“Oh, but he’s not here,” she said. “Your aunt sent him to Atlanta to pick up an armoire and some other furniture for Mrs. Waites.”
“When will he be back?” I asked, keeping my fingers crossed.
“They only left here at three,” she said. “But the warehouse is clear down past the airport, and they had a couple other stops to make too. He’s not due back till around eight, I think.”
“Nooo,” I wailed. “I’ve got to get a table and chairs moved out to Mulberry Hill right away. How about the other guys? Is Billy around? I think we could fit it into the trunk of my Volvo, if he can come over here and help me move it.”
“Oh, Keeley,” she said. “Manny took Tim and Jorge with him to Atlanta. And Billy had a soccer game. He just left. I’m the only one here, and I was just picking up my purse to leave when you called. Can it wait till tomorrow? Or Monday?”
“No,” I said, “Never mind. It’s my screwup. I’ll just have to get it out there by myself.”
“I’d help you, Keeley, but I have to pick up Maria at day care, and I’m late already.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “It can’t be that heavy.”
But it was. The table was solid pine, but it felt like solid lead. Once I got it cleared off, I managed to turn it upside down and slide it across the carpet of the studio. But there was no way I was going to slide it across the doorstep, much less across the expanse of concrete sidewalk that lay between Glorious Interiors and my car.
I left the table blocking the doorway and went next door to Fleur. It wasn’t quite five, but the lights were off. I tried the door. Locked. Damn Austin. Some best friend he was turning out to be.
I fumed for a while, then tried calling Daddy over at the lot. His receptionist said he was busy with a customer. I knew better than to try to get him away from a hot prospect.
All right. I was just going to do this myself. It wasn’t impossible. I’d been moving furniture my whole life. I was young and strong.
Wrong. Young and weak. It took me half an hour to get the table out of the studio and hump it, inch by inch, over to the Volvo. Once I had the trunk up, I had to empty it of the assorted flotsam and jetsam that accumulates in every interior designer’s trunk. I stepped out of my high-heeled black mules, took a deep breath, bent my knees, and grasping it by the back legs, heaved the table upward and toward the maw of the trunk.
I heard a tearing noise and looked down. The straight black cotton miniskirt I was wearing now had a four-inch rip up the right seam. While I was looking down I noticed that I had smears of dust across the front of my white silk tank top. My bra strap slipped off my shoulder. No matter. I had the table in the trunk. I adjusted the bra strap and shoved the edge of the table with my hip, to try to wedge it farther in. Another tearing noise. And a matching rip up the left seam of the skirt. I was past caring. It was getting close to six.
By moving the driver’s seat all the way forward, I somehow managed to get the pair of chairs stuffed into the Volvo. I went back into the studio, grabbed my purse and keys, and locked up the shop.
With my knees doubled up almost to my chin, I did sixty miles an hour all the way out to Mulberry Hill. At some point in the drive, it occurred to me that I’d left my shoes—my two-hundred-dollar Jimmy Choos—back at the curb in front of the office. I made up my mind to add them to Will Mahoney’s bill. This was all his fault. A mile from the turnoff to Mulberry Hill, at the point where Georgia 441 turns onto Old Rutledge Road, I saw flashing yellow lights ahead. Bells clanging. And just as I pulled up to the intersection, the black and white zebra striped railroad crossing bars slapped into place.
I felt the train rumbling toward me before I heard it. “NO!” I cried, slapping the steering wheel with frustration.
It seemed to me that this particular configuration of Southern Railway cars could have qualified for registration in the Guinness Book of Records. Mind-numbing expanses of cattle cars, liquefied natural gas tanker cars, unidentifiable freight cars, and yes, even half a dozen double-decker auto transport cars went creeping past the tracks in front of me.
I eyed my cell phone. I would have called Will Mahoney to tell him that I was on the way with his furniture, but I had no idea what his cell phone number was, or what the number at the pump house was. I had only his office phone number. I tried it now, and listened while his voice invited me to leave him a voice mail message.
