Brave (Contours of the Heart Book 4)

by Tammara Webber

  “Be there in a sec.” I turned the heavy contraption upside down, looking for a volume switch and trying not to become further riled by Mr. Insufferable right before today’s first face-to-face.

  A couple of minutes later, I strode next door with my game face securely in place, dropped into the leather-upholstered chair facing his desk, and crossed one leg over the other. Very professional and astute and ready to tackle the challenges I wanted him to lob my way so I could slam them back, accomplished without a glitch, to his side of the court.

  He glanced up. And then down.

  My clingy yellow knit dress inched up my thigh just a hair, which I might not have noticed had he not sneered directly at my leg, after which he scanned up to the skin peeking from the cutout cold-shouldered design and then up to the loose, somewhat chaotic twist at my crown, which I’d spent half an hour arranging. Tendrils escaped to tease the tops of my bare shoulders. It wasn’t Cynthia Pike’s taut, no hair unconstrained, facelift-replicating bun, but Vogue assured me it was perfectly acceptable workday chic. I fidgeted, almost raising my hands to shove loose hair behind my ears.

  And then I heard Coach Oxby’s Get a freaking grip, McIntyre, because whenever I barked self-directed orders in my head, they emerged in the voice of my high school cheer coach, who’d been rumored to strike fear into administration, teachers, the school board, and all the other coaches.

  I straightened my spine and fortified my expression into a blend of pleasant and intrepid—neither of which I felt. “Is something wrong?”

  His eyes flashed to mine as if he’d been caught staring at something he shouldn’t. Bracing for some unreasonable reproach of my appearance, I wasn’t expecting him to switch gears. “I’m curious about your meeting with Mr. Jansen. It was very productive. No one’s been able to get him to sign off on anything for weeks, but suddenly he’s got a few semi-reasonable demands and he’s ready to move in. What’s up with that?”

  I brushed a few of Jack’s bristly gray hairs from the hem of my dress, hoping to bring Isaac back to my dress code grievances, whatever those were. I didn’t want to divulge Mr. Jansen’s anxiety about his child’s looming arrival. He had purchased a home from JMCH, but he’d opened up to me on a deeper level, trusting me with distress beyond the mere construction of a house. My psychological training prohibited sharing a client’s confidences except in cases of harm to self or others. I had no intention of disclosing things unrelated to the house itself to anyone.

  Isaac Maat waited, silent. He knew I had information he didn’t have, and he wanted it.

  “I guess he just wanted someone to hear him,” I said.

  The scowl returned. “We all heard him, most often during some groundless tirade. We haven’t been sitting around with our thumbs up our—uh, rears, expecting him to arbitrarily accept the status quo. We’ve offered compromises and made concessions and multiple modifications. Nothing made any difference—until a couple of hours spent with you.”

  I barely kept my mouth from dropping open. “What exactly are you implying? That I put him under a spell? Or gave him a lap dance?” He recoiled with a choked gurgle and I briefly hoped he might asphyxiate with revulsion, but I wasn’t finished. “I was hired to pay attention to dissatisfied clients in hopes that they would feel more valued, and surprise! It worked!”

  His livid gaze swung away and back, and I knew I’d been right. He’d expected me to fail.

  “But you didn’t expect it to work, did you?” I pressed.

  His lips flattened. “In one day? No, Ms. McIntyre, I confess I didn’t. I’m merely asking what was said or promised—”

  “That’s between Mr. Jansen and myself,” I replied.

  Silence stretched and I barely breathed under his narrow stare, but I didn’t squirm or shift my eyes from his. I was grateful for the large desk standing between us. He looked like he wanted to murder me and was simply racking his brain over how to do it and where to hide the body. I had become this man’s primary tribulation an hour into my second day of employment, and I clearly had a lot of competition for that position.

