“No kiddin’?” he said, reaching into the box, retrieving a festive-looking wastebasket with a rainbow of hues highlighting its woven design.
“Trash receptacles,” she said, taking it from him, “are the exclamation point on my work. It’s a pet project my father would have loved, seeing this kind of progress. It’s also made out of the earth’s worst enemies—potato chip bags and candy wrappers.”
“Okay, so you toss your Doritos discards into something sweeter than a standard metal round file. How’s that benefit Mother Earth?”
She shook her head, smiling. “No, the cans are made from recycled food wrappers. If things like this were manufactured on a large scale they’d be cost effective, and the long-term impact would be incredible. Holistic and eco-friendly design has so much to offer—if you can break down the barriers and embrace change. That’s tougher than you’d think.”
“I get it. That’s where somebody like Hough comes in.”
“More or less. I’d love to sell the design for a single office building that’s floor-to-ceiling holistic and sustainable, but that’s just the hook. Aaron Hough holds the keys, literally, to a lot of other commercial real estate. If I can convince him, it could be the springboard to thousands of offices just like it. I’ve sold plenty of holistic designs in ones and twos, mostly to people who were bigger environmentalists than me. But never to someone with an ability or desire to mainstream it.”
“Well, I really hope that works out for you,” he said, placing the wastebasket next to a workstation. “If not, you can always give it the standard decorator treatment. Not so eco-friendly but a sure thing.”
“Well, I could. But that’s not what Hough hired me to do. It’s what makes this project so special. Knowing that someone with clout is taking my work seriously . . . It’s”—she took a breath—“it’s what I’ve been working toward for years. Standard design pays the bills, but it’s not my passion.”
“Yeah, but your regular designs, they’re top-shelf, right? I mean, this is nice and all, but if it doesn’t fly you can—” He stopped, perhaps guessing that he’d said the wrong thing. “Listen, I’ve got to get back to crunching these numbers,” he said, reopening the computer. “There’s got to be an obvious glitch somewhere. A $19,999.63 error should kind of jump out at you.”
Mia nodded, slightly deflated. People were often impressed with holistic design, the personal benefits and earthly advantages, but true believers were rare. He meant well. “Sam,” she said, as he busied himself with the calculator. “How do you know my everyday designs are any good? You’ve never seen them.”
“Um, I guess, just by looking at this,” he said, swinging his arms wide. “Besides, I heard Hough say as much. He was by a few days ago, had some suit with him. They were talkin’ you up, saying what a terrific job you did on those ritzy law offices over on Broad Street.”
Mia crinkled her brow, glancing around her project in progress. “He said that?” The Broad Street project, while remarkably high-end, was textbook design—standard materials, zero eco-interest. It was apples and oranges, comparing a Hummer to the next generation gasless engine. It was curious phrasing from a man who’d sought Mia out based on her holistic design philosophies.
“Yeah, you must have done some work for the guy that was with Hough. He looked like a numbers guy, and he was running a blue streak about how you designed his off—”
“Wait!” Her phone rang and Mia’s hand shot up, her heart jumping. It was the ring tone dedicated to the hospital—the ICU.
Chapter 13
ATHENS
The entire apartment smelled like a Baptist church basement after Sunday services—the aroma of fried chicken, heavenly temptation. The cozy dining table was set for three with an actual tablecloth, matching silverware, and linen napkins. Mia had bought them for the occasion, thinking there wasn’t enough she could do to force this meal into submission. She fussed with them now, refolding the birdlike creatures she’d painstakingly arranged, wondering exactly how cloth napkins were going to improve her chances of this night succeeding.
