How to Look Happy

by Stacey Wiedower

  Suddenly, I can’t get Todd out of my head. His face is there, behind my open eyelids and clouding my vision, and his words are echoing in my mind. “You’ll never get that time back.” Adorable Todd. Funny, bed-rumpled, easygoing, and brilliant—how did I not see it before?—Todd, who I’ve dismissed repeatedly and basically shoved into the arms of another woman. I’m an idiot.

  And then the words are rushing out of my mouth, all the things I’ve been storing up, holding back from my best friend. Why? I’m not even sure. I’m only sure I’ve been living in some kind of weird, suspended state of denial.

  She listens mostly in silence, her eyes wide, and not even the arrival of our dinner slows me down. Between bites, I explain details of Jeremy’s visit that I hadn’t told her before, the weird vibe I caught from him that he might have regrets about the way things went down between us. I tell her about my jealousy over Brianna’s pregnancy and how I’d felt so bitter that I hadn’t been the one to trap him with a birth control “mishap.” She protests on that one.

  “Thank God you have more sense than that,” she says around a mouthful of stuffed crab.

  “I know, I know,” I say impatiently, waving her off with my hand. I’m just getting started.

  She already knows all about what happened with Brandon, so I delve into Todd. There’s so much I haven’t told her about Todd. Again, I’m not sure why—maybe because I was scared? Scared that he’s too young for me. Scared that he doesn’t want the things I want or the things I thought I wanted. Scared that she might think I’m crazy for being into a guy who’s not even thirty yet. Scared, most of all, that Quinn is misreading him and he’s not really into me, that I really am this pathetic, cradle-robbing, cougar-ish chick who can’t seem to make things work in any kind of conventional way.

  “I knew it,” Carrie says once I’ve finished my initial, breathless description of Todd’s and my encounters. “He’s the guy who works at Chihuahua, right? I knew he was into you.”

  “You knew he was into me?” I ask, sure she got the sentence backward. And then, “Wait, but you weren’t even there.”

  “Christine told me he stared at you the whole night.” I risk a glance at her face, and her eyes are twinkling. I can feel my face heating up.

  “You guys have been talking behind my back?”

  She shrugs. “I ran into her at Target.” She pauses, picking up her water glass. “She also said he’s totally adorable.”

  I sigh, and Todd’s face—his cute, messy hair and impish smile…and not just his face but his body, his chiseled chest and toned stomach, visible through the fitted tees he likes to wear—fills my vision again, clouding out the restaurant scene around me. I can feel the dreamy smile on my lips and other feelings, elsewhere…

  “O-M-G, you’ve got it bad,” Carrie says, jerking me back to reality. “How long have you been keeping this from me?” When I answer with a shrug, she fake-scowls at me. “Well, we’ve got to get on this,” she says. “I need to meet this boy who’s making you go all starry-eyed. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen this side of you before.”

  I roll my eyes, but inwardly I’m thrilled my best friend finally knows where my head is. Still, while I feel like one weight has been lifted off my chest, a new one’s also been added. Am I too late? Has Todd given up on me? Is he dating Annalise now? I smile and attempt to push my ever-present insecurities aside.

  After we’ve finished our lunch and paid, we cross Madison Avenue on foot, heading over to check out Carrie’s future digs. She links her arm in mine on the sidewalk. “Since we’re confessing stuff, there is one more thing I haven’t told you yet.”

  I glance over at her. “What?”

  She looks uncertain—kind of how I did right before I launched into my confession about Todd. “Please tell me if you think this idea is completely nuts,” she says. “It probably is nuts.”

  “What?” I say again, my eyes wider now.

  She looks at me with a slow grin that lights up her whole face. And then she stops in the middle of the sidewalk and turns to me, her voice growing low and serious. Two teenagers who’ve been following close on our heels veer around us, one of them jostling my right elbow as he passes. “The night after we sign the contract for the café space,” Carrie says. Then she pauses, letting the kids move out of earshot.

  “Yes?” My voice is breathy with anticipation.

  She starts walking again and then adds in a more casual tone, “I think I’m going to propose to David.”

  My mouth drops open in amazement. “Holy crap, Carr. That is awesome.”

