By Design

by Denker, Jayne

  She also barely acknowledged her father’s return from his vacation, and Wilma’s as well. While she brought her boss up to date on the status of their various clients, Wilma, sensing a change in her but unsure of the cause, eyed her suspiciously. He didn’t say much of anything, however, except, “Here. This is from Travis,” as he dropped a cheesy tiki statue on her desk. The thing’s wooden grimace drew a smile out of her, and she positioned it next to her stapler.

  About an hour later, however, a bellow of “Emmaline!” came from behind her, bringing their stilted detente to an end.

  “What, may I ask,” he said with a sniff, his voice dripping with disdain, “is . . . this?”

  She turned around to find Wilma standing halfway between her and the back of the office, dangling something from his fingers like a dead rat. Her old, broken bra.

  Before she could speak, he blurted out, his face turning a fascinating shade of oh-so-last-decade dining room crimson, “What in God’s name have you been doing in my absence?”

  At this point, the Old Emmie would have hurriedly come up with some excuse, obsequiously apologizing and babbling some long-winded tale of how her bra came to be squirreled away in the vanity. (How had he found it? Why was he rooting around at the back of the cabinet? Then again, maybe it was best not to know.) But not now. The New Emmie—the also depressed, Graham-less, and homeless Emmie—was feeling more self-destructive than apologetic. She shrugged and went back to her work. She knew that giving Wilma the blank expanse of her back would really get him going, and she couldn’t resist tipping him over the edge. Keeping her eyes on her computer screen, she teased, “You don’t really want to know that, do you, John?”

  “Emmaline,” he said in a choked voice, as if the bra had come to life and was now throttling him, “if I find that you have been using this office to . . . to engage in some . . . sordid . . .” He couldn’t even finish, but Emmie got the gist of what he was trying to say.

  She almost laughed. The office! Why hadn’t she thought of that? Well, probably because it was the last place she’d want to do anything of the sort. Not even Graham’s magnetic draw could get her to consider that. But she gave her boss an evil grin over her shoulder and said, “I’ll never tell.”

  “Emmaline!”

  For a split second she thought he really was going to choke to death—or have a heart attack. He’d gone from early twenty-first-century dining room red to an alarming exterior-accent aubergine. Emmie didn’t really want to be responsible for his demise (despite her frequent daydreams to the contrary), so she said hurriedly, “Relax, John. My bra broke when the Hudsons were here, and I didn’t want it to be sitting there on display in the bathroom wastebasket, so I hid it in the vanity. I just forgot to get rid of it. All right?”

  The cartoon steam whistle Emmie thought she could hear accompanying his rising blood pressure faded, as did his unusual color. When it was back down to a mere powder-room muted-currant red, he started to turn away with a disgusted, “What else I’m going to find in the dark recesses of this place, I’m afraid to think—” when Emmie cut him off.

  “You know, John,” she snapped, “you could say thank you.”

  “For what? For leaving your undergarments all over the office?”

  “For holding down the fort, when I could have been on vacation myself.” She didn’t say that it was only a short drive to Albany with Graham; it would have been like a trip to Paris to her. “For nailing down new clients—the Hudsons—for you, while you were gone,” she said, thinking, And you have no idea how much of that was my doing. “And,” she muttered, turning back to her desk, “for putting up with your crap.”

  “Pardon me?”

  Oh, yeah, that was a bit much. But it had been a long time coming. So she went with it. Spinning her chair around to look him squarely in the eye, she said, quite clearly, “You heard me. For putting up with your crap, I said. And you dish out plenty.”

  Wilma’s color started rising again. “You . . . could be replaced . . . so easily,” he hissed.

  She grabbed her purse off the floor and stood up. “You couldn’t get anyone else to last more than a day and a half, and you know it. Let’s cut to the chase: You’re a pain in the ass. Everybody thinks it, even though very few people actually say it. To your face, that is. You should be grateful I’ve put up with you this long. Plus I’ve brought in two—no, three—clients for you in the past few months, and you haven’t even bothered to say thank you, let alone give me any additional responsibility or, God forbid, a bonus. So who’s in the wrong here?”