“Will,” I said, slightly breathless. “This is Keeley. If you’re checking your voice mail at work, I just want you to know I’m on the way with the table and chairs. I’ll be there in a jiffy, just as soon as this damn train is past me.”
Finally, after an interminable amount of time, the bells clanged again, and the crossing bars lifted. The roof of the Volvo just cleared them as I roared across the tracks.
I didn’t slow down once I left the blacktop in front of the entrance to Mulberry Hill. I barely noticed that the gates were fully installed, that all the landscaping along the driveway was completed. I didn’t slow down until the driveway curved around the front of the mansion and around to the back, and the brick walkway to the pump house.
Will Mahoney stood in the middle of the walkway, holding his cell phone away from his face, glaring at it. I guess he’d been checking his messages.
I pulled the Volvo all the way to the edge of the brick walk. “I’m here,” I called to him, throwing the car into park. I hopped out and darted around toward the open trunk.
“Here’s your table and chairs,” I said breathlessly. “I’m sorry to be so late. I would have gotten here earlier, but I couldn’t get a truck. Or any movers. And then the train came…”
He flipped the phone shut and tucked it into the pocket of his khaki slacks. He was wearing a soft green short-sleeved sport shirt. It looked nice with his red hair. He looked nice with his red hair. His face was flushed.
“Never mind,” he said, cutting me off. “Stephanie will be here in fifteen minutes. Just hurry up and help me get the stuff into the house. And then you’ll have to help me set the table.”
Will lifted the table out of the trunk with one swift movement. I followed lamely behind, with one of the chairs. He’d set up a fancy stainless steel grill cart on the patio, and the smell of burning charcoal wafted into the treetops. A tray of bacon-wrapped filets stood on a matching bar cart, along with a silver wine bucket and a cocktail shaker. My stomach growled. I hadn’t had lunch. Or dinner.
“Where does it go?” Will asked, pausing in the doorway of the pump house.
“In front of the windows,” I said, hurrying in behind him.
While he set up the table and chairs, I got the linens and table-ware out of the cupboards where I’d stowed them earlier in the week. In ten minutes I had the table set, complete with the bouquet of deep yellow roses I found sitting on the kitchen counter.
“Done,” I said finally, gesturing toward the table with a flourish. “And with five minutes to spare.”
He’d been loading discs onto the CD player. The music started. Tinkly jazz. He turned around, looked at me again, and pointed and laughed.
“What? You don’t like the table?”
“The table’s fine,” he said. “It’s you. You’re a wreck.”
I looked down at the smears of dirt on my chest, my ripped skirt, and my bare feet. With as much dignity as I could muster, I hitched up the bra strap that was sliding down my shoulder.
“I’ll just be going now,” I said. “Wouldn’t want to spoil your dinner date.”
He reached out and hiked up my other bra strap, and shook his head.
“Where’d you get this thing?”
I slapped his hand away. “What? My bra? That’s kind of a personal question.”
“I mean it. The thing’s a disaster. It doesn’t even fit you. What kind is it? Hanes? Fruit of the Loom?”
“This is a very expensive bra, I’ll have you know,” I said, backing away from him. “It’s a Bali. And it cost thirty dollars. On sale.”
I looked down. Now that he mentioned it, you could clearly see the stitch lines on the lace cups of the bra through the silk of my blouse.
“And why are you wearing a white bra?” he demanded. “Nobody wears white bras under a white blouse. With your skin shade, you should be wearing ivory. And certainly, with your bust, you need a bra with a leotard back. That’s why your straps keep slipping. You should throw that damn thing away.”
“Ahem.” A delicate cough. We both turned around to see Stephanie Scofield standing in the doorway of the pump house, a symphony in red silk, holding up a bottle of red wine. She looked at me with one eyebrow raised. “Am I early?”
35
Will’s face blushed so deeply it was hard to tell where his face stopped and his hairline started. “Stephanie,” he said. And that’s all he said. He seemed to have been struck dumb by the magnificence of her.
