Flynn’s return was unexpected. The feelings attached to him—not so much. Over time, before Michael, Mia had managed to compartmentalize. Flynn was gone. There would be no substitute. It was like learning to live without a limb, and she thought she’d done a decent job. While concentrating on her career, Mia expended emotional energy elsewhere, choosing to invest in someone other than herself. She made a hesitant call to the local Big Sisters program, landing a role she didn’t get to play in real life: mentoring someone who didn’t have all the advantages. It was something Mia might never have considered without having heard a tale or two about how unforgiving a childhood could be. It took effort, but proved to be good medicine and an even better reward. Still, it didn’t fill every void. There were inconsolable moments, empty nights that Mia thought wouldn’t end, an ache with which she never made peace. She liked to think that she lived with measurable fulfillment. Life didn’t have to be about a man, particularly if you couldn’t have the one you wanted.
Men became vague reference points, like constellations: permanent entities, difficult to pinpoint, a map to incalculable emptiness. There was an occasional date, two if the guy thrived on a challenge—which, in part, explained how Mia ended up married to Michael. After years of being mentored by Gisele DeVrie—interior design’s Dalai Lama—Mia ventured out on her own. Hoping to cultivate a clientele, she convinced Roxanne to accompany her to a college alumni event. Dr. Burke had groused about going, having to forfeit a Saturday night in the ER where, according to her, mangled bodies were in good supply. However, after running headlong into Michael Wells, Roxanne changed her tune. She also didn’t waste any time baiting her hook and casting him in Mia’s direction. She could still recall their conversation in the ladies’ room, not having seen Roxanne that enthused since beating the national MCAT scores by a mile. “Can you believe Michael Wells is here?” she gasped, reapplying lip gloss that was still a direct contrast to her persona. “He, um, he asked about you right away.”
“Me?” Mia had said, busy determining the number of business cards she’d handed out. “What would he want with me?”
“He remembered you, wanted to know if you were here alone.”
She shrugged, looking into Roxanne’s reflection. “I’m not, I’m here with you.”
“That’s not what he meant,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I think he’d like to ask you out.”
A well worn stone wall went up. “Oh, well, tell him I’m absorbed in starting my own business. I don’t have time to date—him or anyone else.”
“Tell him yourself,” Roxanne said, turning to face her. “Mia, it’s been six years. Maybe it’s time to take a chance.” There was a noisy pause as an unspoken past rumbled by the two of them. “And I can’t think of a better prospect than Michael Wells. He’s an incredibly nice man, handsome, successful. If you ask me, he’s perfect for you. I doubt any woman would view a date with him as a hardship.”
“If you think he’s that fantastic why don’t you go out with him?”
“Michael?” she asked, looking as if Mia had suggested swimming with sharks. “Let’s see, two self-professed overachievers with a competitive streak that would rival an Olympic team. I’m thinking he requires somebody with a softer edge.”
“Mmm, I suppose you have a point,” Mia said, recalling their college days, Michael serving as a formidable studying partner for Roxanne but little else. “I’ll think about it,” she said, merely to appease Roxanne.
Michael, it seemed, had another plan. As they exited the ladies’ room he was standing nearby, flanked by two women who looked more than willing to take him on—or take him home. From the moment he excused himself and approached, Roxanne appointed herself team captain. It helped launch a courtship that she championed all the way to the altar. “Mia,” he’d said, extending a hand, clasping hers firmly, “I don’t know if you remember me, Michael Wells.” He was as handsome as she recalled, as successful as he’d intended. “Roxanne and I had some classes together at UGA . . .”
Mia was polite but straightforward, telling him exactly what she’d said to Roxanne. That while she appreciated the invitation to dinner . . . the theater . . . an alumni gathering to watch a football game—all of which he offered during the next few weeks, she couldn’t possibly accept. Her sole focus was getting a fragile and fledgling business off the ground. She didn’t hear from him for a month or so, not until he turned up at her brown-stone basement studio, claiming a decorating emergency. Sure that he could afford a more prestigious design house than hers, which was a blip on the map, Mia offered him Gisele DeVrie’s personal number. She also figured it would snuff out any lingering interest. But Michael was undeterred, asking how any entrepreneur could afford to turn down a sure thing. He had a point. After designing his office—a corner suite with a fabulous D.C. view—Michael contracted her to redo his home office. Admittedly, Mia was flattered by the attention, professional and personal. To celebrate the project’s end, Michael surprised her with a catered lunch on his veranda. The midday bottle of French wine and the personal chef were poised to impress anyone, even someone who was unaffected by the sheen of a lifestyle.