For two months Mia Montgomery had lived a perfect secret. Happiness caught her by surprise, a feeling of contentment, a well of fire she’d never imagined when Flynn asked, would she stay? One astonishing night, minus the naked midnight stroll, mirrored by another. In the heartbeat of a moment, it seemed like it had always been just that way. Mia ignored the disturbing flutter of relief; the one that came with a sense of powerless-ness when he actually followed through, when he didn’t simply vanish. Lunch-hour dates soon became habit. Mia would smile and try not to let her apprehension show as he’d roll out of bed, heading back to the motorcycle shop. Flynn would kiss her good-bye, always saying, “See you later, sweetheart,” leaving her to wonder if she really would. It did fade as trust grew over time. Flynn appeared equally mesmerized by her, and why not? After all, had she not “destroyed him”? Mia invented clever excuses to steal away from the apartment she shared with Roxanne. She was having a terrible time in chemistry, had to hire a tutor. Not once, but twice a week. Her grades were that bad, or so she said. It wasn’t a complete fib. For a guy who blew into town on a motorcycle, with an arguably vague past, he was amazingly well versed in most subjects. Romance occasionally smoldered on the sidelines as Flynn happily assisted with any schoolwork that was troubling her.
Mia had no qualms about her secret, the little lies she had to tell to be with Flynn. There was only the two of them, no family or friends. It was private, intense, and she didn’t want to let anyone else in. It could have gone on that way forever if it weren’t for a comment Flynn made after a particularly torrid rendezvous that neither of them wanted to end. He was still breathing heavily, lacing up his boots, already five minutes late for the brake job that was next in line for his attention. Less motivated than him to dress, Mia fussed with the sheets and straightened the bedspread. Flynn looked up from the boots and drew a metaphor over the action, laughing at her need to “cover up their sordid affair.” Mia laughed too, but her pillow-fluffing enthusiasm faded. Had he said it out of humor, or maybe as a subtle hint? Did he want more than this? Mia knew more about Flynn than any other human being, of that she was sure. But there were dark places and many things he didn’t share. If he wanted more than this, he would never say. It was up to her. Mia began to take down the barriers between Flynn and the rest of her world, thrilled, excited, and terrified when he didn’t object.
She began with the biggest brick: Roxanne. She decided there would be no sugarcoating of facts. Preparedness was everything when approaching Roxanne with unpleasant news. Mia ran the impending conversation through her head a dozen times. Did she remember Flynn? Roxanne would toss her a motherly look of concern, followed with an expletive and a remark like, “What would possess you to bring him up?” “Well, as it turns out, Rox, he never did leave town. In fact, we’ve been seeing each other for weeks. Okay, months.” There would be upset and objection, hurt feelings when Roxanne realized Mia had been keeping it a secret, and then, naturally, every attempt to dissuade her. Mia planned a simple defense: “I think I’m incredibly, hopelessly in love with him.” Mia knew Roxanne well and the actual conversation did go much like she imagined, except for a few extra expletives.
Finishing with the napkins, Mia ducked back into the kitchen to check on the chicken. She hoped he was hungry, she hoped the gravy wasn’t lumpy, she hoped the two of them didn’t kill one another before dessert. Mia sipped another cold mouthful of wine, her third glass. It hadn’t done a thing to settle the butterflies in her stomach. The doorbell rang and Roxanne blew past from the bedroom, insisting she answer it. Her hair in a sexy upsweep, she wore dangly earrings, spiked heels, and shiny lips. It was a unique rendering. Mia wanted to title it “Beauty Queen Dressed for Inquisition.” Stop it. Roxanne agreed to try, for me. She said she’d be nice. Flynn promised not to agitate her by calling her “ babe,” or just plain old “bitch” to her face. This was going to be a disaster.
&n
bsp; When Mia came out from the kitchen, Flynn was standing in the living room holding a colorful bouquet of summer flowers wrapped in pink tissue. She smiled at him. Jeans, T-shirt—he dressed for no one. She guessed the flowers were more for Roxanne’s benefit than hers. “They’re beautiful,” Mia gushed, taking them. “Aren’t they beautiful, Rox?” There was a spark of hope. He was trying. Flynn swooped down, gathering Mia into a firm kiss, obviously staking his territory. On the other hand, perhaps he was only willing to meet her halfway.
He raised an eyebrow, smiling at Roxanne. “I hope you’re not allergic.”
