She's living with and working for Brewster while she works to get her life back in order. The two of them inherited a great deal of money after their father died two years earlier—and that's what she's worried Candace is after.
"What makes you think Candace needs anything from Emory?" I ask. That's the part of this equation that is truly puzzling to me. After making a second career out of marrying well, Candace is independently wealthy. At least, I've always thought so.
"You know her ex-husband was cheating on her, right?" Aubrey asks. "I mean, I guess I don't know this, but the desperation was written on her face. Trust me, I know what it looks like." Her eyes are sad as she says this.
"And I know there was more going on," she continues. "When she was coming over here a lot, she and Emory spent a lot of time in his study…and they didn't always have the doors closed." Her expression grows sheepish.
"What more do you think was going on?" I ask. "And what does it have to do with Candace's financial status?"
"He's been helping her with some sort of legal problem," Aubrey explains, seeming surprised by my genuine cluelessness. "Something to do with the design firm and money. That's all I really know about it." She pauses for a second as I absorb this information and then adds, "What she really wants is to fix her problems with Emory's money, I can tell you that much. She's been throwing herself at him to the point that it's embarrassing to watch."
I feel a flash of sympathy for Candace, but it's quickly underscored by anger. If Greenlee Designs is in trouble, I deserve to know. I have clients who are depending on me and on the solvency of the firm—clients who've paid hefty deposits for goods and services they haven't yet received.
I suddenly remember something else.
"What about Rachael?" I ask. "Do you think she's involved in all of this?"
"Who's Rachael?" Aubrey asks.
"The other designer who's been working on the house with Candace."
Aubrey is shaking her head, her brow furrowed. "There was no other designer working on the house," she says. "At least, not that I'm aware of. You and Candace are the only ones who've ever been over here or talked to me or Emory."
What?? Candace told me herself that Rachael had taken over my spot on the project. All that botched scheduling, the lack of organization…that was Rachael. Right? No. My brain makes a sudden connection I've been resisting, synapses snapping into place. I've been so pissed at Rachael for turning on me that I didn't see it until now, but that work couldn't have been Rachael's doing—those project documents didn't have her stamp on them at all. I trained Rachael myself, and I know she's adopted my own systems for creating project schedules, filing her orders, and organizing jobs.
What the hell has Candace been up to?
Unable to wipe the shock from my face, I numbly tell Aubrey I'll get to the bottom of whatever's been going on. "In the meantime," I say, "I'll get the contractors in this week if possible to finish the work on the hearth room mantel and the bookshelves, and I'll check on the furniture orders myself."
Aubrey is nodding, and I pick up the project file I have open on the coffee table in front of us, close it with a snap, and shove it into my canvas shoulder bag. As I stumble to my feet, Aubrey rises too. I glance over at her, in a rush now, both to get the contractors back in here and get this mess of a job behind me, but also to head back to the studio and demand answers.
The look on Aubrey's face when I catch her eye is somehow both disappointed and hopeful.
"Will you let me know what's going on when you find out?" she asks. "Maybe we could go out to lunch sometime when this is all wrapped up."
Right now I want nothing more than to finish this job and never lay eyes on this house or its owner ever again—but none of that is Aubrey's fault. Her eyes are round and childlike, her expression a mix of loneliness and longing. Her light brown hair is pulled into a tidy ponytail at the base of her neck, a few wisps grazing the fair skin of her cheeks. Though paler than Brewster's, her eyes are a toned-down version of his aqua, and now that I know it's there, I can recognize the family resemblance. Again, I marvel at how much younger than her age she seems, with a delicacy that makes you want to reach out and embrace her, protect her, like a small child or like the battered woman she is. It's probably why Brewster is careful to hide his more sinister tendencies from his sister's watchful eyes.
"Yeah, sure," I say, mustering up as much enthusiasm as I can. "Sure, let's do that."
I'm pretty certain we both know that's not going to happen. Especially since, once I've demanded answers from Candace, I might have secrets I'm forced to hide from our clients too.
* * *
By the time I've exited Brewster's mansion and tossed my bag onto the floorboard behind the driver's seat of my car, my anger at Candace and her lies has turned into a giant, fire-breathing, seething thing that's making my hands shake and threatening to overtake me. Suddenly my reckless Facebook status that seemed like such a life-altering, career-threatening event feels like nothing, like an innocuous blip from a past, simpler life.
I open my door and slide in, dumping my purse onto the passenger's seat and reaching into it for my phone while I start my car. I wake the screen up to text Carrie before getting on the road. I want to stop by her office if she's free and let her talk me down before I try to find and confront Candace. If I don't calm down, I might make the situation worse for myself.
When I pull up my text messages, I see that I have a new one, and my breath catches in my throat… It's from Todd. After the revelations of the last thirty minutes I've almost forgotten how desperate I was to hear from him a mere two hours ago. His answering text makes my heart sink even deeper in my chest.
The grand opening? Am already going… Annalise invited. Will see u there?
I toss the phone back in the direction of my bag and reach up to swipe away the hot tear that spontaneously slides down my cheek as the phone's hard-plastic case clatters down into the crevasse between the passenger seat and door. Anger and disappointment and hopelessness blear my view as I pull through the circular drive and out onto Brewster's street.
