It’s just that, if he wasn’t so adorable, would I really consider hiring Todd for a project this big? Yes, he did a good job in Sandra’s office, but that work was simple enough that I could have done it myself. His qualifications are sketchy at best, and my only knowledge of his background is through a reference from Quinn, who isn’t exactly known for her reliability. Hell, I haven’t even Googled him. He told me himself that Sandra’s office was his first-ever gig, and now I know that he moonlights as a waiter.
I’m still debating all of this when I see him heading straight for our table. Christine is trying to scoot me out of her way, but she stops when Todd is a few steps away.
“I’m sorry we’re shutting the place down,” I say, smiling up at him. Why is it that when I speak to Todd, my tongue—and all my limbs, for that matter—feels three sizes too big? It’s as if I’m aware of every single cell in my body every time this boy gets within three feet of me.
“Aw, y’all are fine,” he answers. That lazy manner of speaking he has sends shivers down my spine. He’s like the total opposite of Jeremy, who talks fast and is “on” at all times, except when he’s asleep—and maybe even then. He’s not a good sleeper. He thrashes all night long, stressed out even in his dreams.
Todd looks straight at me then, which has the effect of making me drop my eyes to the table. I feel about fifteen years old—I can almost feel the braces on my teeth and the giant zit on my chin.
“I’m still working on trying to grow my business,” he says to me, digging into his front pocket, coming out with a jumbled stack of paper items, and flicking through them until he pulls out a rumpled gray business card. I reach out when he hands it to me and scan it quickly: “Todd Birnham, Jack of All Trades.” Cute. Underneath that, in smaller letters, it reads “Art Installation, Light Moving & Professional Organizing.” Professional organizing? I don’t have to glance up at him to picture his tousled hair and general disheveled appearance.
“You do a little bit of everything,” I say, finally looking up at him.
He laughs a short laugh, and even that sounds laid back. I wonder if anything riles this man at all, ever. “Yeah, I used to work days at a record label too,” he says. “None of it pays all that well, but at least it covers the bills and keeps me happy.” I’m marveling over this lackadaisical approach to life when he continues, “I guess I’m still trying to figure out what I’m gonna be when I grow up.” He shrugs and grins.
Christine pinches me on the thigh, and I suppress a squeal, not sure exactly what message she’s trying to convey. A glance at Eleanor shows that she’s not paying attention to what’s going on, but at least she’s drinking water now and not tequila. She’s slouched down over the table, looking at her phone screen.
I hold up Todd’s card and say, “I have some projects coming up that I’m going to call you about.” I wonder as I’m saying it if I’m being sincere or appeasing him. It’s hard for even me to tell—especially since I slipped into my “office voice” as I said it.
“Yeah, well, I hope so,” he says. He lingers there for another few seconds, still smiling, but none of us seems to know what to say next. Finally he takes a step back, and then he grabs a receipt folder off the table beside us. I stand up, Christine follows, and Eleanor gets the drift and stands too. I eye her critically, gauging for drunkenness.
“I’m fine, you guys,” she says. “I can drive home.”
“Y’all be safe, now,” Todd says, and as the three of us head for the front doors of the restaurant, Christine is shaking her head.
“What?” I say once we’re finally outside, with the restaurant doors safely closed behind us.
“You’ve got it bad for the waiter,” she says, a Cheshire cat grin plastered on her face.
“You’re crazy,” I say. “He’s cute. A lot of guys are cute and totally inappropriate for me.”
“Yeah, but this one’s got it bad for you too,” she says before veering off toward her car. I don’t have time to protest before she calls out over her shoulder, “You sure you’re all right to drive, El?”
Eleanor is walking a steady, straight line beside me. “I’m fine,” she answers. She’s parked beside me on the other end of the lot, so we walk off together, me shaking my head the whole way.
“Christine is being ridiculous,” I say. “I’ve seen Todd all of three times, two of them at work. I know nothing about him except for the fact that he and I are completely incompatible, and he’s at least six years younger than me. And that he is not interested in me that way.”
