Blueprints: A Novel (3 page)

“They want the Weymouth acreage,” he said, referring to the largest privately owned parcel in town.

“It’s not even on the market,” Jamie argued, though she knew that preemptive buys, negotiated directly with the seller, were common. “Is it?” she asked on an uneasy note.

“Not yet. But Mildred Weymouth has been dead nearly a year, and her kids can’t agree on what to do with the place, much less afford the upkeep. The grounds have gone to shit, and property taxes are in default. Mildred’s trustee says they have no choice but to sell.” With a soft whistle and both hands on his mug, Roy sat back. “Thirty acres of prime wooded land? Pretty tempting.”

Seriously,
Jamie thought. Speculation had run wild since Mildred Weymouth’s passing, and Jamie was deep in the mix. She envisioned a hybrid community of single-family homes and condos, all developed by MacAfee Homes. “We can outbid the Barths.”

Roy checked his phone, put it down. “They’ll drive up the price.”

That was a problem, Jamie knew, but nothing MacAfee Homes couldn’t handle. A single Barth moving to town didn’t supplant the power of three generations of MacAfees who had lived here forever.

Roy proceeded to say as much in different combinations of words, and all the while, the little voice in Jamie’s head was saying,
Come on, Dad. We could have discussed this at the office. Why here? Why now?

Their breakfast arrived, but she barely looked. Teasing—not scolding, never scolding—she said, “This wasn’t why you wanted to see me before I saw Mom.”

Roy smacked the ketchup bottle over his omelet. “Hell, no. I only thought of it because that Barth was right there.” Setting the ketchup aside, he softened. “I hear you saw Taddy the other night. Sorry I missed you. I was at the selectmen’s meeting. How was he?”

Jamie gave a helpless smile. “Adorable. He calls me Mamie. I love that he’s talking.”

“Mostly he says
no.
Jessica’s struggling with that.”

“She seemed okay to me.”

Roy frowned. “I’m talking tantrums. She has no idea what to do when he throws himself on the floor and kicks and screams.”

“But all kids do that. Sometimes it’s the only way they can express themselves. I saw one of his tantrums. It was actually pretty cute—I know, easy for me to say, since I leave when the going gets tough.” But that couldn’t be why her father had wanted to see her, either. “So, Dad. You got me here good and early.”

“The early was your doing.”

“And you know why.” Caroline.

Ignoring the bait, Roy checked his phone, this time swiping once, then again. It wasn’t for work, Jamie knew. He was checking Twitter and sports news. “There’s a good point guard on the summer league team,” he murmured, “but if the Celts don’t trim their roster to get under the max…” With a grunt, he returned the phone to the table, then brightened. “How’s Brad?”

Jamie sighed. There was nothing urgent about Brad—well, there was, but her father didn’t need to know that. “Brad’s awesome,” she said, as was expected.

“You know that I think of him like a son.”

How could she not? He said it often enough.

“He’s good for you, good for the business. Someday…”

He didn’t have to finish. Someday, Brad would head MacAfee Homes. He had come to the company straight from law school, hired as an assistant to the in-house lawyer, who had become pregnant soon after and opted to be a stay-at-home mom. Though barely thirty, Brad had taken over. That was three years ago, and he had more than proven himself since. In his quiet, competent way, he had shown an understanding of the business that went beyond law. Since Jamie had no interest in these things, once they were married, Brad would be right behind Roy in the line of succession.

Theo liked that idea.

So did Roy, who, while he certainly wasn’t ceding any real power to his future son-in-law yet, had already begun to share some of the more onerous tasks that he didn’t care to do himself.

Grinning in a self-satisfied way, he tapped the plate with his fork. “I have to tell you, the stars are aligned. I thought Brad was the icing on the cake, but now there’s more on top of that, and it is sweet indeed.” Fork in midair, he came forward, brown eyes alive. “I met with Levitt and Howe yesterday to discuss the future of
Gut It!
” Brian Levitt was the general manager of the station that hosted the show, Claire Howe the show’s executive producer.

Jamie was confused. As far as she knew, the future was decided. The fall project was in its final stages of production prior to taping, and the spring project had been picked, preliminary designs drawn, permits filed.