  “Three clients? What in the world are you talking about? You’ve done no such—”

  She ticked them off on her fingers. “Annette Polschuk.” Wilma crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. “The Hudsons.” He added a scoffing noise. “And Graham Cooper.”

  He pounced on that. “I’ll have you know that Graham Cooper sought me out because I’m the best in the business.”

  “Graham Cooper sought you out because he’d heard of you, but he signed with you because he wanted me,” she said, her voice tripping over tears she didn’t think she still had left inside. “And don’t you forget it.” She stomped over to the coatrack. “And, not that I owe you any explanation, but I’m going over to Mr. Cooper’s house now, in fact, to check on the painters’ progress. Then I’m going to lunch. A long lunch. I’ll be back when I’m back.”

  Emmie had been avoiding Graham’s work site, but she had to go there now, and not for the reason she gave Wilma. She had received a check—a very generous one—from the insurance company, and she had already decided to sign the entire thing over to Graham. She knew that the hours his workers were putting in on her house, including overtime, even on Saturdays, to get it back into shape as quickly as possible were costing him a fortune, not to mention slowing down his own renovation. And although she knew he was a man of his word and would stick to his promise of fixing her house for free—no matter that their relationship had imploded almost before it began—she couldn’t expect him to be that generous.

  Her stomach was in knots on the way over, but she didn’t see Graham’s car parked out in front of the house. In fact, there wasn’t another soul in sight—they’d all knocked off for lunch. Perfect. She could leave the check on Graham’s makeshift desk in the front room.

  Emmie pushed open the front door she’d found at her favorite architectural salvage company. It was bare, stripped of all the layers of old paint and sanded smooth. She and Graham had discussed painting it a glossy forest green, but that hadn’t been done yet. The foyer smelled strongly of paint stripper; the pocket doors were leaning up against the wall, cleaned up and repaired, waiting to be stained and reinstalled in the library and parlor doorways. She wandered through the house, astonished at the progress the workers were making in record time. Although Emmie was glad Graham wasn’t around at the moment, she couldn’t bear the thought that, about eight months from now, the house would finally be finished, and she’d have no connection to him at all. That would be the end of it—of them, or the possibility of them. Completely. He would be off in Julietland, and she would be . . . Where, exactly? She didn’t know.

  Emmie slipped into the master bedroom and shut the door with a muted snap. She had every right to be in the room, but she still felt like an interloper. She leaned against the closed door, remembering how Graham had pressed her up against it, had kissed her so passionately. She refused to cry again. Her makeup costs had been going through the roof lately.

  The room was empty, except for a pile of paint-spattered canvas drop cloths. The old, faded wallpaper had been stripped, the ceiling and wall plaster repaired, and the walls sanded smooth. She had gone back and forth for the longest time, trying to decide on paint or wallpaper to replace the forget-me-nots. Graham had voted for paint—a deep, rich color, something sensuous, he had said—and the way he had rolled the words around on his tongue had made her heart flutter. Hypnotized by his warm baritone, she could barely stammer h
er professional opinion of adding a very subtle faux finish to give the walls some depth. He had been open to that. So the walls were going to be a rich, burnished copper, accented by the lightest of tan brush strokes that wouldn’t stand out unless you were looking for them, up close. The colors would complement the bricks of the repaired fireplace perfectly. Even now, just the thought of spending an evening in that room, in a vast canopied antique bed, with horn-shaded wall-sconce lights dimmed, the moon hanging outside the bank of windows, the fire glowing in the shadows, made her swoon . . . or perhaps it was the thought of spending an evening in there with Graham more than the trappings. Of course, having him there among all that other stuff would be the best scenario of all. She wasn’t greedy. Much.

  She shook herself. Didn’t matter. Wasn’t going to happen. Not now, not ever. Get used to it, she ordered herself, and opened the bedroom door. There was no reason to spend another second there; it wasn’t healthy to remember Graham’s kisses, or to fantasize about a future that was about as likely as her getting a chance to decorate the governor’s mansion.

