By Design (28 page)

Emmie crossed the street, flinching when she stepped onto the sidewalk where she had last seen Juliet and Graham together. Entering the shop was worse. She hadn’t been inside since the night of the winter festival, when Juliet had hauled her in there, and she had been so miserable . . . until her chat with Graham. Well, more specifically, until his breath first brushed her ear when he said, “I would still choose you.” Those words of his still gave her shivers.

The inside of the store, which was empty, didn’t look any different, despite the fact that Juliet had said, weeks ago, that Graham was going to draw up plans to rework the space. If the big construction hadn’t started yet, why did Juliet need Emmie
right now
? Probably to rub her nose in the whole Graham thing, she speculated, which sparked her irritation.

Emmie heard noises coming from the back room, so she called out tentatively, “Juliet? It’s Emmie.”

Juliet appeared almost instantly in the short hallway between the front and back rooms, clad in super-tight lavender velour track bottoms that belled out over her tiny feet, bright pink rubber gloves that extended to her elbows, and a white spaghetti-strap cami that showed off those toned arms that Emmie had been so jealous of when she saw her photo on Circle-O. Damned Web site. Emmie blamed it for all her trouble. She knew it wasn’t fair to blame an inanimate object—and a virtual one at that—but she couldn’t help it. Her mother had never trusted the Internet—she’d often said it was the root of all modern evils. Emmie used to laugh about it; now she had half a mind to agree with her.

Juliet beamed at her as though they were lifelong besties. “Emmie! I’m so glad you’re here. I’m just doing some cleaning. Come on back.”

She couldn’t bear to be in there with Juliet; she wanted the memory of her moment in that room with Graham to stay pure and Juliet-free. But Emmie had no choice, so she followed Juliet’s “Juicy”-labeled butt exactly where she didn’t want to go.

The early-afternoon sun streaming through the newly cleaned window on the back wall made the room almost unbearably bright—so different from the cold, shadowy place she remembered. Juliet started chatting as she leaned a mop against the wall, but Emmie was miles away, staring at the open door of the utility closet, where Graham had laughed at her for pretending that Avery was her boyfriend. Emmie shook herself, turned away from the memory, tried to focus on Juliet.

Whatever she had been rambling about, Juliet stopped when she saw Emmie’s face. “I
know
,” she said, which put Emmie on high alert. What? What did she know? Juliet looked around with a shudder. “I hate this back room, too. It has a weird vibe to it, don’t you think?”

If Emmie weren’t so despondent, she would have laughed. She hoped Juliet was picking up on some emotions she and Graham had generated and it was making her uncomfortable. But she just shrugged. “Nothing a little bit of paint and a new floor can’t fix.”

“Well, that’s why I’ve been working away here, trying to get a few layers of grime off of everything!” Juliet stripped off her rubber gloves with a
snap! snap!
that echoed in the empty room. “But now I want to talk about making it pretty!” she said eagerly. “What have you got for me?”

“Well . . . I’ve been pretty busy . . .”

“Oh, I heard, you poor thing,” Juliet commiserated, her blue eyes wide. “Graham told me the two of you have been working
so
hard on that house he bought!”

Oh, he did, did he?
Emmie thought.
What else did he tell you we’ve been working on, hmm?

Juliet carefully smoothed out her gloves and said, “Silly man, with such a crazy house that needs so much work. I don’t know why he bought that thing.”

Emmie gaped. Juliet’s dismissive tone made her blood boil. She wanted to shout,
He bought it for you!

“Do you know,” the other woman said, turning back to Emmie and propping the heels of her hands on the edge of the sink, “he won’t even let me see the place? It’s true! I’ve never been there.”

Emmie swallowed hard. “Why?”

Juliet let out one of her overly cheerful laughs. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s so awful that he’s embarrassed or something.”

“It’s coming together really well,” Emmie said in an even tone, trying to keep a lid on her fury. She had to change the subject before she took a swing at this tittering blond pixie. “So,” she said, “if you want to talk about this shop, let’s talk about it.”

“Oh,” Juliet said, more seriously, “right. Actually . . .” She fluffed her hair as she glanced around the room. “I do want to ask you for some advice . . . but not about interior design . . . exactly.”

