quit torturing my cousin, and just go out with him already," she says over her shoulder as she walks back toward her desk.
That's fine and all, but there's no way he'll ask me out again. That's what I think. What I say is, "The ball's in his court."
"Bullshit," she says back. "You're the one who's calling the shots. And you're really effing up the game, in my opinion."
My mouth drops open slightly, and I say to her retreating form, "You know, Quinn? I think you should learn to speak your mind a little more. It's not healthy to hold stuff in."
She turns and flips me off. But then she winks, her eyes twinkling, and I laugh and try without success to concentrate on the fabrics in front of me.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
How to Be Happy
Three hours later, I pull through the Santiagos' circular drive and onto their street, finally letting out my sigh of relief. The work's progressing fine, but both Chelsea and Nestor were there today, and I cringed through the entire meeting, worried he was going to drop another change on me. Thankfully it didn't happen. The painters were there, wrapping up the master suite, but I was really there to meet with my Cambria rep about the bathroom countertop—which thankfully went well. We picked a fabulous white marble-style quartz, but I won't hold my breath until the invoice is paid, and the installers arrive.
Next on my to-do list for the day is my meeting with Amanda. I'm pretty worried that the funding for the Rasmutin project won't pull through, and I'm sure she is too. It's especially worrisome since I already have a couple of custom pieces on order for my unit. Ordinarily I wouldn't panic—if the project tanks, we can add the pieces to stock and store them in the warehouse until I find another use for them—but Quinn's dire warnings about the state of the firm have me on edge.
I've just turned onto the interstate ramp after stopping at my tile source to drop off samples, and I'm heading toward Amanda's Midtown office when my phone chirps with a call from Carrie.
"Hey," I say.
"Hey back. Up for drinks after work?" Her voice sounds extra-chipper, like she's straining to hold something back.
<
br /> "Um, sure. Anything special going on?"
"Maybe…" She hedges, proving my instincts right. "Meet me at Local on the Square. 5:30 okay?"
I have a sudden flashback to the last time I was at Local—it was the night Jeremy showed up to tell me about Brianna, the night my life went careening over the lip of the ravine. I gulp and then answer, "Local." I inhale loudly. "Oh…kay."
"Is that not all ri…? Oh. Yeah," she says. She's quiet for couple seconds. "We can go someplace else if you want. It just needs to be somewhere in that area."
"No, no. Local's fine," I say. "It's not like I'm never going there again just because my ex chose that spot to dump me. It'll be good for me. Proof that I'm over it."
"There's the spirit." She sounds surprised. "I like your attitude."
But now I'm thinking about Jeremy again and how I haven't heard from him in a few weeks and how Brianna might even be showing by now, and my attitude sours in an instant. Am I over it? It doesn't feel like it. It doesn't feel like it at all.
* * *
"Have you heard anything else from Marc?" Amanda walks toward a round worktable that's fitted into an alcove on one side of her small storefront studio carrying two bottles of water. She hands me one and sinks into the chair across from me.
"Not a word," I say. "You?"
"No," she says, uncapping her bottle and taking a quick sip. "But I did hear from Enrique that they're close to signing on another partner. I'm not too worried about it." She pauses for a few seconds. "But I'm not placing any more orders either."
I feel a surge of relief. "So you'd started ordering pieces too."
"Sure," she says. "You know how it is. They're going to want this done when they want it, and the manufacturers don't always operate on our schedule."
"Tell me about it." I open my own water and take a long drink. I hadn't realized how thirsty I was from my afternoon of running around town. "So, you want to go over the plans again?"
"We can," she says, dragging out the second word. "But that's not actually what I wanted to talk to you about."
"Oh," I say, surprised. "Well, what do you want to talk about then?" For some reason my mind flashes to Aubrey, who I've been categorically avoiding, along with everything that has anything to do with Emory Brewster or his house. It's silly and juvenile and unprofessional—I know I have to go back there sometime and face my responsibility to finish the project, but every time I contemplate doing it, I see his smug, leering face and feel his gaze molesting me all over again, and I just can't. Not yet. And not until I'm sure Brewster himself is out of the city. Preferably out of the state. Or better yet, working on a case in Thailand.
I gaze at Amanda with curiosity, wondering if what she wants to know has anything to do with Candace and Brewster or Candace and the trouble Quinn suspects the firm is in. I suddenly remember what Quinn said before, about the IRS forms, and I feel my first flash of panic that Greenlee Designs might truly be in dire straits.
"Well, I know you're as busy as me, as busy as it's humanly possible to be, basically," she says with an easy chuckle. "And I don't know, you might be happy as a clam working there with Candace"—at this she gives me a sharp glance that makes it apparent that she doesn't suspect that to be the truth—"but I was wondering if you'd ever given a thought to moving on."
"Moving on?" I ask. "Moving on how? Where?"
"Well," she says again. "I'm really in need of a partner over here. My business has grown like crazy in the last two years, and I'm falling all over myself trying to keep up with it. I have two girls working with me right now, U of M grads, but they're both young, and I need someone who can invest in the business and bring in clients of her own." She pauses again, longer this time, and studies my reaction. I'm not sure what she's seeing, probably an expression of pure shock. "I figure with everything happening with Greenlee and all that, you might be about to strike out on your own, and frankly, I don't want you as competition."
