by Leslie Caine
Before we’d had the chance to exchange more than a couple of mundane comments, Randy tromped back downstairs and announced, “Making good progress up there. You’d be even farther along, except we spent so much time today at the McBrides’. They’re applying Venetian plaster,” he continued. “It’s a lot of work.”
“What color?”
“A darkish, lightish green.”
I nodded. If he was so unable to describe a medium shade of green, the man surely didn’t write his own articles in Denver Lifestyles. Venetian plaster is not available in myriad hues. Sullivan was probably applying Behr’s Fox Glen, which, unfortunately for me, I’d yet to see come out poorly: the deep, rich hue could magically enhance a room with cooling and refreshing powers reminiscent of a desert oasis. I was sorely tempted to create friction between client and designer by suggesting to Kevin McBride that what would really tie Sullivan’s room design together would be a Salvador Dali–like melting-clock mural on his ceiling. . . .
Randy was eyeing the dining room table. “Nice cloth.”
“Thanks.” The fabric he was referring to happened to be a luxurious maroon-and-bronze patterned chenille, as soft as butterfly wings, which complemented the wall treatments magnificently. The thick fabric could encase the down comforter that the Hendersons already owned or serve alone as a bedspread during summer months. With maroon-and-gold cording on the four throw pillows—two bronze-colored velvet and two made from the duvet fabric—I was confident that my clients and I would love the finished results. Well, Debbie and I would love it. Mr. Death Valley would no doubt point out to me again that once his eyes were closed, the room was pretty much a solid black.
“This cloth goes great with the curtains,” Randy muttered, examining my nearly completed drapery panels. He’d used the word cloth twice now, when everyone in the industry referred to it as fabric. Was this man really editing a design magazine? “I like what I’m seeing in both rooms. You gals are neck and neck at this point.”
“Which gals are you referring to?”
“Gilbert and”—he made a downward flick of his wrist and added in a lisp—“Sullivan, of course, sweetcakes.” He chuckled.
“I have to tell you that I find gay jokes extremely offensive, Mr. Axelrod,” I said without stopping to think. I was shocked at myself for letting that slip out. Sullivan was surely the last person I needed—or wanted—to defend.
“Do you? And what if I have to tell you that you might have just cost yourself the contest?”
“Randy!” Myra cried.
He chuckled and gave my arm a painful squeeze. “Just kidding. I already told you I was going to be strictly impartial, didn’t I?” He shifted his focus to his wife. “Myra?” He snapped his fingers and pointed at the sewing machine. “You’re up, girl.”
I felt like grabbing the man by the collar and giving him a piece of my mind for treating his wife like a golden retriever, but Myra merely plopped down in the chair by the machine and asked cheerfully, “What am I sewing here, Erin?”
“You really don’t have—”
“Myra likes sewing. Says it relaxes her.”
“That’s true. I make most of my own dresses.”
“I’m impressed,” I said honestly, while making a quick assessment of the situation. My interests were best served by keeping my nose to the grindstone. That meant not wasting my time trying to enlighten an oaf like Randy Axelrod. And not allowing someone with unauthorized access to my personal history to yank me around like some mad puppeteer. That’s certainly what my mother would have advised. Ignoring Randy, I showed Myra the measurements for the new duvet.
With a sly grin Randy asked, “So tell me, Erin. Have you and your bro been working well together?”
“My ‘bro’?” I repeated, bewildered.
“Yeah, you know . . . Taylor Duncan.”
“That’s just a figure of speech, Erin,” Myra explained. She glared at her husband with laser eyes. “Randy uses it all the time. Don’t you, dear?”
“All the time.” He stared so intently at me that I got the impression it was a test of wills, so I just stared right back. I tend to like most people, and especially most people who share my passion in interior design. Randy Axelrod, editor of Denver Lifestyles or no, was an exception. “I see you ripped out the paneling. Did that go okay for you?”
He couldn’t have missed seeing the repair job during his tour of the room minutes earlier. That was even assuming he hadn’t already heard about the hole from Taylor or Kevin, let alone if he hadn’t put the hole there himself. Nevertheless, I replied breezily, “Just fine, thanks. No problems.”