Mia recognized the smile that was returned. Careful, Flynn, watch your fingers.
Roxanne caught a stray strand of hair that had escaped from the up-do and tucked it back into place, batting feathery lashes in his direction. The drawl was on fire. “It’s no problem, but I had no idea the highways were so full with flowers this time of year.”
Score one point for Roxanne.
“Roxanne,” he began, but hesitated. “Uh, nice earrings.” Mia was impressed; he was working hard to keep his cool. Fortunately the chicken jumped in to assist.
“Mia, you didn’t . . . That’s not fried chicken I smell, is it?”
She beamed a smile of domestic satisfaction, the butterflies easing up. “Uh huh, and mashed potatoes. You said something about it being a favorite . . .”
“Taking a quiz. At the cottage, was it? I believe I passed.”
“Did you ever.” Mia cleared her throat, recalling that Roxanne was in the room. She wasn’t used to this, conversations with Flynn that included other people. “Dinner will be ready soon. Do you want something to drink?”
“Yeah, sure,” Flynn said, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking equally put off by the demands of a third person. His gaze wandered, unable to find the comfort zone he enjoyed when it was just the two of them. “Hey, you didn’t tell me you got this back.” He crossed the room, brushing by Roxanne to a design board busy with swatches, sketches, detailed notes, and a giant red C-. He unclipped the paper marked with furious scribble and the letter grade. “You got a C minus?” Mia rolled her eyes, fighting a wave of embarrassment. She meant to put away her Interiors Concepts final project—or, better yet, just throw it out. “How the hell did you get a C minus?”
“Finally,” Roxanne said, “something we agree on. She’s capable of such beautiful work. Between Mia’s artistry and what has to be some inbred sense of style that she totally disregards . . . Why she keeps pursuing these left-of-center designs is beyond me. I told her it was a nutty idea—recycled furniture, even the blinds, concrete floors—I mean, yuck. We all might as well get a cell at the state penitentiary.”
Flynn started to reply but stopped. Instead he focused on Mia, glancing at the graded paper. “I know how hard you worked on that. It was an A project and then some. You even researched the chemical compositions to come up with nontoxic dyes.”
“Well, not exactly.” Mia folded into the hug he offered. “Let’s be honest, you came up with the compounds. And for that,” she said, pointing to the paper, “the professor noted ‘stellar achievement.’ ”
“You helped with this?” Roxanne said. “I should have known; those compounds were a wee bit complex. Wait,” she said, eyeing Flynn. “How would you know—? Whatever. The grade speaks for itself. Next time she’ll know better.”
“Next time she’ll know going in that the professor’s an ass,” Flynn said, glaring at Roxanne. “What else did he say?”
Mia read from the paper, “ ‘Project shows a curious passion, fanciful imagination . . .’ ”
“That doesn’t sound so bad—” Mia held up a hand, stopping him.
“ ‘It also demonstrates narrow applications, zero client appeal or reasonable marketability. While imagination inspires design, Ms. Montgomery, it must first and foremost have purpose. ’ I didn’t think I went that wrong. I just wanted to design something that appealed to more than magazine aesthetics—something that mattered.”
“It’s exactly what I said,” Roxanne groused, shooting a look at Flynn. “You might stumble on one nut held up in a tree house who’s interested in recycling his manifesto into a tablecloth. But as for the masses, nobody wants to spend their time wallowing in salvaged junk. People with a nine-to-five existence need to be surrounded by ambience and high-tech. Not reminded that the earth’s going to hell by way of global heating. That’s like a bazillion years away. Who cares?”
“Warming. It’s global warming, Rox,” Mia quietly corrected.
“Whatever.” She shrugged. “You have a huge natural talent, Mia. Go with that. Any one of your regular designs would have been an easy A. This is nonsense and you’re wasting your time.” She sulked into the kitchen, giving her blond hair an irritated toss.
It was a mile walk across the room, reattaching the graded paper to her project. A quiet moment later Mia felt Flynn behind her, hands on her shoulders, mouth pressed to her head. “Don’t listen to her,” he whispered. “She doesn’t have a clue. It was a great design, Mia, full of smart ideas, way ahead of the curve.”
