As she packed up her things, a pair of women thumped down in the leather chairs behind her.
“Okay, I’m totally out of my league,” one of the women grunted as she got settled. “I’m not afraid of much—except this kind of thing.”
“We’ll figure it out,” said the second woman.
“I don’t even know where to start.”
Emmie closed her paint color fan, flipped the cover of her sketch pad, and shut down her laptop, then leaned down and started dropping items into her bag one by one.
“That’s why we’re sitting here instead.”
Laughter. “Well, what in the world do you start with?”
“A cranberry orange muffin, in my opinion.”
“With the room, nitwit. Honestly. Why did I drag you along today, again?”
“Because I paid for the coffee and muffins?”
Emmie stood and put on her coat. The first woman said with heavy sigh, “Okay, we can at least decide where we’re going next—the paint store, the antique store, or the furniture store.”
“The paint store. No, the furniture—oh, hell, Walmart has all that stuff. And I need some laundry detergent and a bag of cat litter. Let’s just go there.”
“I told you, a place like that isn’t going to have what I’m looking for. I want something different, a little old fashioned . . . sort of . . . oh, I don’t know . . . maybe plaid . . . like that woman’s coat over there. Excuse me!”
It took Emmie several seconds before she realized that the woman was calling to her. She turned around before she gave the impression that she was rude or stupid. “Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you,” the woman said, “but—Emmie?” Emmie blinked. How did this woman know her? Then she realized, just as the woman pointed to herself and said, “Annette Polschuk! Class of ’95! Go Panthers!”
Emmie smiled and echoed, a little more sedately, “Go Panthers. Weren’t you at—”
“Juliet Winslow’s cookie party! That’s right. I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you, darlin’.” Annette turned to her companion. “This is Emmie Brewster—we went to high school together. And she’s exactly who I needed to run into right now. She’s a fantastic interior designer!”
“Oh, I don’t know about that . . .” Emmie demurred.
But Annette plowed on. “If you have a minute, I want to pick your brain. You mind?”
“N-No, I don’t mind.”
“Well, then, pull up a chair, darlin’—and let’s see your coat.”
“Why—”
“I was admiring the plaid. Wait—let me start from the beginning. I’m redoing my son’s bedroom. I don’t want anything babyish, but I don’t want anything too popular, you know?”
“Yes, sure. How old is he?”
“He’s eleven. If I redo his room with, oh, I don’t know, some superhero character, then—bang—couple more years, he’s outgrown it. Plus we have an older home, and I was thinking something to fit the age of the house. Maybe something like the pattern of your coat for wallpaper.”
Emmie looked down at her navy wool car coat. It was nice, lightweight but warm, with wide lapels and a sash that cinched her waist. She loved it dearly, but she highly doubted the dark plaid would look good on an eleven-year-old’s bedroom walls.
“Well,” she started slowly, “sure. You could do that. But is the room small?”
“It’s a little small, yeah.”
“Okay. A dark pattern would make it seem more confined. It’s still a possibility, maybe just not floor to ceiling on all the walls. And, you know, you can still incorporate something that he does like—it doesn’t have to be a superhero character . . .”
“He likes airplanes,” the other woman offered. “Old ones. Warplanes, you know? From World War II and stuff. Oh—I’m Martie, his aunt, this one’s sister-in-law.” She jerked her thumb at Annette. Emmie was a little surprised; they looked more like sisters. They were heavyset, both wearing holiday-themed sweatshirts—Annette’s was bright red, with little ornaments dangling off a Christmas tree appliqué in the middle of her chest, and Martie’s was white, with a reindeer appliqué, red bulbs dangling from its antlers. Both women looked profoundly middle-aged, even though Annette, at least, was the same age as Emmie. But then, if she remembered correctly, Annette had looked middle-aged even as a teenager.
“That’s a great suggestion. And it probably could fit in with your decor. What kind of house is it?”
“What kind . . . ?” Annette looked puzzled.
“Yes. You said it was older—do you know the style?”
“Oh, hell no.”