Emmie, confused and suspicious, waited.

Juliet paused, then smiled warmly. “Emmie, I admire you so much.”

What was that, now?

“So,
so
much,” she repeated. “You have no idea.”

That was true. Emmie really had
no
idea. “Okay . . .” she prompted, dreading what was coming next. She was sure it couldn’t be anything good.

“Emmie, do you ever miss high school?”

Whoa—first a zig, now a zag. Emmie was getting dizzy. “Um, no, can’t say that I do. Juliet, what’s this all about?”

Juliet shook her head and smiled ruefully. “Oh, God, I don’t know what I’m saying. I mean . . . well, everything seemed so much simpler, and clearer, in high school. I always knew where I was going and what I needed to do next. You know?”

Did Juliet just admit she had peaked in high school, as Emmie always hoped? She certainly wasn’t following Juliet’s train of thought, whatever point she was trying to make. Now the woman fell silent and picked at a dried blob of paint on the rim of the sink.

“Juliet?” Emmie prompted.

Still picking at the paint, she went on hesitantly, “Remember the talk we had after your party? When you drove me home?”

How could Emmie forget? That unfortunate conversation was filed away in her brain for all eternity, under the category “TMI: Juliet Edition.” She had hoped Juliet had been so drunk she’d forgotten it, but no such luck. She nodded.

“You gave me some really good advice. You’re so smart, Emmie—that’s another reason I admire you—and so sensible.”

Hah!
If she only knew.

“You’re a good friend. And you know what my . . . situation is. So I want to ask you about . . . about Graham.” She rushed on, “We’ve had a rough month or so, and I really,
really
want us back on track. I just don’t know how to get us there. You work with him almost every day—you must know him pretty well by now. Has he said anything? Does he mention me? What’s his mood like? God, what should I do?”

Emmie could have sworn her jaw hit the floor and a tooth or two fell out, even though all of her anatomy was still where it belonged. What, Juliet was starting to tweak to the fact that her suicide-threat plan wasn’t working (imagine that)? And now she was asking
her
how to get Graham back? Was this some sort of joke?

Apparently not. Juliet, obviously extremely nervous, started to pace. When Emmie didn’t respond right away, she filled the silence with more prattle. “It’s not too late. I don’t think it is, anyway. Even if he did finally tell me he was seeing somebody else.” Emmie didn’t move a muscle. “It was right out there, on that sidewalk, in fact.” She gestured toward the street. “He stood there and told me he was in love with someone else—that this was ‘it’ for him.
In love.
Thinking marriage and everything. Can you believe it? I mean, come on!”

She turned to Emmie expectantly, and Emmie realized Juliet was waiting for her to laugh along with her. However, all she could croak out was, “Who?”

Juliet shrugged. “He wouldn’t tell me.” She laughed again. “He probably thought I’d go claw her eyes out or something. And I probably would have! But the point is . . .” Here Juliet’s mood changed again, and her eyes welled up with tears. Emmie couldn’t tell if they were real or manufactured. “The point is, he
broke up
with me. For
real
this time. And . . . and I don’t know what I’m going to do without him. I
need
him. I don’t expect you to understand, of course. You don’t know what it’s like . . . you have so much in your life, and I . . . well . . .” Juliet flapped her hand in front of her face as she sniffled delicately. “Oh, gracious. I’m just going on and on. Just tell me to shut up anytime!” And she let go another tinkly laugh.

Then Emmie heard herself speaking—very quietly, very calmly. She said, in what would be a conversational tone under any other circumstances, “Juliet? Shut up.”

Juliet started and put a dainty hand to her cleavage. “Excuse me?”

Emmie’s voice remained controlled and quiet. “I said, shut up.”

“Emmie!” Juliet gasped, an incredulous half smile on her face that showed she hoped Emmie was joking.

But Emmie wasn’t. She spoke a little louder, to cut her off. “You . . . you need to stop talking now. You talk too much, and you don’t listen.” Juliet was indeed shocked into silence, so Emmie continued, before she lost her nerve, “I have never—and I mean
never
—met anyone as selfish as you are. You really think you have nothing in your life? What about your husband? Two kids, a nice house, your own business? Are you blind? Or just stupid? Tell me, because I
really
want to know.”