In the year that followed, a friendship flourished. And from what Mia had heard it was a sure path to lasting romance. She allowed the theory to have enough nourishment to take root, eventually taking Michael up on his offers. They took weekend drives to the Eastern Shore, and met for lunchtime picnics on the National Mall. He remembered her birthday, showing up with an appropriate gift—nothing that she could read too much into—and offered her business advice if asked. He was focused and suave, doing what Michael Wells did best. The two of them visited his family’s home in Virginia where a warm and inviting crowd made it easy for Mia to blend, easier still to come back. While Mia managed to avoid labeling their relationship, she’d grown curious about his family’s perceptions. On their way back to the city, sitting in a bottleneck of Sunday traffic, she peppered him with questions. “Michael, is there any chance your family thinks you’re gay?”
He turned toward her, an incredulous look on his face. “Um, no . . . I don’t think so.”
Mia said nothing else for a moment, staring at the snaking glow of taillights. “Well, do they think I am?”
Looking at her, Michael’s eyes pulsed wide, and he had to slam on the brakes or hit the car in front of them. But his answer was sedate. “I’d have to say no to that too. Especially after my cousin Stan, the degenerate, dragged me out to the garage. He wanted to know what kind of naughty lingerie you own.”
“Oh, I don’t believe that! Your cousin Stan is so sweet.”
“Ha! Give me a break,” Michael said, inching into the left lane. “Ask him some time exactly why he was suspended for two weeks in the tenth grade. Though according to him, they never did find all the peepholes in the girls’ locker room.”
Mia offered a sideways glance, the conversation edging toward things they’d made a pattern of ignoring. “So what do you tell them about us?” Mia pressed, surprised by her need to know.
His shoulders shrugged, creeping back into the right lane. “That we’re friends. We get along great, enjoy each other’s company,” he said, eyes focused on the rearview mirror. “Have dinner together once or twice a week.”
“And they don’t think that’s strange? They don’t wonder why we’re not . . . not a couple?”
It was a good thing they were in a sports car, Mia thought. The nimble vehicle moved like lightning, shooting from the center lane, through a clogged fast lane, and into the emergency lane where Michael thrust it into park. “Why? Do you think it’s strange?” She swallowed hard; she’d never heard Michael raise his voice. Mia stared into dark eyes so filled with desire that it made her breath rattle. “Yeah, Mia, they think it’s strange. And don’t, for a second, think that it’s not humiliating to stand in my father’s garage and tell Stan, the family pervert, that what’s none of his goddamn business isn’t mine either!” It was the breaking point. Mia was ove
rwhelmed by emotion—mostly his, enough of hers. Michael’s desire boiled over, and he grasped Mia’s shoulders, kissing her hard. He kept kissing her, and she let him. She kissed him back. Finally Michael inched away, Mia’s mouth stinging from the roughness of his beard, maybe the shock of the connection.
“I, um . . . I don’t really own any naughty lingerie.” She gasped, tears in her eyes.
Still, it took time. Three years later, and on the third proposal, friendship captured romance. While dancing the first dance at their wedding reception—a regal affair that she might never have imagined—Mia held on to Michael for dear life. She never did care for being the center of attention. “I have to confess,” he said, his warm cheek pressed to hers—still she shivered a bit. “I never thought this day would come,” he said, gliding smoothly to the music. “Happy?” he asked.
“Of course,” Mia said, closing her eyes . . . drifting, popping them open fast and wide.
“Good,” he said, holding her tighter. “Because I’m so goddamn happy I hate to think anyone isn’t feeling exactly the same way—especially the bride.”