Roy’s mouth curved into a smug smile. “You’re the new host.”

She drew back in alarm. “Mom’s the host.”

“They say we need a change. Things have been the same for a while. It’s time for a facelift.”

Scrambling for an explanation, she said, “A facelift would mean changing the format or the graphics or maybe taking on different projects. But I’ve been giving them cutting-edge designs. Don’t they like them? Do they not want me to be the architect anymore?”

“They love your work, honey. They love
you.
That’s the point.” His fork urged her to eat her frittata.

Wishing it were bacon, she managed a small piece, but there was no comfort in it. She was thinking how much more satisfying the bacon would have been when he said, “They want you to continue doing what you’re doing
and
be the show’s host. It’s really a no-brainer. You’re beautiful and smart and talented. This would make your career, honey. You couldn’t ask for better exposure.”

“As an architect,” Jamie said, setting her fork down with care. There was a whole other problem to changing the host. “What I do is intellectual. I’m more of a paper person than a people person.”

“Who says? Not me. Not Claire. She gave you a leading role in several segments this season. Why do you think she did that?”

“Because the segments dealt with architectural design?”

“Because she was trying you out. You passed. You were great.” Chiding, he added, “You told her you loved it.”

Jamie might have, but specifics were a blur. “What else would I say? Claire’s our EP, and she’s tough. But talking about my own field is one thing. Talking about every other field in home construction is something else. And anyway,
Mom’s
the host,” she repeated, more loudly now, because this was the other half of the equation, and it was huge. “Our audience loves her. Ratings are good.”

Roy ran a napkin over his mouth. “They could be better.”

“Says
who
?” Jamie asked, frightened now, because, despite dozens of meetings with Levitt and Howe to prepare for the fall, no one had mentioned a ratings concern.

“Brian,” Roy said. “He speaks for the network, and when he speaks, we listen. He got the show off the ground ten years ago, and he’s been fighting for us ever since. If it weren’t for him,
Gut It!
wouldn’t be in half the markets it is. He’s our guardian angel.” His voice tightened. “He’s the GM, and when the GM has his mind made up, crossing him is not wise. We need
Gut It! Gut It!
is good for MacAfee Homes.”

The issue wasn’t money, Jamie knew. The station funded the show through grants and syndication fees. It paid MacAfee Homes on a contract basis, and MacAfee Homes paid cast members from that sum. What remained in company coffers was less than the profit from a major construction project—less than the condo complex they had built in Foxborough last year, and certainly less than the potential for development of the Weymouth land.

No.
Gut It!
was about exposure.

“Do you understand what a marketing boon the show is for us?” Roy asked, clearly irritated that he had to explain. “Easily half the work we get is from people who either watch it or know someone who does. And then there are endorsements. Tools, ‘as seen on.’ Gloves, ‘as seen on.’ And the books documenting each season? The Barths have brochures; we have stunning coffee table books. They’re a powerful marketing tool, but they’re worth zip if the show is canceled.”

“I know,” she conceded. “We need the show. But Mom should stay on as host.”

“It’s done, Jamie.” He lifted his phone, checked the face, put it down. “The station is not renewing her contract as host. She’s out.”

“Just like
that
?” Jamie asked, appalled by both suddenness and finality. She knew the station could do it. But out of the blue? With no warning? That was no way to operate. Forget that Caroline was Jamie’s mother; she was a human being who had basically shaped
Gut It!
with her bare hands. “Aren’t our terms with the station meant to be negotiated? Can’t we call our agent?” When Roy gave her an arch look, she winced. “Our
agent
thought this was a good idea?”

“He understands how things work.”

“And how is that?” she asked quietly, but Roy got the point.

Blunt now, he held her gaze. “We’re targeting a younger demographic.”

Jamie wanted to weep. She had known this was his bottom line—of course it was—but hearing the words was something else.

“We want to win the couple buying a first home,” he went on, “or the gold-mine techno-kids, or the Gen-Xers with a growing family.”

“They think Mom is too old.”

“I didn’t say that.”