“I believe you,” she says.
I feel deflated in a weird way that she’s so easily agreed with me.
“Right,” I say. And then and there, I decide to hire Todd for the gallery wall if and when the project comes together.
The question I’m trying not to ask myself is, Why? And the answer is, I’m not entirely sure.
* * *
As I’m getting ready for bed half an hour later—after blowing off the idea of getting more work done tonight—I still haven’t heard from Jeremy. Figures. I debate with myself for another half hour, periodically checking my phone. Finally, I give in and text him.
Is Simon OK?
I expect another long wait, but he texts back within thirty seconds.
Don’t know. They’re keeping him overnight.
I’m instantly panicked. Why? What’d they say?
I can practically hear Jeremy sigh through the medium of text message, can all but see his eyes roll. He thinks I have a tendency to overreact…though I think the problem is that he tends to underreact. And I don’t trust him with my dog.
They think he has food poisoning.
What? What the hell did Jeremy feed him? We’ve never given Simon table food, only Purina and puppy treats. I’m trying to figure out how to respond to this when Jeremy texts, Brie had chocolate sitting out. He got into it while we were at work.
Well, duh. Chocolate is poison to a dog. That’s common knowledge—or so I thought. Go figure that Jeremy’s bimbo housemate is the one person on the planet to not know this, and go figure that it’s her who poisoned my dog.
Do they think he’ll be OK? I text back.
Yes. Keeping him as a precaution.
My stomach begins to unclench—though not entirely, since I am, after all, communicating with Jeremy. That alone is enough to tie me up in knots. I decide to take this opportunity to get out everything I need to say to him all at once, to minimize communication. LMK how he is tmrw, please. Also, I’ve got a box of your stuff. Want me to set it on porch?
This time several long minutes pass before I hear from him again. I’m brushing my teeth in my pajamas when my phone chimes with a new text.
Will do. ‘S fine. I’ll come by later this week.
I’ll make sure to not be here, I think, but I text back, K. I’ll put it on porch behind the blue chair. Thx.
At least we’re to the point that we can be civil to each other again, if only while typing.
* * *
An hour later, I’m still awake, scrolling mindlessly down Facebook on my phone screen while lying in bed. I’m wired from my long day and evening, and I don’t feel like going to sleep yet. I’d probably do myself more benefit by reading an actual book instead of an electronic device—I know all the sleep experts say to avoid using electronics for an hour before bedtime to help quiet your mind and prepare yourself for rest, but who does that in this day and age? I swear, my iPhone feels like an appendage—it’s the last thing I touch before I turn off my lamp at night and the first thing I reach for in the morning.
It’s sick, really, how dependent I’ve gotten to be on the damn thing. A small, rechargeable piece of plastic with which I can not only damage my career and ruin relationships in a few keystrokes but also find my way when I’m lost in the desert or use as a TV remote in a pinch.
The reason I logged on to Facebook was to see if Eleanor posted the selfie the three of us took tonight at Chihuahua’s, but
as usual, once I pulled up the app I forgot what I was looking for and got lost down the rabbit hole of my news feed. I’ve just found out that my friend Lucy from SCAD is pregnant again (from the nonchalant photo she posted of her daughter wearing a “Big Sister” T-shirt—at first glance I didn’t notice it, but then I saw that the post had ninety-two comments, so I took another look) when my message notification lights up.
It’s 12:33 a.m. Who would possibly be sending me a Facebook message right now? And then my stomach lurches. Simon!
I hurriedly click the message icon and see that it isn’t Jeremy who’s trying to reach me but Brandon Royer. I take a deep breath. It’s been long enough now since our night out that I was well past assuming he was going to call me again. And I was fine with it—in fact, happy about it. Brandon is a complication I don’t need in my life right now, mainly because I don’t trust myself not to act like a high school idiot around him.