It caused Mia to inch back and look at him, realizing that he was joking. “Michael, how much champagne have you had?”
He laughed. “Not a drop,” he said, kissing her. “This isn’t the kind of thing I’d take a chance on forgetting.”
Life began again. And why not; she’d married a wonderful man who wanted more than anything to be married to her. She did love him. Michael was patient and kind, loyal and trustworthy—not surprisingly a former Eagle Scout—passionate and giving. Mia followed through, touched by the flowers he sent because it was a Tuesday, returning the sentiment by showing up to bed in the kind of nightwear she’d learned that Michael favored. White, simple, and expensive—undoubtedly a thorough disappointment to Cousin Stan. Mia’s eyes would remain focused on her husband as the nightgown slipped to the floor, her body giving in to his. But her mind would stay up late, as if petitioning the act, hours after he’d drifted into a satisfied slumber. Mia would leave the bedroom and wander aimlessly through the house, sometimes ending up on the front lawn. There she’d stand, shivering . . . freezing, waiting for physical pain to override the ache. Looking up into a clear cold sky, Mia guessed that constellations, no matter how substantial, couldn’t outshine a single brilliant star.
An affair of the heart was one laden with guilt. That wasn’t so new. It had been there for the nearly two years they’d been married—like an ugly wedding gift she didn’t have the heart to return. As three weeks passed at Flynn’s side, Mia contemplated telling Michael, starting the sentence at least once a day. She toyed with a generic explanation, but it would only exacerbate an unintentional lie. In the beginning of their relationship, Michael had asked about Flynn, and Mia’s answers were decidedly vague. He seemed content to let it go, and Mia was relieved. It was a time that had come and gone years before Michael mattered, and she saw no benefit in disturbing a tender past. Mia never considered, not once, that someday she’d have to come clean. Michael would be hurt, furious, and rightfully so. No, it was better this way. If Flynn died, maybe she’d tell him years from now when they were old and it didn’t matter so much. If Flynn lived, well, if he lived . . . Sitting at his bedside, Mia’s head fell, cradling into her hands, praying. God, he has to live. I’m burning in hell either way. Please let him live.
Somewhere in between contemplating the yawning jaws of hell and sidestepping her husband, Mia managed to keep a firm hold on her work in progress. She had to. It was the only thing keeping a firm hold on her sanity. No matter what the outcome, at least the Hough proposal was finite. Either he’d be a pioneer and invest in her designs or he wouldn’t. And after the work she’d put in . . . Well, she didn’t want to fathom that disappointment. She dried a tear and looked toward Flynn. Other matters, she guessed, weren’t as clear-cut.
This particular morning Mia couldn’t get comfortable. She adjusted his bed linens a half dozen times, started and stopped as many sketches. A summer rain pounded at Flynn’s window, as if the dark clouds were calling for him. It was a distracting tangle of guilt, a looming deadline, and bleak weather. Nothing seemed right. Days before Michael left for a conference in Vegas, the two of them arguing when Mia refused an invitation to join him. She hated Las Vegas, the gambling and glitz, a fact that he never could remember. Of course Michael had called, minutes after his plane landed. “It’s me. I’m . . . I’m sorry about the way I left. I forgot. You hate Vegas. You know, it’s a quick flight to Tahoe. You could meet me there this weekend. Let me know.” Mia had listened, dialing and hanging up—almost throwing the cell phone across the room. A change in venue wasn’t going to solve the problem.
Twice the nurse had been in at Mia’s insistence, assuring her that Flynn was fine. Yet something was amiss. His comatose state, while unremarkable, had certain markers that she tallied each day. It wasn’t anything a medical device might gauge, just an energy they shared. This morning Flynn seemed different. His skin was clammy and there was a subtle shift in his breathing. No doubt he was absorbing the negative vibe Mia was generating. Surely it oozed like lava from those earmarked for hell. Maybe, for the moment, he’d be better off without her standing guard.
