By Design

by Denker, Jayne

  Graham explained, “Honestly, I don’t know what these back rooms were—maybe a ladies’ parlor? An office? No idea. This house isn’t very . . . traditional. It might have started off as Greek Revival, but after a century of alterations . . .” Emmie nodded. “And I like it for that very reason.”

  As he quickly led Emmie back into the central hallway, she smiled to herself—he was like a little kid showing off his toys, so excited. Well, she could see what he loved about it. “Good bones” was the standard real estate catchphrase. No matter how ugly or run down a house was, if it had “good bones”—large rooms that “flowed” well, a solid foundation—you could make something of it. And she already wanted to make something of this place, too.

  And then he pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen. Emmie winced as she stepped over the threshold and straight into the 1970s. Dark brown fake-walnut pressboard cabinets surrounded her, making the space feel smaller than it really was. The appliances were all that special shade of avocado specific to the era. The single-sheet linoleum flooring was curling under itself where it met the chipboard baseboards, also fake walnut. The wallpaper was late twentieth-century ick—giant yellow daisies over avocado and orange stripes. “Er . . .”

  “I know.”

  Emmie nodded appreciatively. “Orange countertops. I hear they’re coming back in style. Really.”

  “Yeah, I read that in last month’s Architectural Digest.” He grinned at her, and her stomach did a backflip.

  She followed him through the Kitchen of Horrors to view the butler’s pantry (blessedly untouched by “modern improvements”), back porch (more beat up than the front porch), and, unfortunately, a powder room located way too close to the cooking area. Graham informed her that the powder room was going to be relocated. She firmly approved.

  Back upstairs, she and Graham poked their heads into the various bedrooms, most of them small, except for the one that had just been expanded, and the bathroom with fifty-year-old fixtures—a shallow ceramic bathtub in a strange shade of turquoise, and a freestanding sink, precariously supported by corroded metal legs, with a bowl that was supposed to be the same color as the tub but didn’t quite match. The bathroom still reeked of a strong soap, even though the house hadn’t been lived in for years.

  Graham said, “We’re pretty sure there’s a bar of Irish Spring behind the wall. First contractor to find it and relocate it to the next state wins a prize.”

  They ducked out of the bathroom as quickly as possible, and Graham led her to the last bedroom. The door, opposite the top of the stairs, was shut. He put his hand on the ornate, tarnished brass knob and said, “Get a load of this.”

  He pushed open the door and ushered her inside. Emmie, braced for an unpleasant shock along the lines of the kitchen and the bathrooms, gasped. Spread across almost the entire back expanse of the house, the massive bedroom was stunning, even in its present dilapidated state. The first thing that caught her eye was a fireplace, the bricks over the opening blackened, the mantel worn, but . . . a fireplace. In the bedroom. Emmie was ready to move in right then and there. Two walls were made up entirely of windows. The only place available for a bed was to the right of the door, opposite the south-facing windows, so the spot was graced with year-round sunlight. Built-in cupboards wrapped all the way around the spot for the bed, from the closet door on the far side to the bedroom door and all the way to the ceiling. They were worn and in need of refinishing, but their effect, of real wood paneling, was rich and dramatic.

  Emmie took a few steps farther into the room and turned her face up to the thin winter sun, imagining how warm and bright it would be only a few months from now, with the strengthening sunlight making it feel like spring in the room, even as winter hung on for dear life outside.

  “You like it?” Graham asked.

  Emmie closed her eyes and nodded, smiling blissfully, thinking about what it would be like to wake up to the view of the backyard every morning, the sun shining down on the fruit trees that peppered the gentle swell of the acre behind the house . . . being served breakfast in bed by a lady’s maid . . . the master of the house (just for the sake of argument, that role could be played by Graham) beside her . . .

  Emmie let herself get lost in her daydream for so long that, when she noticed the silence in the room, she jumped. She shook herself, opened her eyes, and looked over at Graham. He was staring at her. She blushed furiously. No wonder Wilma hardly ever let her out by herself. Graham must think she was a complete loony.

  But he just smiled. “The room suits you.”