Instead of opening his message, I set my phone down and get up to go to the bathroom and then into the kitchen for a glass of water. I don’t want him to think that every time he contacts me I’m going to jump to see what he wants.
But I can’t hold myself back for too long, and once I crawl back under my sheets I click into Messenger.
Hey beautiful. Any chance you’re up for happy hour this Friday?
My cheeks flush at the “beautiful” comment. It’s official: Brandon Royer is about as dangerous for me as a grizzly bear on roller skates careening toward me at the edge of a cliff. The worst part is that just seeing the words causes me to tingle in places that make my bed the appropriate place to be.
It takes me at least ten minutes to formulate a reply. Every time I start typing, I back up and start again, and even as I click send I’m not at all sure I’m doing the right thing. In fact, I’m almost one hundred percent sure I’m doing the very most wrong thing possible.
Sounds good. What time, and where do you want to meet?
* * *
Thursday morning finds me on my way to Brewster’s house. He won’t be there, but I’m going by to see what’s changed since I was there last and to get my bearings back on the project. I set the whole thing up with Aubrey, and as I wait for the iron gate to swing inward at the entrance to his neighborhood, I’m feeling eerily like I’ve traveled a full circle in the grand span of eight weeks. I wonder how Aubrey feels about this game of designer musical chairs we’re playing.
Maybe she doesn’t find it unusual at all, since she works for an unusual guy like Emory Brewster. Or maybe she wouldn’t say anything either way. It seems like a key trait for working successfully for Brewster is discretion. I could say the same thing about working for Candace…which is one reason I haven’t been working successfully for Candace in recent months.
Before I left the office this morning, I saw and heard Rachael in the throes of planning for the Paris trip, and it was making my blood boil. I remember my recent comment to Ellie Kate musing over why Rachael didn’t ask me for help, and now I understand that I couldn’t help her even if she asked. It’s still too raw, and it’s getting worse instead of better because of the way everyone in the office is avoiding the subject. If Rachael so much as asks me which market is my favorite, I think I might snap and hit her.
Or at least I’d want to.
As I pull up in Brewster’s grand, circular drive, my mind is spinning over the long to-do list I still need to complete this week. This afternoon I’m meeting with the artist I mentioned to Chick to gauge her interest and ability in providing art for the bakery study room, and before I can go home tonight I have to start doing some initial sketching and space planning for the Santiagos’ house to get ready to present ideas to them next week. And that’s because tomorrow I have what could turn into an all-day site visit and meeting at the bicycle factory.
I’m trying not to quake from the stress of it, but that isn’t easy, considering I’m heading into the lion’s den. At least the lion is off devouring somebody else right now. Aubrey told me Brewster is in Nashville today for a deposition, so I know he won’t show up unexpectedly.
Once I’m inside and Aubrey and I have made the expected, stilted small talk, I walk through the project spaces—two rooms, the study where Candace began her treachery and the hearth room off of Brewster’s pseudo-rustic kitchen. I’m taken aback by how little has been accomplished since I was here last. The old furniture hasn’t even been removed from the hearth room, for which Candace has ordered this staggeringly expensive exotic hardwood that hails from a depleted Brazilian rainforest. I saw in the file that it’s already shipped, and our subs should be doing prep work by now.
I would have chosen a more sustainable flooring option, but whatever. I also would have had the schedule for this job drawn out to the smallest detail, with subcontractors hired and listed with anticipated dates and times on the project calendar. The file is so amateurish that I’m assuming Candace handed off the schedule—and pretty much all the dirty work—to Rachael, and it’s a shoddy, disorganized jumble of mess. She doesn’t even have bids yet for the built-ins that are going into the study, though I’m supposed to be overseeing the construction work next week. Yeah, right.
I’m starting to wonder if Candace handing this job back over to me is a new form of punishment rather than a reward.
After completing my walk-through, I sit down with Aubrey to go over Brewster’s calendar and make a plan to coordinate the heavy construction work into a two-week period when he’s scheduled to be out of town, since she thinks it’s best if we disrupt his routine as little as possible.