  She smiles at me, and we walk in silence for a long moment, letting each other’s words sink in. The whole world is changing around us—the leaves on the trees that dot the district turning alternately light and dark, the first puffs of cool fall air whispering against our cheeks, fighting off the dense, cloying humidity of another Memphis summer.

  I drink in the sensation, this hopefulness I haven’t let myself feel in all these months, ever since Jeremy walked out of my life and took my carefully laid plans with him. Can I change? Can I really let go of the tight grip my mind has formed around my various safety nets and dare to risk everything?

  It’s lesson number one in business and apparently in the business of life: To reap rewards, you’ve got to take risks. I take a deep breath, sampling the possibilities on my tongue along with the autumn air.

  “You really think so?” Carrie finally says, and I feel myself nodding, so sure of myself…when it comes to making decisions for others. It’s one reason I’m good at my job.

  And then we turn a corner, and Carrie points excitedly at a derelict strip center set back onto a tree-lined street with broken sidewalks. A long crack starts at the corner of one of the storefront windows and cuts a jagged streak across the smeared glass. I watch Carrie, knowing the scene in front of us looks entirely different in her head—the façade of the shops refreshed, with signs above entryways and glass storefronts shining and new, the warm, sweet smells of baking treats wafting onto the street from the opening and closing of her very own doorway.

  I allow myself to absorb her happiness, her vision of a future scene that’s not been painted yet.

  I am happy for her, truly happy. Can I be happy for me, too?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Disclosure

  It’s after lunch the next day before I muster up the courage to call Aubrey. I’m sure the poor woman is wondering where the hell I’ve been, especially since I know the contractor is calling her when I put off returning his calls. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking—in fact, I was up most of the night with yesterday’s information overload spinning in my head…Amanda’s offer, Carrie’s plans, Brandon’s treachery, Candace’s weird secrecy. And Carrie’s blunt but well-deserved admonishment about my displaced loyalty to my boss.

  Nonetheless, Brewster started out as my client, and it’s time to stop avoiding him like a creeped-out teenager. I’m a professional, and I need to finish my job.

  That doesn’t stop my hands from shaking as I dial Aubrey’s number. She answers in one ring.

  “Jen!”

  “I know. I’m sorry I’ve been tough to reach,” I say after a deep breath. “My schedule’s been… Well, things have been crazy.”

  “Oh.” She seems surprised. “I was afraid you were never going to call again or come again. And that Candace would be coming back.” She doesn’t sound happy at this prospect at all. But one thing about her statement surprises me.

  “You mean Candace hasn’t been around?”

  Aubrey is quiet for several seconds. “Not lately.” She exhales in a loud gush. “Gosh, I’m almost afraid to say that out loud because I don’t want to jinx it.”

  “You really don’t like her,” I say, not a question. Funny that I feel the same way about Aubrey’s boss.

  “I really don’t trust her.” Again, there’s a long pause. “Can you come by today?” she asks, and every muscle in my body clenches. “I’d like to tell
you why, in person.”

  I want to turn her down, but at the same time, curiosity courses through my veins like adrenaline, and I know I have to go there and get answers. But before I can answer her question, I need to know one thing. “Will Brewster, I mean, Mr. Brewster, be home this afternoon?”

  “You can call him Emory,” she says. “He’s not as scary as he seems, believe me.”

  Oh, if only she knew.

  “But no, he’s not here today,” she continues. “He’s in Nashville all this week, something to do with hearings over gambling legislation. He’s got this client who’s… Well, anyway.”

  I smile, thinking Aubrey and I have something in common. We both have employers with too many secrets, and neither of us is good at keeping them. At any rate, knowing that Brewster is halfway across the state allows my stomach muscles to unclench, and I’m breathing easier when I say, “How’s 2:30?” That gives me enough time to call the contractors I’ve been avoiding, and with any luck, I might even get a couple of them in the house this week before Brewster returns home.

  “2:30 is fine,” Aubrey says, relief coloring her voice. “See you then.”

  * * *

  After I hang up the phone, I take another deep breath. I’ve made a mess of things—of everything—and I don’t know if I can make them right again. But there’s one more person I have to call.

  I open my list of contacts and scroll down to Todd Birnham’s name. My finger hovers over it for a few seconds as I steel my resolve, but then I chicken out and click to text him instead of call. I start typing and backtracking, typing and backtracking. “Todd, hey! It’s Jen. (Does he still have me programmed in his phone? I’m not sure.) It’s Jen. Wondering if you want to come with me go to the fund-raiser thing at Sweeties Thurs night?