Admittedly, she was pretty magnificent-looking. The dress was an abbreviated sleeveless column of red silk. Her bare arms and legs were tanned a deep, glowing bronze. She’d done her hair up in a deceptively simple-looking French twist. Little gold hoop earrings twinkled from her earlobes, and her strappy red sandals showed off another twinkling gold toe ring.
As for me, I was struck dumb by the contrast in our appearances. She was chic. I was shabby. I didn’t have anything near as hip as a toe ring, it occurred to me. At the moment, actually, I didn’t even have on a pair of shoes.
She held out the bottle of wine and smiled brightly at Will. “I’ve brought you a housewarming gift.”
Slowly the gift of speech was restored to him. “Great,” he said, taking the bottle from her, holding her hand in his. “Welcome to Mulberry Hill.” He gestured around the pump house. “Actually though, I guess you’d call this the annex. Until we’re done with the work on the main house.”
Stephanie looked around and clapped her hands in delight. “It’s adorable!” She looked at Will questioningly. “May I?”
“Sure!” he said heartily.
She walked around the room, running her hands over the furniture, exclaiming over the framed photographs, opening and closing the heart-pine kitchen cupboards, even popping her head into the bedroom and the bathroom. Finally she came back and spoke to me for the first time.
“Kelly? This is wonderful. Did you do all this by yourself?”
“Actually,” I said, “it’s Keeley.”
“Right. So sorry. Keeley. I love your work.”
“Thank you,” I said. I tried to slink toward the door, hoping she wouldn’t notice my Elly May Clampett couture. I wanted to go home. I wanted to see if I could find my shoes. I wanted a bath, and I really wanted to throw my Bali bra in the garbage disposal.
“Oh, don’t rush off,” Stephanie said, grabbing my arm. “Stay and have a cocktail with us.” She looked from me to Will. “That’s all right, isn’t it?”
“No, no,” I said, squirming under her touch. “I have to be going. I really can’t stay.”
“Will,” Stephanie said, pouting. “Make Keeley stay for a drink. One little drink.”
“Yes,” Will said, unenthusiastically. “You should stay, Keeley. For one little drink.”
Stephanie was still squeezing my arm. I think the blood flow to my brain was being cut off, because although I clearly intended to go, and I could clearly tell that Will desperately wanted me to go, I ended up agreeing to stay.
“I’ll fix us all a drink,” Will said. “What will you ladies have?” He looked first at Stephanie.
“Do you happen to know how to mix a cosmopolitan?” she asked.
I snuck him a wink. He ignored me.
“I’ve got all the ingredients right outside on the bar cart,” he assured her. “Keeley? How about you? Should I make that two cosmopolitans?”
“Why not?” I said. “Need any help?”
“Not at all,” he said. He gave Stephanie a meaningful look. “But I wouldn’t mind some company while I do the mixing.”
“You go,” I said, giving Stephanie a little shove. “I want to slip into the bathroom and clean up a little. I’ve been moving furniture, and I’m a big mess.”
“You look darling,” Stephanie said, averting her eyes from my bare feet. “Sort of…pastoral.”
I darted into the bathroom. The mirror confirmed what I already knew. My hair was sweat-soaked and totally out of control. And I was really, really dirty. Without giving it too much thought, I locked the bathroom door. I peeled off my clothes and hopped into Will’s shower. The hot water felt great. I’d already soaked my hair by the time I looked around and discovered the only shampoo in the bathroom was something in a black squeeze tube called Grunge.
It smelled like pine cones. I didn’t care. Any shampoo was better than none. I lathered up and quickly rinsed the shampoo out of my hair. Within five minutes I was out of the shower and toweling off. I congratulated myself on spending Will’s money on expensive thick white Egyptian cotton towels. I gathered my damp hair into a tight ponytail, then, remembering Stephanie’s chic chignon, I twisted the ends around and tucked them back into themselves, sort of a poor man’s French twist.
A damp washcloth took care of the worst dust smears on my tank top, but there was no fixing the ripped seams of my skirt. I dressed quickly, hesitating, but then making the command decision to go without the disputed Bali bra. But where to put it? My skirt had no pockets, and my purse was still in the front seat of the Volvo. In the end I swallowed hard, mummified the bra in toilet tissue, and hid it in the bottom of the bathroom waste basket. Thirty dollars, right in the trash, I thought. I consoled myself with the idea of slipping back in here, later, with my pocketbook, and retrieving it.