It’s probably not ideal to work with a client you dislike as much as I’ve grown to dislike Brewster, but at least I don’t work for him, like she does. The whole time we’re talking, my mind is screaming, What’s your story? But I don’t feel comfortable asking Aubrey questions that aren’t related to the job.
So I’m surprised and almost relieved when she’s the one who starts talking.
“Do you think…Candace…is on the up-and-up?” she asks me, her voice so tentative it’s tremulous.
“What do you mean?” I ask, my head cocked to one side.
“I mean, the way she’s done this whole thing—do you think she’s…using him?”
I stare at Aubrey for a few long seconds, and then I word my reply carefully. “I actually know very little about the way she’s done things. She pushed me off this project almost before it started, and she’s told me next to nothing.” I hesitate and then add, “I think she’s only bringing me back in because she has to, since my coworker hasn’t been up to the task of managing a project this large.”
Might as well be frank, since she’s asking.
“But you do know that she’s seeing him, right?”
“She did tell me that, yes.”
“And isn’t she married?”
I nod slowly. “Yes, but she told me she and her husband are separated.” I’m trying to keep the judgment off of my face since I am, after all, supposed to be on the side of my employer. But I’m sure Aubrey can read it in my eyes. That honest face of mine and all.
Aubrey nods too. I’m dying to know why she cares so much—the way she’s acting, almost…jealous, makes it seem as if she has more of a personal interest in Brewster’s situation than a professional one. I’m wondering if she’s involved romantically with Brewster. From the start I’ve had the feeling that she lives here, which means this whole thing just keeps getting weirder and weirder.
“Do you think you might—” She stops and starts over again. “Will you—tell me, that is, if you get the feeling that Candace is interested in Mr. Brewster for something other than…legitimate…reasons?”
“Oh…kay,” I say, my eyes narrowing into two confused slits. “Can you tell me why I should be looking out for these nefarious intentions?”
She pauses for a long moment, looking past me out the big picture window in the den where we’re sitting. It’s one of at least four separate living rooms in the house, a
nd this one is decorated in the same fabricated Tuscan style as the rest of the mansion, with a subtle Venetian plaster treatment on the walls and mostly neutral furniture. It’s a comfortable room, but I don’t feel Brewster in the space at all, which makes it feel uncomfortable to me, like I’m a stranger visiting a squatter in someone else’s life.
By that I mean Brewster, though I get the same feeling from Aubrey—like she’s not at all comfortable in his home or her own skin. I glance up at her, watching her consider my question.
She meets my eyes for the first time since the conversation turned personal. “Emory, I mean, Mr. Brewster. He’s been hurt a lot,” she says, surprising me again. The impression I’ve received from the times I’ve met Brewster in person are of a man with the bristling impatience of someone who always gets what he wants. I didn’t sense a whit of vulnerability.
But that shows what I know. One lesson I’ve learned since I started dancing in the shadows of people’s home lives as an interior designer is that we know nothing about people from the fronts they present to the world. However, people’s homes—their tastes, the things they choose to keep or buy, and whether or how they maintain their houses—these things offer a deeper glimpse into people’s minds than almost anything else about them.
Brewster’s house is like a museum dedicated to modern residential life—more of a catalog spread than a home. Even his bedroom, which I saw on my initial tour of the space, holds no trace of personality. And I gained almost nothing from him in our initial meeting. He wouldn’t even fill out my client questionnaire, just waved his hand in the air and said to “buy what I thought worked best.” As a client, he’s like a blander version of Jay Gatsby—and that’s saying something.
This makes me think of Jeremy’s weird comment to me when we were breaking up, that “in seven years he hadn’t figured out the first damn thing about me,” and it scares me a little. Surely I’m not like Brewster in that way? Or Jeremy himself, for that matter. Jeremy is the one who’s all smoke and mirrors, all front. But me, I’m the girl with the honest face. My house is quirky and lived-in and reflects everything I love. What could he even have meant by that statement?
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