  And then came a little . . . hitch. He was silent, Emmie was silent. His mouth clamped shut in a straight line as he looked at her, then glanced away uncomfortably. Emmie had no idea how it had happened, but something . . . extra . . . was there in the room with them. And it wasn’t the ghost of a lady’s maid.

  “So—”

  “Right.”

  “—that’s pretty much it, unless you want to see the attic,” he said, swinging his arms a bit too jauntily, startling Emmie. Graham was usually so serenely contained that his sudden random, jerky movements were jarring.

  “I can skip the attic for now,” she said. The house was completely quiet. Apparently the workers were taking a break. She wondered how long it had been since their sawing and sledgehammering had fallen silent—had they just stopped, or had she been so caught up in spending time with Graham that she hadn’t noticed the house had gone quiet ages ago?

  As they descended to the first floor again, Graham said from behind her, “So . . . what’s the Emmie story?”

  “The what?”

  “The Emmie story. You know—”

  At the bottom of the stairs, she turned to him and made a face. “You mean my Very Special Relationship with John?”

  Graham laughed, which made her toes tingle. She loved his open, genuine smile. “Not necessarily. But I do wonder how you got there, sure.”

  “Uh”—she breathed uneasily—“well, er, I was born here, grew up here.” She skipped over high school so she didn’t have to mention Juliet, and went on, “I got my degree at Westfall College, just up the road—”

  “Oh, yeah,” Graham cut in, “I know the place. I’m from Ostey, originally. That’s near there.”

  “Right! We used to do some serious drinking in—” Emmie winced. “I probably shouldn’t have told you that.”

  He shrugged. “We’ve all got our vices.” Ain’t that the truth, Emmie thought. As he directed her back into the library, he asked, “What about family? Brothers? Sisters?”

  “Nope, I’m an only,” she replied. “My dad lives here in town. My mom . . . passed last year.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “That’s about it. Pretty average, really.”

  “Oh, I think that’s the last word I’d use to describe—” Then something started pinging across the room. Graham said, “Excuse me a second,” and crossed to the window seat to pick up his phone.

  Hey now. What was that? As he read his text message, Emmie, thoroughly discombobulated by his last comment, retreated to the opposite end of the room, pretending to study the cobwebbed crown molding and the empty, dusty shelves. She leaned on the wall; after that kind of comment, she needed some support to remain standing. A bulge of dried-out plaster gave under her weight.

  “Sorry,” Graham said, putting his phone in his pocket and joining her on the other side of the room. “So. What do you think of the place?”

  Hang on—care to finish that last thought? she wondered. But he’d apparently moved on, so she just said, “I think it’s great.”

  “Now, Emmie Brewster, interior designer, there’s one thing I want to make clear,” he said, crossing his arms in front of him and rocking on his heels. “This is a very important project.”

  “Of course,” Emmie said in her best career-mode voice, feeling a little defensive at his lecturing tone.

  “What I mean is, it’s very important to me.”

&nb
sp; “Okay . . .” So he wants to impress the new owners. Who doesn’t? “Er, who are the clients, by the way?”

  He cocked an eyebrow and replied with the ghost of a smile, “Me.”

  “What?”

  “This is my house. I bought it.”

  “Wow.” After a pause, she added, “Good thing I didn’t make any rude comments about the crazy guy who bought this tumble-down rattrap.”

  “Good thing. And you know what this means, don’t you? Now you have to be nice to me.”

  She smirked at him, realizing that they were both recalling Saturday night’s conversation in the shadowed back room of Juliet’s new shop. Then, in all seriousness, she said, “It’s a great place, Graham. Really.”

  “It is, isn’t it? And . . . I want it to be done right. I want it to be perfect. Not that you won’t do your best—I know you will. But I just want to make sure you understand that I’m doing this for someone who’s very important to me.”

  Emmie stiffened. She could fill in the blanks there. Juliet? When the house was ready, was she going to leave her husband and move in here with Graham? That would explain why her McMansion didn’t look lived in, wasn’t decorated: She wasn’t planning on staying all that long. So this was going to be Juliet’s perfect house, with Juliet’s breathtaking sunny bedroom, and even a lady’s maid if Juliet wished it.