Juliet’s cheeks flushed a brilliant pink. She started to respond, but Emmie cut her off again. “No, wait. I’m not done yet. I also want to know why you think you deserve another man in your life, when you don’t treat the first one anywhere near as nicely as he deserves.” Juliet’s lips parted and she took a breath, but Emmie cut her off a third time. “No, wait. I’ll answer that for you. You
don’t
deserve another man in your life. Nobody, least of all Graham, should have to deal with what you’ve been dishing out lately. You are ruining his life, you know that? He’s a kind, compassionate guy, and you’re taking advantage of that, getting him to come running to you every time you threaten to kill yourself. But I know, even if he doesn’t, that you’re never
really
going to commit suicide. Because then you’d only have everyone’s undivided attention for the two hours it takes to hold your funeral. And that’s nowhere
near
long enough for you! So lay off Graham. Leave him the hell alone. And, if you have any sense at all, pay attention to your husband instead, before he wises up and kicks you to the curb!”

Emmie took a breath, then said, more calmly, “We’re done here. And I’m done with you for everything else. Don’t contact me anymore, for anything—your shop, your life, your marital problems. Grow up, and figure it out for yourself.”

She turned on her heel and headed out, but stopped in the doorway and spun back around. “Oh, yeah. One more thing.” Her voice was quivering suddenly. She swallowed. “It’s me.”

Juliet, one hand to her bright cheek, shook her head, uncomprehending. “What?” she whispered.

“That woman Graham’s in love with? It’s me. Want to claw my eyes out? Go for it.”

Juliet went from pink to pale in an instant. She shook her head hastily.

“Smart choice.”

Her knees wobbling violently, Emmie stalked down the short hallway to the front of the shop, making a beeline for the door and marveling that she had just unloaded on Juliet like that. Apparently there was still life in New Emmie yet. In fact, it seemed that New Emmie had just stomped on Old Emmie till she was nothing but dust.

Interesting.

Her fury still blinding her, she didn’t see the person in the doorway until she practically mowed him down. Emmie stopped short and even tripped back a step or two.

“Kevin,” she breathed.

How long had he been standing there? Well, the look on his face, and the pain in his eyes, told Emmie how long: too long. Or long enough. Depending on how you looked at it. His eyes glassy, he chewed on his lower lip. Then he looked down at the white bags that dangled from his fingers. Square foam takeout containers strained the plastic.

“I . . . uh,” he started hoarsely, then cleared his throat and went on, “I thought I’d bring Juliet some lunch. She . . . she likes the wraps from the deli up the street.”

Silence. Emmie didn’t know what to say.

“Maybe I’ll just go.”

“No!” Emmie grabbed his arm as he turned away. “Kevin, listen. I’m not going to wedge myself in the middle of whatever is going on between the two of you. All I’m going to say is get in there. Do something. Help her, dump her, commit her, I don’t care. Just do
something
.” When he didn’t respond, she tried, “Kevin. How long have you been married?”

The man’s pale blue eyes focused on her, and he blinked his sandy lashes. “Thirteen years.”

“Thirteen years. That’s a long time. I don’t know what you feel for her now, but with that amount of history, you’re the only person who can help her through this.”

Kevin blinked again, his eyes filling with tears. “I still love her, you know. Despite everything.”

“Well, then.”

Emmie heard a sound behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder to see a stricken Juliet in the doorway. Emmie decided to leave before Juliet could locate anything breakable and show off her vase-throwing skills, using Emmie’s head as a target. She gave Kevin’s arm a quick squeeze before she slipped past him, out into the freezing but welcome fresh air.

Emmie fell, rather than climbed, into her car. The adrenaline drained from her just as quickly as it had filled her moments earlier, and she became nothing more than a fragile, trembling husk.
Oh, God.
What had she just done? She’d told Kevin she wasn’t going to get into the middle of their problems, but she had just broadcast all of Juliet’s secrets loud and clear for her husband to hear. Meaning she had likely just driven a stake through their marriage. Yep, that was pretty much the definition of getting involved. This couldn’t be good for her karma.