  She stepped into the hall—and there was Graham, on the top step of the staircase, looking as shocked as she felt. Every nerve ending in her body went on high alert. She felt like she had been caught, even though she hadn’t been doing anything wrong. Sure enough, Graham glanced at her, then at the doorway to the bedroom, obviously wondering what she had been doing in there.

  “I, uh . . . I was just,” she stammered, “you know . . .” Thinking of you naked. “Checking the walls. They’re nice and . . . smooth . . . I think the walls will take the paint really well . . . now.” Oh, God, shut up. Her face felt like it was on fire. She sputtered to a halt and cleared her throat slightly.

  “Hi,” he said. He looked more sad than angry, but no matter what his emotion, his guard was certainly up.

  “Hi,” she answered, but couldn’t form more words. Finally she managed, “How . . . how’s it going?”

  “Fine.”

  Fine. It was quite evident that everything was most certainly not fine. “Okay. Good.”

  “The guys are at lunch,” he said.

  “I’m here to see you, actually.”

  Was it her imagination, or did he brighten up a little? “Oh?”

  “Yeah, I . . .” She wanted to throw herself on his mercy, fling her arms around him, and beg him to take her back. But she didn’t. New Emmie wouldn’t let her. She kind of hated New Emmie at the moment. “I came here to give you this.” And she took a step toward him, holding the envelope containing the check at arm’s length. He looked at it for a moment, then took it from her slowly.

  He glanced into the envelope and said, “Emmie, I told you—”

  “I know. No charge. But I told you that I wanted to pay you for your trouble, so here it is. Please take it.”

  Graham studied her. She knew he wanted to seize on her cruelly distancing words “pay you for your trouble,” but he refrained. Instead he said, patiently and not unkindly, “We’ve gone over this. This is way too much.” He almost smiled. “This isn’t just for rebuilding your house; you’re also supposed to use it to buy furniture and replace your personal items.”

  “I know that,” she replied, somewhat irritated that he was treating her as though she were as stupid as . . . well, Juliet. But the last thing in the world she wanted was to cruise her usual haunts for an authentic iron bedstead with the springs still intact, or an armoire with a vintage shellac finish or the original milk paint. The way she felt, she might as well just order a dozen items of flat-pack furniture from IKEA and have done with it. She really didn’t care.

  He just looked at her, silent, until she sighed and said, “Fine. Then I’ll give you two thirds of it.”

  “Nope. Too much.”

  “Three quarters, then.”

  “You’re going the wrong way.”

  “One more word out of you and the only thing I’m going to keep is the spare change.”

  She definitely saw the corner of his mouth turn up a little bit that time. Finally he held up his hands in surrender. “All right,” he said. “Deposit that and let’s go with a third. Which is still too much.”

  Emmie sighed in frustration. “Half.”

  He acquiesced. “Okay.”

  Another pause. To fill it, Emmie blurted out the first neutral thing she could think of. “Did the kitchen counter come in yet?”

  Graham’s half smile failed, as he likely was disappointed to be talking work. “Not yet. Early next week, they said.”

  Emmie nodded slowly. “Okay. Good.”

  “Uh . . . the guys reinforced the staircase and put the new spindles in yesterday. Did you see them?” She looked past him—yep, those were spindles. “They did some good work, don’t you think?”

  She nodded, then said, “I should go—” and started to move past him.

  But Graham stepped in front of her. “Wait. Please. I . . . was going to ask you to do something for me. For the house.” She waited. “I know we’ve talked over pretty much every detail, but I realized there’s one thing that we haven’t covered.”

  Emmie wracked her brain to figure out what he was talking about. They had conferred on every point—every stick of furniture, every accessory, every color for the walls, every roll of wallpaper, every light fixture, every tile, every appliance. There wasn’t one thing they had left out. Was there?

  He glanced past her, at the door she had just exited. “Can you outfit the master bedroom—a bed, mattress, chairs, chests, lamps, whatever else you can think of?”