Where am I heading? I don't know.
I used to know exactly where I was heading, but now I don't know a damn thing.
* * *
It's after five when I turn my car onto Poplar Avenue, which means there's no chance Candace, or anybody, for that matter, will be at the studio. I contemplate whether to go straight to Candace's house or try to call her to track her down, but indecision and anxiety lead me instead to my own driveway. I can't reach Carrie—she must be in a meeting or something because it's rare for her not to answer her phone. Desperate to talk to somebody and hear comforting words, I contemplate calling my mom, but I don't want to drag her into this mess or make her worry.
I'm still on the verge of falling apart when I turn my car into my narrow drive, so at first I don't see the hulking vehicle that's parked along the curb in front of my house. After I've slung my purse over my shoulder and slammed the car door, I'm walking to the side entrance with my keys in hand when I spot the dark blue Land Rover, and a new flare of dread washes over me. Just what I need.
Sure enough, before I can get the key into the lock Jeremy jogs around the corner from the front porch. "Jen, hey," he calls out.
I try to glare at him, but I can't muster anything more than a weak grimace. "What's up?" I mutter as his footfalls grow louder on the grass. I concentrate on making my fingers stop shaking enough to turn the key in the lock.
He glances at the door and then at me as he approaches, his forehead crinkling. "Are you okay?" He reaches around me and puts his hand on mine, pressing lightly against my back with his upper body. I cringe away from him and pull back my hand.
He turns the key in the lock easily and opens the door. I sigh and let him follow me in.
"No, not really," I say, not looking back as I stomp toward the kitchen and toss my purse and phone onto the countertop, the leather and metal strap of my bag clatt
ering against the granite. Simon rushes into the room, collar tags jangling, and to my great annoyance, Jeremy scoops him up, Simon's whole body wagging from excitement along with his tail.
"What's wrong?" Jeremy asks, crooning into Simon's fur.
What's wrong is that his voice is drenched with concern he doesn't deserve to feel.
"What's it to you?" I ask in a tone that's probably sharper than any he's ever heard from me. I wish I could actually growl. "I'm having the worst day of my life, and I can't imagine you've come to make it any better."
He's quiet for a moment, long enough for me to turn from the cabinet where I've just reached for a glass and glance at him. I was planning to get some water and take an Advil, but I decide to go for something stronger, putting the tumbler back in its place and moving my hand up a shelf to grab a wine glass instead. I pull out only one.
His expression is soft. "I'd like to try," he says.
I stare at him as if he's just sprouted horns. "Jeremy, please do not tell me you've come here to get back together with me," I say. My head is throbbing now with a pulsing ache, and I decide to take the Advil along with my wine. I push past him to walk down the hallway to my bedroom, noting his shocked and somewhat pained expression.
"Not real…um, no, that's not—," he's saying, following me into my room. He sets Simon down on the bed, and his little doggie ear is cocked as he swivels his head back and forth between us. Seconds later he jumps down from the bed and points his body toward the door, turning in an expectant circle.
"Can you let him out, please?" I point at Simon as Jeremy continues to stare at me, ignoring him. "I've been out all day, so I know he needs to go." Leave it to Jeremy not to notice.
Once he's gone, I close my bedroom door, pop two ibuprofen tablets, and perch on the side of my bed with the wine glass, wondering what the hell my next step should be. Well, that's obvious. Get Jeremy out of my house. Beyond that, I have no idea.
When I finally emerge from my room, I've splashed cold water onto my face and changed from my taupe dress slacks and short-sleeved sweater into jeans and an ancient Memphis Tigers T-shirt. Jeremy is sitting on the sofa, hunched forward with his hands laced in front of him. Simon is back inside the house, and he jumps off the couch and runs to me as I enter the room.
I curl up on the other end of the sofa, Simon settling contentedly between us. I take a slow pull on my wine before I say, "So, spill it. Why are you here?"
At least his bewildering presence has pulled me out of the blind rage I was feeling on my drive home. I've calmed to the point that I'm almost placid, and the half glass of wine I've already drunk is further dulling my senses.
"I…" He starts to speak and then stops, still hunched forward with his elbows on his knees. He pushes back and angles his body toward me. "I broke up with Brianna."
I start to protest, and he holds up a hand. "I'm not here to ask you to come back to me," he says. "I'm fully aware how badly I've screwed up any chances of that. I've screwed up everything I've touched since I broke up with you." His voice breaks on the last few words.
"Are you here for sympathy, Jerm? Because I'm sorry, but I'm all out. I've used up everything I've got, especially today."
I kick my legs out from under me in agitation, sitting up properly on the sofa as his words start to sink in. I stare at him in incredulity. "You broke up with Brianna, and she's pregnant?" He's even more selfish than I've given him credit for.
He looks down at his hands again. "I can't do it," he says. His voice is miserable. Several long seconds go by before he looks up at me again. "I don't love her. I do love you, but I can see that it's too late for that." He stares at a point outside my front window as I search my muddled brain for anything to say.