Though I lacked a shred of hard evidence, or even soft evidence, I was now absolutely certain that Randy was the one who’d hidden my picture on the back of the aspen board with the intention of my discovering it.
“Glad to hear it.” He swiped some dots of perspiration off his brow. I realized suddenly that his face looked a little pallid. “Where’s the wood you pulled off the walls?” he asked me.
“Taylor stashed it in the back of his pickup, I believe. Why?”
“I’m gonna see if any of the boards are salvageable. They’re mine, after all. I was the one who picked ’em out and paid for ’em.”
“They came with the house,” Myra scolded over the whir and rhythmic chugging of the sewing machine. Her pressure on the pedal was steady and in perfect synchronization with her hands as she confidently fed the burnished material through the machine. It was obvious that this woman was better at sewing than I am—and I’m no slouch. “The wood from the paneling belongs to the Hendersons, and you know it, Randy. Same with their old curtains, so don’t get any ideas there, either.”
He snorted but made no reply. I decided that Myra had no idea about the booby-trapped paneling, whereas Randy wanted to find the one rigged board and ensure that the photograph had indeed been removed.
He took another swig of beer, then grimaced and glanced at the bottle. “This stuff tastes a little funny. Must’ve been a bad batch. I should take the whole six-pack back to the store and complain.” Again, he swiped at his damp forehead. “The alcohol’s making me dizzy.”
Without looking up from her work, Myra suggested, “You’ve been looking a bit tired all afternoon. Why don’t you go back home and rest?”
“Yeah, I think I’ll do that. See you gals later.”
The faux finish came out beautifully, much to Debbie’s and my delight. Carl’s response was, “Nice. Hell of a lot of extra work just to get a batch of streaks, though. Used to be a job like this would lead to the painter getting fired.”
Debbie patted him on the back and said, “Ah, yes, Carl, that’s got to make Erin feel just terrific. You’re quite the charmer, all right.”
Letting them bicker quietly, I found myself surreptitiously studying the room with an eye for ways that I could warm up and romanticize the space even further. Candles. Lavender incense. A mixed tape of Vivaldi and Marvin Gaye, maybe? When I was done, this room would be a snug refuge for Debbie Henderson, a room in which she could read, sleep, or just daydream.
To my utter lack of surprise, minutes later Carl declined to volunteer when I said that I could use some help hanging the wallpaper. He grumbled that he needed a break and was going to watch some TV in the basement. By then, Myra had finished sewing the duvet and pillows and called it a day, with my blessings. She’d done a wonderful job. She’d lined the vibrant fabric with thin sheets of cotton batting, which keeps pillows from getting lumpy, and attached the cording to the edges, up to the openings. All that remained of the sewing chores was stuffing the pillows and then hand-stitching their openings in the seams. The plump pillows and duvet would be truly sumptuous.
Wallpapering is a task that’s particularly conducive to conversation. A teacher of mine at Parsons once mentioned that he’d known of many couples who blamed their divorces on wallpapering stints, so perhaps those conversations aren’t always pleasant, but Debbie merely asked me to tell her abou
t the headboard, which seemed innocuous enough.
Their headboard would be the room’s unifying piece. Last week I’d found them a night table so exquisite that the instant my gaze lit upon it, I realized that if I were to drop dead that very minute, that night table was the item I would want to take with me so I could wrap my body around it for all eternity. Clients get a little freaked out when I describe their furnishings in those terms, so I merely explained to Debbie that their to-die-for transitional contemporary night table was crafted of tiger maple, whereas their very traditional showpiece chest was alder. Therefore, their new bed would be magnificently crafted from alder, but with warm, golden-hued tiger-maple accents. Or at least it was magnificently crafted in my mind’s eye. If Taylor managed to wreck that hand-selected lumber with its sumptuous pattern, Carl—by God—was going to have to fork over the bucks for my own craftsmen to redo the piece from scratch. “We’re going for the same distressed finish on the headboard that’s on your chest of drawers,” I told Debbie.