  “You aren’t Wayne Jansen’s doctor or his attorney.” He feigned composure, but a razor-sharp edge was all too audible under whatever self-restraint he was utilizing. He didn’t want to reason with me. He wanted to throttle me. “There is no client confidentiality clause within this company. If you offered him something we can’t supply or condone—”

  “I didn’t promise anything more than what’s laid out in that addendum. As for what he and I discussed, that’s off-limits.” I lifted my chin a fraction higher. “Clients should view me as a sort of in-house advocate. I won’t be able to help them if I know I’ll have to spill things shared in confidence to everyone in the office. I was asked to get him to sign off on the project and I did.”

  Through his teeth, he said, “With additional design alterations.” He was reaching and he knew it. Nothing I’d requested for Wayne Jansen would require major design revision.

  “The alterations are necessary.”

  “Why?”

  I crossed my arms. “I’m sorry, Mr. Maat. I can’t reveal that.”

  He twisted to grab a file folder from his credenza and slid it to me across the polished surface of his desk. “Fine. Here’s your next chance to perform miracles.”

  I recognized this particular folder, because I’d left it right next to my keyboard when I’d gone to meet Wayne Jansen yesterday afternoon. Not that client files belonged to me, but seeing the Hooper file on Isaac Maat’s desk when I’d left it on my own made me feel like I was being spied on.

  “We’ve barely begun framing, and these clients are already causing headaches for the folks in design and the foreman,” he said, neglecting to inform me that the foreman on this job was my brother Leo. “The details are all there. Have at it.”

  The folder was currently orange-tabbed, but the clients were borderline red. Mr. Hooper traveled globally for business and wanted nothing to do with the house-design particulars, so Mrs. Hooper made every decision and seemed to think it was her sworn duty to argue the rate of every single line item charge as if haggling prices in the Grand Bazaar. She’d also changed her mind again and again and again.

  “No problem,” I said, standing.

  His gaze returned to his monitor, fingers flying over the keyboard’s numerical section, dismissing me without a word, civil or otherwise.

  Miracle number two, coming right up.

  • • • • • • • • • •

  As I flipped through the paperwork, one odd fact stuck out: Richard and Iris Hooper hadn’t once signed the same document, not even the original contract. It was as if they were never in the same room. That had resulted in duplicates of the contract itself and every single change or addendum—one initialed and signed by him, and one by her. All of his signatures were faxed or electronic. All of hers were signed in ballpoint pen. Their current residence was about twenty minutes away in Keller, which made me wonder why she’d want to spend forty minutes driving to and fro when she could digitally sign from her computer, at home.

  If I could manage to trick Leo into a levelheaded conversation, I would grill him about them. I sent him a text and knew it might be all day before he answered. My oldest brother was a belligerent ass, and even if they all tolerated each other now, there was no way our middle brothers had forgotten how much of a bully he’d been when they were younger. I’d escaped most of his jackassery thanks to being a girl, but he was on Foster’s permanent shit list, and Pax only abided him because when he was seventeen and Leo was twenty-three, Pax had gotten so riled that he broke Leo’s nose and knocked him unconscious with one punch.

  Leo had been slapping him in the head for grins at the time.

  That tender show of fraternal affection had taken place on Christmas morning, right before we were supposed to open gifts. Mom lost her shit, but Leo roused after a minute or so. Daddy handed him an ice pack for his bulging nose, checked his pupils, and told him he s
hould probably lay off his no-longer-little brother from then on. After the two of them left for the ER to get Leo’s nose set and make sure he didn’t have a concussion, Foster fetched an ice pack for Pax’s knuckles and told him that punch was the best damn Christmas gift he’d received, ever.

  Mom opened a chilled bottle of chardonnay, poured herself a glass, and gave us all the stink-eye in case we planned to comment on the fact that it was nine a.m.

  Leo didn’t have the good sense to recognize that he would have never landed a job remotely like the one he had if it wasn’t for him being a McIntyre, not that I could talk. But all he did was bitch—about the clients, the other foremen, the sales team, the construction crews, the weather. Everyone and everything was always out to get him and nothing was ever his fault. The only thing that shut him up was when Daddy told him he was welcome to try his luck elsewhere. He only said that because he knew Leo would never do it.