"It's fucked up, right?" he says after a long, quiet moment. "The way we don't recognize that we have everything we want until we don't have it anymore?"
I squeeze my eyes shut.
"I had everything I wanted," I say before opening them again. I look straight at him, though he's still avoiding my gaze. "At least, I thought I did." I laugh once, a hard sound. "You're the one who helped me see I didn't actually want those things."
He looks at me then, and his eyes are so anguished I feel an instant pang of guilt. "I'm sorry," I say, pausing for a beat. "But it is true. And I'm done lying to myself."
"You've changed," he says. He doesn't phrase it as an accusation, just a statement. Another true statement.
Before I usher him out my front door for the last time, I wish him the best, really meaning it. Even after everything he's put me through, I don't hate Jeremy. I can't.
But my heart aches for the little girl—because, for some reason, I'm just sure Jeremy is having a daughter—who's done nothing wrong and who will go through life always wondering why she wasn't enough to make him love her. I know that feeling well.
I hope she realizes someday…sooner than I did…that it isn't her who's the problem.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Absolution
When Carrie finally calls back an hour later, the multiple threads of the story of my day come spinning out of me so fast that none of what I'm saying makes sense.
"Hang on. I'm coming over," she says.
It's 7:30 when she knocks on my door, and by then I've downed two-thirds of the bottle of wine, a glass of water, and another Advil, but my head is still splitting. My fingers have been itching to dial Candace's number, but I know I'm not ready to talk to her yet. I need some perspective—both time to think and the objectiveness of an unaffiliated third party. That's why I haven't called Quinn. She's too close to the situation.
My wise, caring, and infinitely generous best friend is exactly who I need.
When I open the door, she's holding two brown paper takeout sacks from Sekisui, my favorite sushi place. "Oh, wow," I say, my stomach growling instantly. I've been so worked up today that I never ate lunch. "Thank you."
"You sounded so upset. I figured you weren't thinking about food."
"You know me well." I follow her through the living room, and we get a spread laid out on my kitchen table before I launch into what I know about Candace's various deceptions.
"What do you think she could be hiding?" Carrie asks, dipping a spicy tuna roll into a plastic ramekin of soy sauce with her wood chopsticks.
"I don't know," I answer between bites. "All I know is that Aubrey thinks the firm needs money and that Candace's marriage fell apart sometime in the past three or four months." I pick up a piece of sashimi and hold it midair while I add, "It's so weird. One day everything seemed fine, and the next, she was crawling in bed with my client and telling me that she and Dan were separated."
"Weird, yes. Definitely weird." Carrie wipes a smear of sauce from the corner of her lips with a white paper napkin. "But what do you think could be happening with the firm? And what does it have to do with her and Dan?"
I furrow my brow, running my tongue over my teeth as I consider her questions.
"You know, I haven't thought about the two things together quite like that," I say after a few seconds. "But hearing you ask it that way makes me wonder. What does Dan have to do with the firm's finances?" I pause, setting my chopsticks down despite the fact that I'm still famished.
As far as I know, Candace's soon-to-be ex-husband, whom I've only met a couple of times, has nothing to do with Greenlee Designs. In fact, Candace started the firm two husbands before him. And I know without question that the business I've brought in alone in the past year is enough to have the firm on sound financial footing.
"I think you're onto something," I say to Carr, foregoing the chopsticks and plucking my next bite off the black plastic tray with my fingertips. I pop it into my mouth, my brain circling around this new connection.
"Something happened that Candace has been trying to hide from us," I say, remembering Quinn's comments about the withdrawal from the firm's account and Candace's sudden decision to pull Carson off the books and hand them to an outside a
ccountant. "Something that might have to do with Dan and something that's bad news. And I have to find out what it is."
I owe my clients that. I start mentally calculating who's paid what and what's outstanding. Obviously, I'm not turning another penny of my clients' money over to the firm until I get to the bottom of this situation. I'm suddenly glad that funding for the Rasmutin project's been put on hold and that I haven't yet talked payment with Amelia. Brewster has some orders outstanding that might be problematic, but I have a feeling he knows more about the firm's financial troubles than I do.
There's a good chance that every order I currently have placed through Greenlee Designs is paid up and delivered—except the Santiagos' living room furniture, which is on order with a fifty percent deposit, and that makes me nervous. But knowing my tendency to overreact, I try not to get ahead of myself. After all, I don't actually know that the firm can't pay its bills.
"Good luck with that," Carrie is saying as she picks up her Diet Coke. She takes a long swig. "Do you really think she'll tell you what's going on?"
My thoughts are spinning like an electric meter during a power surge. Carrie's right.
I shouldn't be giving Candace so much of my business and my clients' money for so little return. And from what I've seen, she isn't bringing in money on her own. If Brewster's house is any indication, Candace is in too far over her head to handle her own clients.
The firm just lost Ellie Kate, Quinn is sending résumés, Rachael is spending all her time on what looks like unrelated freelance work, and Brice isn't yet a registered designer.
Which means that Candace needs me if Greenlee Designs has any shot at staying solvent. Though it might already be too late for that.
How to Look Happy (Unlucky in Love Book 3) Page 28