“Distressed finish, hey? That’s appropriate. I’m pretty distressed myself these days.”
“I guess the holidays have a way of doing that to people.” That was as noncommittal a response as I could think of at the moment. Perhaps I should have heeded my teacher’s warnings and insisted on doing this job alone. But then I hadn’t realized that decorating the Hendersons’ bedroom was going to be an emotional minefield. Debbie tucked her red hair behind her ear and muttered, “Why should the holidays be any different than any other time with Carl?”
“You’re having problems, I take it.” I wasn’t a good enough actress to feign surprise, but I didn’t have to fake my concern.
“It’s not easy playing second fiddle in your marriage. Especially when there aren’t even any children involved.”
I made a sympathetic noise. If she wanted me to understand what she was talking about, I knew she would elaborate.
“I guess he deserves some credit for finally agreeing that it was time to do something with our bedroom. And for hiring you,” Debbie added generously.
Reaching for my somewhat dicey arbitration skills, I said, “You and Randy did an absolutely fantastic job on the paint. It looks fabulous.”
“It sure does. And I already love the wallpaper. I’m so glad now that you stuck to your guns and put that up, in spite of whatever trauma it caused me earlier.”
I said nothing. I would much rather have kept the paneling and never discovered that damned picture.
That brought a question to mind. If Randy Axelrod had deliberately hidden my picture there for me to find, how could he have known that I would be the one to remove the paneling? Had I been too hasty to conclude that he was the culprit? Then again, he could have gotten me to find that picture either way; he could have easily claimed to notice that there was a loose board and feigned discovering it himself in my presence.
Aiming at safer conversational grounds, I said, “I hope Taylor is making progress on your furniture.”
“That sounds a bit like wishful thinking, unfortunately.”
“Do you know your husband’s stepson well?”
“Too well.” Debbie rolled her eyes. “Carl told me while we were painting that Taylor was the one who built that hiding spot behind the wall. He used it as a drug stash when he was house-sitting for us during a long vacation we took in Europe.” She sighed.
A new theory occurred to me, and my heart started hammering. Randy had referred to Taylor as my “bro.” Could I be Taylor’s older sister? Could Taylor have known that fact somehow and put my photograph where, for some unfathomable reason, he’d intended for me to find it? “So were the necklace and letters his as well?” I asked casually.
Debbie pursed her lips, then shook her head. “I doubt Taylor would have the energy or motivation to read a whole letter, let alone write one.”
She avoided my eyes. She knew more than she wanted to tell me.
Was Mom watching over me right now? If so, she was probably screaming at me to hold my tongue, but I had to know more. “Taylor is Carl’s ex-wife’s son, right?”
“Emily’s son. Yes. Emily and Carl were married for twelve years, and Carl treats that boy like his own son. Sometimes I think that Emily . . .” She sighed again. “Let’s just say that Emily and I don’t get along all that well.” She added in a slightly choked voice, “Not that it’s surprising, since we’re both in love with the same man.”
Now I understood her earlier remark about playing second fiddle. It wasn’t the first time I’d glimpsed the vicious battles that could rage between a man’s first and second wives. “I’m sorry, Debbie,” I said. “That must make it awfully hard on you, if she still hasn’t let go of him.”
She gave me a peculiar expression but merely replied, “The way Emily spoils Taylor, it’s lucky she only had the one son.”
Was there an emphasis on the word son? This was maddening: someone in this house’s intimate circle of visitors or owners knew more about my family tree than I did. I didn’t know Debbie well enough to confide in her, plus she clearly had troubles of her own. “Emily only had the one child?”
“Yes. And Taylor’s real father cut himself out of the picture right after he was born. From what I understand, they married young, split up . . . and then he split the scene.”
“I see.” If that was accurate, Taylor and I were probably not full siblings. I gritted my teeth. I was ignoring my final promise to my mother again by trying to guess my birth parents’ identity.
The doorbell rang, then the door opened, and a moment later, a voice called, “Don’t worry. It’s just me.”
“Come on up, Jill,” Debbie answered.