  Meeting Mr. Jansen at the site had made perfect sense because his house was almost done, but the Hooper house was months from completion. I wasn’t sure whether either of them was capable of viewing the framed structure—like a skeleton of some animal they’d only seen sketches of—and imagining what it would look like when it was built. For some people, it was better not to walk the slab until the roof, walls and windows were in place and the home could be more easily visualized.

  “Hello?” Iris Hooper sounded exhausted. I checked the time: eight thirty. I hoped I hadn’t called too early and woken her.

  “Mrs. Hooper? This is Erin with Jeffrey McIntyre Custom Homes, following up on some requested alterations to your new home. Is this a bad time? I can call back later.”

  As if in answer, a piercing scream from either a very small person or a demon from hell echoed from the receiver. I yanked it away from my head. Holy shit. My ear was in actual pain, and I wasn’t even in the same room. I put the phone on speaker and lowered the volume.

  “Morgan, please don’t scream at Mommy. I thought you liked Cheerios?”

  “Nooooooooo!” the screamer declared, drawing that one syllable out as far and high-pitched as it would go.

  “I’m sorry—what did you say your name was?” Mrs. Hooper asked.

  “Erin.”

  As the demon’s mother attempted to cajole it into eating breakfast, I contemplated getting my tubes tied, because my answer to that scream probably would have been something wildly inappropriate along the lines of Eat it or starve. If my biological clock ever started ticking, I planned to chuck it against a wall or smash it with a hammer. I’d seen enough snot-nosed tantrum-throwers and preadolescent nightmares during my tenure as a restaurant hostess in college.

  “Erin…” She returned to me. “Your name isn’t familiar. I’ve been working with Joshua? And Leo?”

  “Yes. They are your salesman and your project foreman, but I’m the client liaison at JMCH. It’s my job to make certain that your needs are communicated to the project team, any and all issues are resolved to your satisfaction, and your home construction advances on schedule. I can provide reputable interior design and landscaping references as well.”

  She was silent for a moment. In the background, I could hear the kid whining about what it wanted to eat for breakfast. Apparently the answer was mashed potatoes.

  “We don’t have that, Morgan. How about some French fries?”

  That offering was rejected with more ferocity than a Northerner declining grits.

  Mrs. Hooper sighed heavily. “No offense, Erin, but I don’t know you. I’ve never been contacted by a client liaison before. Where have you been for the past five months?”

  The reason for Isaac Maat’s Go do miracles with this one, I dare you smirk was becoming clearer by the minute. “I’m new to the company. The client liaison position was recently created to enhance customer service to our most important—”

  “Hold on.” Her voice took on a stiffer edge. “Is this some bid to block me and my ‘inane complaints’ from the sales guy who made promises that aren’t being kept and that boorish Bob the Builder who dodges my calls until I have to show up at the site to get anything done?”

  I fought a guffaw, envisioning Leo’s most probable reaction to being called Bob the Builder. He’d shit a brick.

  “Ashatatoes!” the kid sobbed.

  “I’m sorry you’ve had a difficult time—”

  She wasn’t having it. “And now I’m expected to sit back and play guinea pig for some inexperienced underling hired to calm the hysterical client?”

  Well, that was partly accurate. I did not comment. Wisely, I thought.

  “No offense, but your company assuming I want to deal with you instead of the men responsible for building my house makes me feel pretty low on the totem pole of importance.”

  No offense but was the sort of passive-aggressive crap most liable to raise my hackles, but I couldn’t be unpleasant back to a client no matter how warranted, and from the pint-sized waterworks gearing up in the background regarding inferior potato offerings, I knew this lady was at the end of her emotional rope. So I gritted my teeth and forced that smile on my face.

  “Mrs. Hooper—I want to be your advocate. Give me the chance to do my job and take some of the hassle and stress of this project off you. That’s what I’m here for.”

  I waited for her answer as the kid wailed and blubbered something unintelligible to anyone but its mother. I all but held my breath. And then she sighed. “Fine. Okay. When do I have to come out?”

  “You don’t. Just take care of little… Morgan, and I’ll come to you. What’s the best time?”