  But it didn’t matter. This was Emmie’s job. She would just have to forget that she was doing it for Juliet’s benefit. So she took a breath and looked at the handsome man before her—the man she had never had a chance with, because when they met he had already been dreaming of feathering this majestic nest for another woman. “Absolutely,” she said. “You can count on me. I will make this place . . . beautiful. Perfect.” For emphasis, she slapped her hand on the wall next to her.

  And suddenly, with a muted whoosh, the entire expanse of plaster detached itself from the lath, and the room was filled with a cloud of blinding, choking plaster dust.

  Chapter 10

  Emmie screwed her eyes shut, coughing, and stretched her hands out to feel her way to the doorway. She connected with Graham’s arm and he rasped out, “This way,” grasped her shoulders, and directed her out of the room.

  In the hallway, Graham bent over, his hands on his knees; Emmie leaned back against the wall. When their coughing subsided, Graham squinted up at her and broke out in a grin.

  “What in the world could possibly be amusing at this moment?” Emmie asked, her words punctuated by more coughing.

  “Come with me and I’ll show you.”

  He held out a hand and instinctively Emmie took it, realizing a split second later it was probably a bad idea. But she couldn’t pull away now, so she let him lead her down the hall and into the kitchen. A yellow and red water jug stood on the orange counter. Graham pulled two plastic cups out of a package next to the cooler, filled one, and handed it to Emmie, who drank gratefully, then filled the second for himself. After he had taken a couple of sips, he said, “Better?” She nodded, so he gestured toward the powder room. He squeezed in behind her and pulled the string on the light over the sink.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered as she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. Then she started to laugh. Her head, face, neck, and shoulders were white with dust, except for a Joker-like smile curving up from both sides of her mouth where her skin showed through—the line the plastic cup had made.

  “You know,” Graham said, “if you wanted to start knocking down the old plaster that badly, all you had to do was say so. I could have gotten you a mask and a sledgehammer.”

  Emmie could feel the warmth of his chest against her back as he smiled down at her in the mirror’s reflection. Suddenly the powder room was way too small for her comfort. She escaped to the larger expanse of the kitchen and busied herself brushing off her shoulders and the front of her coat. She heard Graham turn off the light in the powder room.

  Emmie bent at the waist and shook her hair out. “You don’t mind if I get a little of this on the floor, do you?”

  Graham ripped a few paper towels off a roll on the counter and dampened them with water from the cooler. “Look up,” he said, and he gently brushed the paper towels over her cheeks, chin, and nose. She sneezed, and Graham started to laugh. He seized her chin and commanded, “Hold still!”

  Emmie was extremely aware of the roughness of his fingers gently cradling her face. She tried to look everywhere but at him, but her gaze returned to his, and she forgot to breathe. He was staring at her again.

  Finally she said hoarsely, “Is it that bad?”

  He let go of her chin, shook out the paper towels, and started wiping his own face more vigorously. “Let’s just say you’re going to be sneezing white for a while.”

  “I’ll try to avoid run-ins with the DEA in the meantime.”

  She took a few more swipes at her coat front when Graham suddenly burst out, “Emmie . . .” in a different voice—rougher—and he seemed suddenly awkward. She looked up into his blue eyes, and those tiny multicolored butterflies behind her navel started doing the Macarena again.

  But whatever he was going to say was cut off by the sound of rushing feet in the hallway and a cry of “Daddy! Daddy!”

  Graham tore his eyes away from hers. “In the kitchen!” he called, and the swinging door flew open. A little girl in a bright yellow quilted jacket burst into the room. “There’s my girl!” he exclaimed, hugging her and planting a kiss on her cheek.

  She looked him up and down and exclaimed, “Daddy! What happened?”

  “Do I look funny?”

  She started giggling. “Yes! What did you do?”