It felt odd, walking around a strange man’s house, with nothing between me and the silk of my blouse, but at least the damn straps weren’t slipping off my shoulder. And the underwire wasn’t cutting into my rib cage. As I joined Stephanie and Will out on the patio, where cocktail hour was apparently well under way, I wished I had another bra to put on. I wished I had some lipstick, maybe a little eyeliner. And shoes. It was hard to feel like a professional interior designer in bare feet.
“There you are,” Stephanie cried, as I padded up to them. “Feeling better?”
“Much,” I said.
Will managed to tear his eyes away from his beloved and give me a cursory glance. “Is your hair wet?” he asked, looking puzzled.
“Yes,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took a quick shower.”
He took a step closer and sniffed my hair. “You smell a little funny. Kinda like…a Christmas tree?”
“I borrowed a little of your shampoo, while I was at it,” I said. “The Grunge? I’ll be happy to replace it, if you’ll tell me where I can buy it. I haven’t seen that brand before.”
“Grunge?” Stephanie said, wrinkling her nose. “There’s a shampoo called Grunge? Why would anybody want to wash their hair with Grunge?”
Will took a sip of wine from the long-stemmed goblet he was holding. “Actually, that wasn’t shampoo. It’s grout cleaner, for the tile. I’m having a little mildew problem in the shower, and the plumber recommended this cleaner.” He gave me a helpful smile.
“I can give you the web address to order more, if you like.”
I held my hand up to my topknot. Half-dried now, it felt weirdly stiff. “Thanks just the same,” I said, smiling back. “I think I’ll stick to my own brand from now on.”
He put his drink down and handed me a martini glass full of a delicate pale pink nectar. Condensation beaded the lip of the glass. “Cosmopolitan?”
I took the drink gratefully and knocked back half of it in one swallow. I was just barely able to keep from smacking my lips, it was that good. Icy, sweet, tangy, with just the right kick.
“Lovely,” I said. I finished mine off and held my glass out for another, which Will poured with a frown. I ignored the frown and enjoye
d my cocktail, which reminded me of limeade, with a kick.
Stephanie took a ladylike sip of her own drink. “I just love these, don’t you? It feels so grown up and elegant, drinking out of a martini glass.” She held hers out toward Will. “Why don’t you try one too?”
He shook his head. “I’ll just stick to this wine of yours, thanks. Real men don’t drink pink.”
Stephanie giggled. “You’re so clever, Will. Real men don’t drink pink. That could be a beer commercial. You should be writing advertising copy instead of selling bras.”
I felt oddly defensive on Will’s behalf. “What’s wrong with selling bras? The world needs a good bra.”
Will snuck me an appreciative look. “Not just the world, apparently.”
I blushed and crossed my arms over my chest.
“Oh, that’s not how I meant it,” Stephanie said, recovering quickly. “I just meant, Will, you really have a good head for marketing, that’s all. I think the bra business must be fascinating. However does a man get into a business like that?” I swear, she even batted her eyelashes at him.
Will was soaking it all up. “It’s not that unusual. There are a lot of men in the business. I got into it through the back door, you might say. My background is in textile engineering. I was working for a company that makes blue jeans. They acquired a company that makes intimates, swimwear, and loungewear, so all of a sudden I was in the bra business. And when I had the ability to buy my own company, Loving Cup was a natural.”
“I bet you miss blue jeans,” Stephanie said.
“Not at all,” he corrected her. “A bra is a fascinating garment.”
“Every man I ever met has only had one interest in bras,” I said, slurping my way to the bottom of my second cosmopolitan. “And that’s in how to get it removed.”
Stephanie giggled; Will flushed a little.
“A bra is the most technically difficult garment you can design,” Will said. “So there’s a lot of engineering involved. Did you know the average bra has between twenty-two and twenty-seven different components?”
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