Emmie smiled patiently. “When was it built?”
“Um, twenties? Thirties? Forties?”
“Never mind. What if you do a retro theme of old airplanes? I know a company that specializes in reproducing old wallpaper, and I’m almost positive they have an airplane pattern.”
Annette brightened. “Oh, I want to see that! Where is it? The paint store?”
“N-No, I’m afraid it’s mail-order only.” Then Emmie had an idea. “Annette, what are you doing tomorrow morning?”
Emmie had never gotten up so early for a day at her job in all her years with Wilma. She was ready and waiting for Annette and Martie in the office, coffee and a basket of warm pastries on the table, precisely at eight A.M.
When the women arrived, Emmie was friendly but all business and was able to present a few ideas she thought Annette might like. They lit up when she suggested a color scheme of blues and grays with bright green for an accent color, loved the idea of incorporating a dark blue plaid like Emmie’s coat as a duvet cover, and cackled delightedly when she suggested hanging model airplanes from the ceiling with plastic fishing line. The minute they saw the wallpaper Emmie had talked about yesterday, they happily agreed to the whole concept on the spot.
By the time Wilma entered the office an hour later, the women had drifted off the topic of remodeling and were chatting, Annette and Martie laughing loudly. When Emmie saw him frozen in the doorway, she stood up, drunk with success, and beckoned him over. “John! Good morning! Come meet some new clients.” Wilma edged over to the conference table, looking suspicious. Emmie said breezily, “This is Annette Polschuk and her sister-in-law, Martie. Annette wants to remodel her son’s room. I told her we’d be happy to help her out . . . What?”
Wilma was giving her the stink-eye, and for the life of her, Emmie couldn’t figure out why. She had gotten him a client without his having to lift a finger. What more could the man want? Wilma jerked his head toward the kitchenette and said, “Emmaline, may I have a word, please? Excuse us, ladies.” He smiled politely at the two women, who waved and helped themselves to more pastries.
Emmie followed a stiff-backed Wilma into the small room, her heart sinking. What the hell was his problem now?
“Emmaline,” he whispered, his lips tight, “what are you doing?”
“Getting you some new business,” she whispered back, annoyed.
“Did you say that . . . woman . . . wants to redo her son’s bedroom?”
“So?”
“That is hardly the type of project Wilman Designs is known for!”
“We’ve done kids’ bedrooms before . . .”
Wilma sniffed disdainfully and looked past Emmie at the two women in the outer office. “I suppose she wants Star Wars bedsheets and the Enterprise painted on his wall.”
“That’s Star Trek, John.”
“What?”
“Star Wars, Star Trek—two different things. The Enterprise isn’t Star Wars, it’s Star Trek—”
“That is not the point!” he snapped impatiently. “Just . . . tell them we can’t do the job.”
“What?” she spluttered.
“Get rid of them. Now.” He looked past her again, and Emmie followed his gaze.
And then she realized. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“You would throw these women out just because they’re weari
ng sweatpants? Because you can’t pick up the scent of money oozing out of their pores? Because you think they’re not good enough for you? Is that what this is all about?”
“Emmaline,” Wilma said slowly, as if speaking to a child, “Wilman Designs has a reputation to uphold.”
Emmie licked her lips and thought for a moment, staring hard at Wilma. Then she spun on her heel and motioned sharply for Wilma to follow her. When she got back to the table, she put her hands on the back of a chair and leaned toward her new friends. “Annette, John says he’d be thrilled to have you as our client, and we can get started as soon as we take a look at your son’s room, get some measurements. Can you give me your address again?”
“Oh, sure, honey. It’s 3719 Overlook. You know—in the Lamplight District?”
“Yes, of course.” Emmie knew perfectly well what Annette’s address was; she just wanted Wilma to hear it for himself. She looked over at him. “John? You know the old Lamplight District, don’t you?” He had blanched, and his sneer was nowhere to be found. Of course he knew the community of the most venerable—and expensive—houses in town. True mansions, they put the tract homes he often worked on to shame. “Annette’s husband is CFO of Tech/Tonic,” she added for good measure, dropping the name of one of the new IT firms in the area, “and Annette runs a very successful wholesale import business. I’m surprised you haven’t run into them at one of the networking events in town.”