She swept into the room and greeted us both warmly. To my eye, Jill McBride was a refutation of the old saw that you can’t be too rich or too thin. Her face was very pretty, though, despite her apparent anorexia. She did a slow three-sixty, her eyes wide in delight. “These walls! The finish, the wallpaper! This bedroom is absolutely to die for! Are you putting up crown molding?” She touched my shoulder.
I couldn’t suppress a proud smile. “To match the trim of Debbie’s chest of drawers.”
Jill looked at Debbie. “The Guy Chaddock chest that I gave you last year?”
Blushing and averting her gaze, Debbie mumbled, “Mm-hmm.” I was stunned. For no apparent reason, Debbie had lied to me. She’d told me she’d bought that chest herself when she and Carl had first gotten married.
Jill clutched her hands over her heart. “Divine. Simply divine,” she gushed.
“And you should see the fabric,” Debbie said, mimicking Jill’s behavior by also touching my shoulder, although my feelings of camaraderie with Debbie were now greatly diminished.
“Oh, I did,” she replied. “I peeked at it on my way up the stairs. It’s absolutely yummy. Take a look at my eyes, ladies. I kid you not. They are positively green with envy.”
“Speaking of green, how’s your new room coming?” I asked.
“Quite nicely, thank you. Though to be honest, it’s much more in Kevin’s taste than in mine.”
Debbie clicked her tongue. “Carl doesn’t seem to have any opinion whatsoever when it comes to our house.”
“I know. You’re so lucky.” Jill lowered her voice and asked, “Is Carl here?”
“He’s glued to the TV set downstairs.”
“Good thing.” She took another step toward Debbie, then added, sotto voce: “Hate to tell you this, but she was here again.” Jill kept an eye on the stairs, as if fearful someone would come pounding up them any second.
“Emily?” Debbie asked with alarm.
Jill frowned. Then she nodded. “An hour ago. I spotted Emily across the street, talking to Taylor.”
Debbie grimaced. Looking at me, she explained, “Carl’s ex-wife is, as usual, trying to find an excuse to see Carl. Emily manages to come over whenever I’m not around. That’s the other reason Jill and I decided not to go to the spa today.” To Jill, she muttered, “Natura
lly, with me gone, she would use the excuse of her son’s being here all weekend to see Carl.”
“Well, rest assured, her plans didn’t work out this time. Carl’s been here with you, and I drummed up an excuse to pull Taylor away from her. I made it clear we were all far too busy to chat. For once, she took the hint and left.”
“Bless you!” Debbie said, giving her a little one-armed hug.
“Oh, don’t mention it, darling. You’ve done the same sort of thing with you-know-who on my behalf. Countless times.”
“I don’t know how you put up with it. Or why.”
Jill arched a nicely shaped eyebrow. “Well. Kevin has his other qualities. And we have a comfortable relationship.” She turned to me and chuckled. “My, but we’re giving you quite the unsolicited earful, aren’t we, Erin?”
“That’s quite all right. I’m just minding my own business.”
“Good for you, dear. Perhaps I’d better warn you, though, that you’re going to have to lean hard on your carpenter if you actually expect that boy to do anything resembling work. Steve Sullivan’s all but keeping Taylor in his back pocket. If you don’t do the same, he’ll do as little as possible on our room, but nothing whatsoever on yours.”
“That was nice of you to warn us,” Debbie said with a laugh. “Considering the circumstances, I mean.”
“You mean, considering the contest the men have going?” Jill flicked her wrist. “That’s their silly little diversion, not ours. There’s really no deadline now that we’ve already forced them to unveil their little surprise.”
“Except that my schedule for Monday is pretty full,” I interjected. I was keenly aware that, for the sake of my sanity, I needed to finish this bizarre job as quickly as possible. “And I’m sure that Steve has other jobs scheduled for Monday as well.”
Jill made an exaggerated “oops” face, then joked, “In that case, never mind. Rest assured that Taylor’s a regular whirling dervish and is painstakingly dividing his time right down the middle.”
“I guess I’d better go speak to him as soon as I’m finished.”