  “Oh, it’s all part of the job.” The girl then noticed Emmie and became shy, wrapping her arms around her father’s thigh. He rested a hand on her head. “This lady’s name is Emmie. And guess what? She’s going to decorate your bedroom.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Emmie, this is my daughter, Sophie. Remember when I said I wanted to make this house perfect for somebody very important to me? Well, here she is.”

  Emmie looked from the little girl—oh, she had the same vivid blue eyes and dark hair as her father—to Graham and back again. This was who he was talking about? “It’s nice to meet you, Sophie,” she managed to say. “You’re going to have a really cool house pretty soon.” She couldn’t help but ask Graham, “All this space for just the two of you?” She had to know.

  He fidgeted. “Yes . . .” And then he said, stronger, “Yes. It’s complicated—”

  The kitchen door opened again, and a short, older woman entered, a little out of breath, carrying Sophie’s backpack. “You forgot this in the car, Sophia,” she said to the little girl.

  “Thanks, Annamaria,” Graham said to the woman, who nodded.

  She placed the backpack on the counter and stuffed her hands in her camel-hair coat pockets. “I see the place is treating you right already, Graham,” she said, looking him up and down.

  He brushed more plaster dust off his shoulders. “It’ll be worth it in the long run.”

  Annamaria looked skeptical. “If you say so.”

  Graham said to Emmie, “This is Annamaria, Sophie’s babysitter. Annamaria, this is Emmie, my interior designer.” The woman nodded to Emmie, and she returned the greeting as she thrilled at Graham calling her “my” anything. He said, “Annamaria’s a godsend—she really helps out when I’m working weird hours.”

  Or playing footsie with Juliet, Emmie added silently, her excitement at being called “his” evaporating in a blink.

  The woman waved a dismissive hand at him, embarrassed, and said, “You know, I can take Sophia to the dentist if you’re busy—”

  Graham was in the process of politely refusing her offer when Sophie approached Emmie. “Can I have yellow?”

  “What’s that, sweetie?”

  “Yellow. Can my room be yellow?”

  “Sure! We can make it any color you want.”

  Sophie smiled; one of
her front teeth was missing. “Yay. It’s my favorite color. All the other girls like pink, but I don’t.”

  A little rebel, Emmie thought. I like this kid already.

  Graham interrupted. “All right, you two schemers. We’ll have plenty of time to pick colors later. But right now, missy, you have to visit the dentist. I’m going to walk Emmie out to her car, and then you and I are going to hit the road, all right?”

  “All right,” she mumbled, pulling a face.

  Emmie bent down to whisper to Sophie, “I’ll bet you’re going to see Dr. Turner, aren’t you?” Emmie took a chance that Graham would have made sure Sophie went to the best pediatric dentist in town; some things never changed around here, the best dentists included. Sophie nodded glumly. “I happen to know she gives presents to good patients.” The little girl looked up, intrigued but cautious. “They’ve got a whole drawerful.”

  “Candy?” Sophie asked hopefully.

  Emmie rolled her eyes. “Now, do you really think a dentist would give out candy?”

  Sophie giggled. “I guess not.”

  “Tell Dr. Turner Emmie Brewster sent you. She’ll hook you up with the good stuff.” Emmie proffered her fist, and Sophie bumped it with her own small one.

  Then she looked eagerly at her father. “Daddy? Can we go now?”

  He smiled. “In a minute.”

  As Graham followed Emmie out the front door and down the rickety porch steps, he murmured, “Thanks for that.”

  She shrugged, embarrassed and awkward once again. At her car, he pushed his hands into his jeans pockets as the cold winter wind buffeted him.

  “You should get back inside,” Emmie said.

  “Yeah. I just . . . I wanted to . . .” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “When I said I was fixing up this house for someone special . . . it goes beyond just doing this for my kid. She’s . . . had a rough time lately. My . . . well, my wife died two years ago.” Emmie caught her breath. “Cancer. It was quick. So it was a shock.” Emmie started to express her sympathy, but Graham cut her off. “It’s all right. Really. We’re doing a lot better now. Not to say that it was easy. It was hell for both me and Sophie. But I’m not telling you this to get you to feel sorry for me or for her. I just . . . thought you should know,” he finished awkwardly.