“P-Perhaps I have,” Wilma stuttered, trying to regain his footing. “You do look familiar, Mrs. . . . Polschuk, you say?”
As Annette eyed Wilma somewhat suspiciously, the bell over the front door jangled. Emmie looked up and started. “Graham!” she exclaimed, and she automatically moved toward him a few steps. She excused herself from the conference table almost as an afterthought and glimpsed mischievous grins on Annette’s and Martie’s faces. Yeah, the way she’d said his name sounded a little overeager to her, too. More formally, she asked him, “What can I do for you?”
“I’m going over to the house in a few minutes. I was wondering if you’d want to take a look at the place. If you aren’t too busy. We’re still deep in the demo phase, but I wanted you to see it for yourself as soon as you could.”
He had said on Saturday night that he wanted to get to work, and now here he was, first thing on Monday morning, ready to go. And she wasn’t going to refuse—for a lot of reasons.
“That’s a good idea.”
“Great. When can you get away?”
“Fifteen, twenty minutes?”
“Fine. I’ll see you then.” To the others, he called, “Sorry to interrupt.”
Annette shouted, “Oh, that’s all right! If I were Emmie, I’d let you interrupt anytime you wanted!” And she and her sister-in-law whooped with delight. Annette pointed from her to Graham and back again. “Are you two . . . uh . . . ?”
Emmie felt a blush burn her cheeks, but Graham merely chuckled and replied, “Well, ladies, to tell you the truth, I keep getting the distinct feeling she won’t have me.”
“Well, then, she’s out of her mind!” Martie exclaimed. “But don’t worry—we’ll talk some sense into her and send her back to you with her head screwed on straight.”
“Much obliged, ladies.”
“Let me walk you out,” Emmie hissed, taking him by the elbow. She opened the door for him and whispered through a fake smile, “Look. I will work for you, but I will not be your beard.”
“Beards are for gay men,” he replied quietly, with a smile that was far more genuine than hers. “I thought you, of all people, would know that.”
“You leave Avery out of this. I will not be your hetero-beard. Or whatever it’s called.” Gritted-teeth smile.
“You’re not making sense, Emmie.” Amused smile.
“Get out. I’ll be over to the house later.” No smile of any sort.
Graham was enjoying himself way too much. “I’m counting the minutes already.”
He sauntered out, still grinning, and Emmie firmly shut the door behind him. She shook herself. What the hell was that? When she returned to the conference table, she found that Wilma had pulled up a chair and sat down, saying, “—so very sorry I was late, ladies. Emmaline didn’t update my calendar with your early appointment. Now, Emmaline, why don’t you show me where you’ve left off with Mrs. Pol—er, Annette.” And he reached for the paperwork Emmie had started.
It figured. Of course he would take over, the minute someone pointed out the vein of gold in the mine. Annette and Martie, however, looked puzzled. They glanced from Wilma to Emmie, apparently taken aback at the change in command.
“Wait a minute,” Annette started to say, “I thought—”
“Emmaline, why don’t you make a fresh pot of coffee before you run along and help Mr. Cooper. I’ll finish up here.”
Emmie produced a tight smile that made her face hurt. “Of course. Annette, Martie, good to see you.”
She grabbed the coffeepot and stalked away, leaving a smug Wilma and two stunned clients at the table. She refilled the coffeemaker as quickly as she could, ignoring Wilma’s smarmy tones coming from behind her. Then she crossed to the front of the office, yanked her coat off the coatrack, grabbed her bag, and headed out to her car before she could allow herself to get too angry. After all, she knew this was the inevitable outcome of working for Wilma. She could never please him, and she could never convince him that she was worthy of even decorating an eleven-year-old’s bedroom. She might as well stop trying.