With the last pieces to Hough’s mock office due to arrive, Mia decided to see to the delivery. Along with her proposal, Hough had advanced her the cash for a prototype. She’d never had a client offer money for a maybe; it underscored his interest. While most of the building—a downtown vintage brick rehab—was under reconstruction, the crew had completed five hundred square feet for Mia’s design. The middle-management office was about to get the royal treatment—albeit totally holistic and green. She hadn’t been there since the floors were installed, a gleaming bamboo. Even on the gloomiest of days they sparkled with promise.
“These look terrific, Sam! And with all the work you guys have to do,” she marveled to the foreman, shaking rain from an umbrella.
“Not a problem, Ms. Wells,” he said, glancing up from a computer screen and papers, which were spread out over a make-shift desk. “But you’d better take care not to get them wet.”
“That’s definitely not a problem—they’re tough as steel,” she said, banging the tip of the umbrella into the floor for good measure.
“Yeah . . . yeah, I remember, that’s what you told the guys,” he said absently, continuing to punch at a calculator. He gave up, tossing down what looked to be a pile of receipts in apparent aggravation.
“Something wrong?” Mia asked the generally pleasant foreman.
“It’s the books, not really my thing. Hough’s people will have my hide if I can’t get the accounts payable to balance.” He glanced at her, a look of chagrin anchored to his face. “I’m 19,999.63 bucks in the hole. Hough’s gonna think I’m pocketing his cash.”
“Oooh, that is a lot of money.” She cringed. But she knew Sam Kramer fairly well, enough to know that wasn’t the case. “Can I help? Numbers aren’t really my thing either, but I’ve gotten pretty good at profit and loss. Work with eco-friendly design long enough and you learn the long way around to a profit.”
“Nah,” he said, closing the computer screen. “Thanks, though. Hey, about your design. I wanted to tell you, everything you’re doing, you got my boys plenty fired up. Especially the part about sustainable resources: ‘a hundred years to grow a forest of oak trees versus five to replace the same amount of bamboo.’ You’re very convincing, Ms. Wells. I don’t suppose you could offer a few inspirational words about tape and spackle?”
Mia laughed, feeling slightly less bound for hell. “I’ll see what I can come up with.” She peeled open a carton and dove in, unpacking an array of sculpted desk accessories, which appeared to be more decorative art than ecologically savvy. No one would ever guess that the brightly colored pieces were made from outdated phone wire. Part of the intent was to sell the idea that upscale commercial design and environmentally sound materials could cohabitate. While holistic-based
interiors had made progress, there was still a gap between form and function. That’s where Mia felt her designs had an edge—even over other holistic designers—combining art with what was good for you and the environment. And Aaron Hough had made clear his penchant for stylish amenities. “Listen, Sam, your crew really outdid themselves. Would they accept a case of beer for their effort?”
“Delivered by you personally?” he said, raising a brow. “That would be more than nice; I’m sure they’d appreciate it. And don’t worry, we’ll recycle the empties. But honestly, what you’re doing here, it made an impression.”
“That’s good to hear. You know, somebody once told me I’d find a way to do it all, combine pretty and save the world.”
“You’ve got the pretty part down, that’s for sure,” he said with a wink.
Feeling her cheeks flush, Mia looked away. “Um, not me, I meant the design aspect. And he was an unusually big believer.”
“Hey, don’t sell yourself short. For a white collar gig this looks like comfy digs to me,” he said, surveying the room. “But what I don’t get is the space, how you’ve got it divvied up.”
“Well,” she said, looking at a disbursement of office space that didn’t follow traditional methodology. “Holistic design begins with the footprint, the most efficient use of materials, space, energy—things like air quality. Do you have any idea the number of illnesses that can be linked to unchallenged office air?” He shook his head, glancing worriedly around the space. “Anyway, rehabbing this building is a big part of that transition, using what’s already here and making it beneficial. As for the interior, it’s the way light travels through the room, vibrational energy and intangible elements combined with physical goods. It’s based on low-impact, highly recycled materials that aren’t only advantageous to the earth but to the user. It’s the element that separates holistic design from the common eco-friendly measures we see a lot of nowadays. And,” she added, positioning a stunning glass divider, “it also includes an artistic component that is scientifically proven to heighten the healthy effects.”
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