My mouth opens and then closes again. I'm not entirely sure what to do with that last sentence. "Oh, wow. Thanks," I say lamely. How can I admit that I have absolutely no idea what she's talking about when she says "everything happening with Greenlee?" I'm dying to ask, but it feels utterly ridiculous that I don't know what's going on behind the doors of my own firm.
She'd probably rethink her offer if she knew how clueless I am about the state of the business. It's shocking enough that she'd want to partner with someone who libeled her boss on social media and potentially damaged her professional reputation.
Do I ask? What should I say? I must look foolish right now, my mouth still opening and closing like a fish in an aquarium display. "I, um, do you…?" I change my mind at the last second, and just say, "Seriously, Amanda, that's an interesting proposition. Maybe give me some time to think about it?"
She nods, not seeming put off by my confused hesitation. "Take all the time you need," she says. "I'm here and ready to talk if and when you decide you're ready."
I echo her nod, deciding here and now that I have to get to the bottom of this situation with Greenlee Designs—I can't bury my head in my work any longer. My thoughts are spinning out in a hundred directions, and unfortunately, I think I know which one I have to take to get answers about Candace and the firm.
Aubrey's meek, worried face pops into my head, and my stomach twists with a sudden bout of nausea. I really, really don't want to reenter Brewster's chamber of secrets. And I especially don't want to leave myself open to another creepy encounter with the pervert himself.
But I'm pretty sure I have no choice.
* * *
Two hours later, I arrive at the wood front doors of Local with a sour lump in my stomach and the events of this spring heavy on my mind. I yank the rough-hewn door handle and push past the dull ache of my discomfort. Inside, I glance around for Carrie and don't immediately spot her, so I step up to the host stand.
"How many?" asks a perky woman in her early twenties, holding up a couple of menus. Beside her, a second, bored-looking hostess doesn't look up from the podium.
"I'm meeting someone here," I say. "I don't see her yet though."
"Is it a woman? Long, dark hair?"
I nod.
"She's upstairs. Feel free to head on up there. I already placed your menus."
I smile and thank her, ducking around the stand to step onto the landing of a dark, narrow stairwell that runs up the center of the space. Local is fitted into what was once a wild disco and karaoke bar. The century-old, painted-brick building sat empty for several years before a major revitalization turned Overton Square into one of Midtown's best going-out spots, with theaters and restaurants tucked into every corner.
The place is buzzing with conversation even though it's not quite happy hour yet, and sunlight is streaming through the big picture windows that line the building's facade. It feels like a different place in daylight—open and warm and friendly. Not the steamy, secretive vibe that drapes itself over the bar at night, when everybody's main agenda is tequila and hookups.
Before I reach the top step, I've spotted Carrie. She's seated at a four-top table to the left of the stairwell, placed where she can watch me enter, and she waves.
There's another bar up here and a more laid-back, down-home Southern atmosphere, with wood planks sheathing the walls. I click toward her table in my work heels and slide onto a chair adjacent to hers. "What's up, girlie?"
Her eyes are sparkling, and I'm so glad. It feels like it's been a while since I've seen this version of my best friend. "I have exciting news."
I glance down at her left hand again, an automatic reaction.
"Not that, silly," she says. "Good Lord, do you think I'd wait a whole day to tell you if that happened? I'd be like, hold on a second, Dave, stop trying to jump me for a minute so I can call Jen." She laughs, sounding almost giddy.
I giggle too. "Are you pregnant?"
"No!" She rolls her eyes with fake exasperation. "Stop trying to guess, and let me tell
you." Before she even says it I have a feeling I know what's going on, but I keep my lips clamped shut. "I'm doing it," she says. "I'm opening a café and bakery. Well, David and I are."
I squeal along with her, and then we both giggle again as our server feints back from the table in surprise, splashing a couple drops of water onto the tabletop from the pitcher in his hands. He's stocky and has a round, open face and smiling eyes. "Celebrating, I take it?" he says, displaying a toothy grin and a dimple in his right cheek. He tops off Carrie's water glass as I pick mine up and drink from it. It's sweating on the wood tabletop.
"Definitely celebrating," Carrie says.
"Well, what can I bring you to help you celebrate?"
I pick up my menu for the first time, and Carrie says, "We might need a minute."
"Can we get two glasses of prosecco to start?" I ask. I glance at Carrie. "We should toast."
"Coming right up." The server rushes away as Carrie nods.
"Awesome idea."
She starts talking as soon as the waiter is gone, telling me how David got word about a developer who's planning to retrofit some spaces in an existing nearby strip that's yet to be touched by the Square's redevelopment. They're about a block from here, on the other side of a parking structure, and that's why Carrie wanted to meet in Overton Square—so we can walk over and see the space after we eat.
"It is so completely perfect," she says. "It'll be about another five months before the building is ready, so that gives me time to put together my business plan and transition out of my job at the firm. David's going in as silent partner and helping me put the financing together."
How to Look Happy (Unlucky in Love Book 3) Page 26