Chapter 9
The buzz of a table saw and crash of sledgehammers reverberated in the icy air. Emmie stood on the front walk of the house on West Street and gazed up at the once white, now gray and peeling, structure. The large home sat well back from the street, up a slight hillside, under oaks and elms that would create a deep green canopy in the summer. Now, however, a thick layer of brown leaves, sodden from the recent snow that had fallen, then melted, covered the lawn beneath the bare trees. Emmie knew this place well. It had been a stately home years ago, and she couldn’t wait to start on the restoration. Someday, she thought, she wanted to walk down this street and look up at this house, brightly painted and sparkling clean, its lawn lush and its gardens blooming, and take pride in the fact that she had helped rescue it.
Right now, however, it was anything but lovely. Notched two-by-fours, pitched at a steep angle and wedged into the lawn, propped up the sagging porch roof. Four banks of windows, two on each floor in the matching two-story wings on either side of the porch, stared blankly at the bare yard above overgrown, scraggly juniper bushes. Blistered and peeling paint revealed weathered clapboards, and the lower half of one of the corner boards was missing.
As Emmie climbed the porch steps, the rotted wooden treads gave a little under her weight. The steel front door—number one on the mental list she’d started of things that needed to be replaced—was open despite the cold, and orange extension cords snaked from the house to the work vans in the pitted driveway.
She stepped over them into a foyer as wide as the front porch. The hardwood floor had been worn down to a dull gray. The wall plaster was dinged, the paint smudged and stained. Sheets of plywood and more two-by-fours leaned against the wall, nearly blocking the hallway that went straight to the back of the house, likely to the kitchen. The foyer was empty.
When the noise of a power saw ceased momentarily, she tentatively called, “Hello?” No answer. She tried again. “Hello!”
“Yeah!” came a familiar voice. “Emmie?”
“Yes!”
“Up here. Watch your step.”
She grasped the ornate banister, which wobbled precariously, and took the stairs cautiously. On the upstairs landing, which seemed large enough to be a room all on its own, several workmen in steel-toed boots, sawdust-covered jeans, T-shirts, and tool belts were merrily destroying their surroundings. Emmie always wondered if some construction workers got into the business because they enjoyed making really big messes.
“Graham?”
“Over here!” His voice came from one of the bedrooms at a distance; she excused herself and made her way past the men, who had to stop what they were doing so she didn’t get walloped by a flying sledgehammer.
Emmie stuck her head into the doorway and was startled to see Graham, among more workers, a reciprocating saw in hand.
“Hi,” he said over his shoulder as he knelt in front of a wall that was little more than bare studs with a few scraps of lath clinging to them. “Be with you in just a second.” And he neatly sliced through a few beams in less than a minute. Emmie’s eyebrows crept toward her hairline—not because of the handsome forearms in view, as Graham had rolled up the sleeves of his chocolate-brown fine-wale corduroy shirt for the task, but because she didn’t expect to find him immersed in the actual carpentry end of things. She expected him to be the idea-guy type of architect, visiting sites under construction but not staying very long and, if he did set up camp, hunkered down behind his laptop in a quiet corner.
Graham handed the power tool to a nearby worker and brushed off his clothes as he approached Emmie. “Making this room a bit bigger,” he explained. And the workers continued to slice through the timbers, making two small bedrooms into one. “We modern home dwellers do like a lot of space, don’t we?”
Suddenly Emmie found herself a little shy around him. “I guess so,” she said hoarsely. She cleared her throat.
“Let me show you around.” He led the way back through the construction zone and down the stairs. “Let’s start at the beginning.”
Graham eagerly led her through the first floor. The two front rooms, one on either side of the foyer, were large and airy, despite the fact that they were both painted dark green. Both had fireplaces; one appeared to have been used as a parlor, the other a library, as it was lined with bookcases. A dining room lay beyond the parlor, between it and the kitchen, but behind the library were two unusual, smaller rooms side by side, off a perpendicular hallway, that Graham called “mystery rooms.”
By Design Page 10