  “I thought you said you were going to use the furniture you had. Did I get that wrong?”

  “No, you’re right—I did say that. But I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Okay. Sure,” she stammered. “What sort of style did you have in mind?”

  “Why don’t you take care of it?”

  “What?”

  “Just . . . whatever you like best. What you would want to, uh, wake up to. As a woman,” he rushed to add.

  Well, that last bit sure was a pin in the ol’ balloon, she had to admit to herself. For a split second she thought . . . but no. He was asking not for the opinion of Emmie Brewster, Erstwhile Girlfreh, but the opinion of Emmie Brewster, Female, Generic. Humph.

  “I see,” she said, while inwardly she groaned, Are you trying to kill me? Selecting furniture by pretending to be the mistress of the house, and then wondering who was going to benefit from her artistic skill and personal preferences in the long run, was going to make her crazy.

  “Okay,” he breathed, with a tight smile. “Great. Thanks.”

  Their conversation essentially over, they both stood there, knowing that it was time for Graham to go back to work and for Emmie to leave, but neither one moved. Emmie fidgeted. “Um . . . I . . . I’m surprised to see how much progress the guys have made on the master bedroom.”

  “Oh. Yeah,” Graham said, shoving his hands in his pockets. His nervous gesture. “I asked them to. I liked your design so much, I really wanted to see what it would look like, finished. You know?”

  Emmie didn’t know. These were not the sentiments of a professional architect. Those guys were usually more interested in underlayment. Drainage. Supporting walls. Fluidity of form. Making a house strong and sturdy and built to last. They were never preoccupied with finishing touches—not till it was time, anyway. Emmie didn’t want to add to her thoughts, That’s why I love this man. That wouldn’t do. At all.

  As if from a great distance, a phone started ringing, but that didn’t rouse Emmie, who found herself mesmerized by the steady gaze of his deep blue eyes.

  “I think that’s yours,” he said quietly.

  She blinked. After a moment, her brain caught up, and she pulled her cell out of her coat pocket. “It’s John. I . . . I have to go.”

  She stuffed the phone back in her pocket without answering it and forced herself to keep her eyes downcast as she moved past Graham. She couldn’t get caught up in his gaze ag
ain.

  And suddenly Graham said in a rush, “Emmie, please. Talk to me. I miss you—”

  She opened her mouth, not sure what was going to come out—a rejection? a desperate “I miss you, too”?—when there was another sound. This time his cell phone was ringing.

  He looked at the screen, then at her. “It’s John.” She started to shake her head, to tell him not to answer, but he pressed a button and said, “Graham Cooper . . . Oh, hello, John. Emmie? Yes, she’s here . . . Did you try her phone? . . . Oh.” He glanced at Emmie. Her eyes must have been as big as saucers, because he said to Wilma, “Well, you know, I think she’s busy with . . . er . . .” Emmie mimed a roller in the air. “Washing windows?” Emmie rolled her eyes and pretended to paint the wall nearest her. Graham tweaked to it. “I mean, with the painters right now . . . Yeah. Can I give her a message? . . . Okay, John. Will do.”

  When he ended the call, Emmie asked, “Did he sound angry?”

  Graham looked concerned. “Yeah, he did. He said he wants you back at the office right away.”

  She swallowed heavily; apparently Wilma was ready for Round Two. “I’d better go.”

  “I think I should come with you.”

  She shook her head, incredulous. “Graham . . . why? What in the world could you do?” He opened his mouth but remained silent, closed his lips, shrugged. She went on, softly, “You’re doing it again.”

  “Doing what again?”

  “Trying to protect everyone, fix everything.”

  He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “What am I . . . ? Are you serious—you don’t see this?” She took a breath and decided to dive in, but leave Juliet out of it this time. “Look at how you fill your life: You fix everything. Houses. People. You’re constantly trying to single-handedly save the world.” Graham started to protest, but she rushed on, “You do. Even now—you’re probably completely furious with me, and still you want to help fix something for me that isn’t even your fight.”