  She sighed again, this time with weary resignation. “There’s a fifty-fifty chance she’ll go down for a nap around two. Please, for the love of God, don’t ring the doorbell. I’ll be watching for you.”

  “Love a dog! Don’t! Doorbell!” the kid squealed.

  “I’ll be there at two o’clock. See you then, Mrs. Hooper.”

  chapter

  Six

  On my third day, my office phone rang for the second time, but it didn’t scare me out of my wits as it had the first time because I’d successfully turned the volume to a normal level. I answered, “JMCH, Erin McIntyre speaking,” with as much courteous professionalism as I could muster. Playing hostess at a posh restaurant for three years had come in handy for more than bankrolling my shoe addiction.

  There was a pause, and I almost said Hello? But then an equally formal but far less courteous voice (he was definitely not smiling) said, “Isaac Maat here. Please come speak with me when you have a moment. Before you leave for lunch.” There was another short, weighty pause. “Or the day.”

  I pondered what the hell that meant and how to respond, but it didn’t matter because the click and dead air told me he’d already hung up.

  “Yes sir, your assholiness,” I mumbled. I hung up more forcefully than intended and forced myself to do two minutes of ujjayi pranayama to take the edge off. Day three and I was resorting to yoga breathing. Not good.

  When I walked into his office, his eyes didn’t budge from his monitor. I took a seat in front of his desk and waited as I had yesterday, making an all-out effort to channel positive energy.

  Finally he turned to me. “You were out all afternoon yesterday—”

  My hackles rose like I’d been plugged into some sort of auto-defensiveness device. “You were gone when I got back.”

  He stared.

  “I mean, it was nearly six, so I didn’t expect you’d still be here or anything.”

  “Six,” he said, head cocking to the side, skeptical. He didn’t believe me.

  My hand flew to my mouth and then dropped into my lap. “Oh my God—did you think I just ditched?” I’d left yesterday afternoon and—as far as he knew—had never returned. “I should have emailed an update. I just ran in to grab a few folders to take home and I was starving since I missed lunch, so I forgot.”

  “Update?” he repeated like a disconcerted parrot.

  “I
could give it to you now? Or would you rather I go to my desk and email it?” I started to rise.

  “No.” He leaned back, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, and laced his fingers. His thin smile was more derisive than pleasant. “Now is fine.” He was, I thought, attempting to seem laid-back, but his entire posture was a dare.

  Perching on the edge of the chair, I said, “Okay. Well. I met Iris Hooper at her current home instead of the site because she’s got a little kid and also their house isn’t that far along, so I didn’t think it would do any good to meet there. Plus hello—June in Texas. Excess heat and humidity don’t exactly inspire equanimity, right? When I met Wayne Jansen to walk through his place, my antiperspirant was working like a moth— Um, anyway—I told Mrs. Hooper I’d be happy to drive over with the proposed blueprint copies and discuss her issues there.”

  He didn’t respond, so I continued. “Basically, I think Mrs. Hooper has been indecisive when it comes to the house because she’s felt unsure about making those judgment calls.”

  Once I had diverted her by spreading the blueprints onto her kitchen table—people are eager to examine the plans at that stage of a project—I’d surreptitiously analyzed her current home. The architectural style and the décor she favored, the toys stacked everywhere, the books, magazines and art displayed, the family photos revealing that Mr. Hooper was considerably older than his wife. I began probing for what sorts of changes she wanted to see in her new home and wasn’t surprised to find that she knew exactly what she wanted, but her husband’s sporadic, lackadaisical input confused her. He would insist she make decisions only to circle back and question her choices. Her authority felt more theoretical than real to her, so she second-guessed everything before he had the chance to.

  Isaac Maat’s forehead was creased. He was either perplexed or agitated.

  “I’m going to work with her on that,” I said, which didn’t seem to help.

  Without meeting Mr. Hooper, I wasn’t certain whether he was purposefully undermining her or attempting to placate her anxieties with input. Either way, the result was a feeling of powerlessness leading to perpetual vacillation—and that had to stop or little Morgan would be getting her driving permit before their house was completed.