But it’s what you mean,
said her little voice.
It’s what you always mean.
Jamie loved her father, but she had no illusions. When his marriage to Caroline floundered, Roy had blamed his infidelities on her age and appearance, claiming that she had “let herself go,” that he needed a more sexy wife. His second one was ten years his junior. His third was ten years younger than that.

“This isn’t me, honey,” he insisted. “It’s Brian and Claire.”

“But you can convince them they’re wrong,” Jamie pleaded. Her father was a consummate salesman. He could convince anyone of anything. “Mom is a master carpenter with incredible people skills. She’s authoritative. She’s experienced. She’s reassuring.”

“She’s fifty-six.”

“That’s not old.”

“For television it is. Age makes a difference.”

“She looks
fabulous.
”

“She looks fifty-six.”

“And not only does she
look
great,” Jamie rushed on, panicked on her mother’s behalf, “but her work gets better and better. She’s just hitting her stride.”

Roy bounced an irritated glance at the window, then whined, “No one’s asking her to retire. Brian and Claire want her to stay on the show. She just won’t be its public face. TV needs young.”

“Roy needs young,” Jamie blurted out, because her little voice simply couldn’t control the frustration, to which her father shot her a
watch it, honey
look. She might have taken it back, purely for the sake of keeping peace between them, if she hadn’t had a sudden, awful thought. “Oh hell, Dad. Are you breaking this to me while someone else breaks it to Mom? Is someone at the house right now telling her—like, giving her the birthday present from hell—because today
is
her birthday, you know that?”

“Yes, I know it. And no, no one’s there. I wanted to talk to you about how to break it to her.”

“Well,
I
don’t know,” Jamie cried, feeling helpless. “How do you tell a woman she’s too old for her dream job? Because that’s what this is, Dad. Mom stayed with carpentry even when other opportunities opened up for women, because carpentry is what she loves. Then she got roped into hosting
Gut It!
She didn’t want to do it at first, remember?” There had been an outside host the first season, but the chemistry was off, and Caroline had spontaneously filled in the gaps. “It was like she discovered strengths she didn’t know she had.”

“So will you.”

“But Mom knows construction—I mean,
knows
it. She can as easily help frame a house as carve a crown molding. I can’t be on a roof the way she is. I hate heights.”

“She or Dean will narrate those parts.”

“But those parts,” Jamie said with air quotes, “are ninety percent of the series. Framing, plumbing, heating, wiring—you name it, she can explain the entire process in lay terms. I can’t do that. And handling the cast? Calming them when they’re rattled? Mom has stature. We respect her
precisely
because of how long she’s been doing this.” When he said nothing, she whispered, “How can you ask me to kick her out?”

“This is about the survival of the show.” He returned to his breakfast.

“What about Mom?” Jamie asked softly. When he simply continued to eat, she begged, “Fix this, Dad. Make them change their minds.”

Midway through a triangle of toast, he said, “Honestly, Jamie. I want this for
you.
”

“I don’t want it.” The words simmered over a backdrop of utensils, kitchen activity, and conversation. Jamie had never actively challenged Roy before. Even when she saw his face harden—even when she recognized the look as one he usually gave Caroline—she didn’t soften her words. No, no, no, she didn’t want to take sides, but if ever there was cause, it was now.

Eyes drilling hers, he sat back in the booth. “That wasn’t the impression you gave Claire two weeks ago when she asked how you would handle the objections of the historical society to the new project.” Jamie blinked, feeling used, but he wasn’t done. “Or when she asked your opinion on those reluctant neighbors, and you assured her you could bring them into the fold. You knew where this was headed.”

“Someday, maybe, but not
now.
”

“Yes, now. It’s about leadership. Tennis, architecture—hell,” he said glancing at her blouse, “the way you dress—you’re a natural competitor. It’s what you do.”

“Not against Mom.” She didn’t want to fight with Roy. Did
not
want him displeased. She had never, not once, criticized him for criticizing Caroline. She had certainly never said a word about the divorce. But punishing Caroline solely because of the date on her driver’s license was unfair, and using Jamie as the tool to do it only made it worse. Lifting her mug, she took refuge behind it, sipping, as she struggled.