  Is it casual enough? Too casual? I take another deep breath, my finger still hovering above send. What if he’s already going? With Annalise…

  The thought makes my throat almost close up in panic, and I hit send before I can change my mind. “I’m getting my fire back” is a reeling pep talk in the back of my brain. I know what I want, and I’m going for it.

  I wait for a solid five minutes, unable to move from my desk chair or do much of anything besides stare at my phone, but no return text comes. I open my email app and start scrolling through my inbox, waiting, but still…nothing. No notification pops up on my screen alerting me to any new texts. I halfheartedly pull open my Santiago file and start going over the schedule, realizing I’m at a standstill until the case pieces I’ve ordered come in. I call the contractor to check the status of the tile work in the master bath, go over the bedroom and living room furniture plans again, and then return a few emails, dejection and rejection pooling in the pit of my stomach. It’s been forty-five minutes and still no reply from Todd.

  He’s going to the event with Annalise. I’m sure of it. And now he has this pathetic text in his phone that he’s unsure how to reply to, from this chick he can’t get a read on who’s already rejected him twice and who’s now asking him out when it’s clearly too late.

  I wish I could take the text back. Even if I’ve decided Todd might be right for me, I reconsider that I’m not right for Todd. He should be with somebody like Annalise—somebody younger and bubbly and laid-back, somebody who doesn’t overthink every decision.

  I shake my head—hard—and roll my eyes at my own inconsistency. I slowly start putting away the files and sketches on my desk, walking across the room to stash the meager samples I managed to pull for Amelia in my cubby, checking my phone in between tasks with renewed hopefulness and being disappointed each time.

  Once I’ve packed my bag and locked up the office—Carson left to pick up her daughter, and I have no idea where anybody else is, even though it’s only two o’clock on a Tuesday—I rush to my car, remembering I’m finally about to get answers as to what’s going on with Candace and with Greenlee Designs. At least, I hope I am. I almost forget about Todd as I wind my way through the city to Brewster’s sprawling house. Almost…

  * * *

  “Let me be sure I have this straight.” My mind is reeling with the information Aubrey has just crammed into it, which leaves me with as many questions as it does answers. “So, Candace and Emory are not together?”

  It feels weird to call him “Emory,” especially since I’m still not accustomed to Aubrey’s newfound lack of formality. She seems to have gained a backbone in the months since I met her—which makes sense, now that I know a little more about her.

  “I thought they were at first,” she says in the rushed, squeaky voice that makes her seem much younger than thirty-two, which I’ve just learned she is. “It’s from no lack of effort on her part.” Her lips twist into a scowl on the pronoun—the past few months haven’t won Candace any favor in Aubrey’s eyes. “I mean, you saw them that day she first came to the house.”

  We’re quiet for several seconds, probably both envisioning Candace’s disheveled blouse, Brewster’s lipstick-smeared cheek.

  “Disgusting,” Aubrey spits out, and I feel one corner of my mouth lift in a smirk. I’m not exactly Candace’s biggest cheerleader either, but my antipathy toward my boss doesn’t come close to matching Aubrey’s open animosity.

  Her brother, though, is a different story.

  I haven’t told Aubrey how Emory came on to me when I was here to oversee the project in the study, and I have no plans to. If she wants to think Emory is some kind of golden boy who’s in need of her protection, I’m not going to be the one to burst her bubble. I’m sure, in time, that Brewster will do that on his own. Besides, I have a feeling she already knows.

  When Aubrey confirmed my suspicion that she and Brewster were related, I realized it should have been obvious all along. Why else would she live here? Why else would she be so invested in his personal life? She’s confided in me much more than I would have expected—I get the feeling Aubrey doesn’t have many girlfriends—and it turns out she is Emory’s half-sibling, younger by twelve years. She moved to Memphis from Connecticut after leaving her marriage to a man who seemed too good to be true, because he was. After four years of pretending things were perfect while enduring his mental cruelty behind closed doors, she came home from a tennis match one afternoon to find him rolling around on the living room sofa with one of her friends from the club.

  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 o
f 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.