“Maybe so, but my professor pretty much agreed with her.”
“No, he said it showed passion and imagination.” Turning her in his arms, he smiled. “It’s not your fault he couldn’t see around the curve.”
Swallowing down the lump in her throat, she smiled back. “Thanks, I needed to hear that. As for this,” Mia said, poking at the project, “I guess it’s back to the drawing board—or just the Dumpster.”
“Don’t you dare,” he said with something more than cursory comfort. “There might be a thousand more steps to turning that into what it can be. But if you give up, you’ll never get there.”
She nodded, not quite feeling his enthusiasm. “Hey, I’ll get you that beer.”
“Okay,” he said, still looking over the design board. “I’ll plan conversation for her highness’s return.”
“It couldn’t hurt.” She dropped a quick kiss on his lips before heading into the kitchen.
“Hey, Mia . . .”
“Yeah?” she said, walking backward.
“If I forget to tell you later, dinner was terrific. And someday, you’re going to knock the design world on its collective ass.” Their smiles connected as she disappeared inside.
“Roxanne, come on. Company’s in the living room. You promised.”
“I know, I’m coming. Just grabbing a glass of wine. I was stirring your gravy.”
“You don’t drink wine and I’d be amazed if you could identify gravy without a lab analysis. Now go.”
“All right, I’m going already. Just do me one favor. See if you can keep the mouth-to-mouth to a minimum. He makes me want to floss.” She gave an exaggerated shiver, poking a wooden spoon in the gravy.
“We’ll try.” Mia shooed her away, handing her a beer. “For Flynn.”
“Is there anyone else?” she purred sweetly, pushing through the swinging door.
The conversation trudged forward, design talk put aside, as Mia managed to get dinner on the table. Both of them dove in to help, desperate to get away from each other. Flynn seemed glad for the distraction of food, busily filling his plate. “Mia, this is fantastic,” he said, wolfing down gulps of a crispy breast. “I had no idea you could cook like this.”
Roxanne delicately popped a cherry tomato into her mouth, eyeing the opening. “Oh, Mia’s a fantastic cook when she has the right tools.”
There’s the windup.
“But it’s probably hard to demonstrate when you only have a hot plate for cooking.”
And the pitch.
Flynn swallowed hard and blotted his mouth with a napkin, taking a dramatic pause before flexing to knock it out of the park.
“Flynn, did you know,” Mia interrupted, loud enough to grab their attention, “when Roxanne was in high school she was the homecoming, prom, Strawberry Pageant, and Watermelon Festival queen?”
“Is that right?” he said with inflated enthu
siasm. “So what, they just didn’t have the Ice Princess competition that year?” He never looked up, stabbing a leg with his fork.
Roxanne’s electric blue eyes pulsed wide, and her back went erect against the chair. It was war. “No, no, Flynn. There’s never an ‘Ice Princess’ competition in high school, sugar.” Her head cocked to one side, the drawl going gooey, sweeter than honey. “But maybe you needed to have attended one to know that.”
“Oh, I went to high school, Roxanne. In fact, I was voted most likely to rob a convenience store. But I’m so glad you didn’t go to high school with Deidre Zeller.”
“Oh, and why’s that? Did she find you more irritating than I do?”
“Nah, we voted her biggest bitch. Woulda broke her heart to lose to somebody pretty as you.” He never stopped eating, picking up his beer, saluting her before guzzling a long mouthful. As they continued to lob insults at one another, Mia was suddenly glad she didn’t prepare anything that necessitated steak knives.
Roxanne’s beautiful face went flush with anger. “Listen, you Lynyrd Skynyrd throwback, I don’t know what Mia sees in you. Maybe every girl has to have one, the guy you use as a lifelong reference for mistakes not to be repeated. Though in your case, it would be a remarkably low threshold. She’ll probably have to start dating drug dealers just to get an upgrade!”
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