By Design (8 page)

“Some player,” he said with a grunt, digging at his lasagna.

Trish looked at him. “Juliet, or this Graham guy?”

“Well . . .” Rick chewed and swallowed as he chose his words carefully. He’d learned long ago that if he tossed off what he thought was a harmless comment without considering it from all angles first, it could very well win him an all-expenses-paid night on the sofa before he even had a chance to figure out what his transgression was. “Dude’s single?” he asked Emmie, and she nodded tentatively; she’d had plenty of opportunities to check his left ring finger that afternoon, and there wasn’t even a hint of an indentation from a wedding band, or a telltale tan line. “Okay, then, Juliet’s more of a player here. I think, anyway. I know it’s not
right
, but if he’s a single guy, and she was . . . you know . . .” He shrugged as if to imply that a man couldn’t help but give in to any advances a woman like Juliet might have directed his way. Trish gave him a dirty look.

“I don’t know,” Emmie muttered. “I guess I’m just old-fashioned or something, but it’s just . . . ick.” She wasn’t sure she could express how conflicted she was feeling. And her violently fluctuating emotions were exhausting her. One minute the mere thought of Graham gave her the wibbles, and the next, she was furious with him. And disgusted. “I mean, cheating
and
expecting someone who’s practically a stranger to keep your secret . . .”

“Yeah, good job on that one.” Trish winked. “How long did you last—a couple of hours?” She stood up and started to clear the table.

“I’m not done yet!” Rick cried, stuffing his face with the last of his pasta before Trish whisked the plate out from under him.

“
Yeah
, y’are. It’s your turn to do the dishes, dude.”

Rick growled and trudged into the kitchen, licking his fork on the way. “Aw, but the kids are going to need my help putting together the slot car track! Thanks for the extra pieces, Aunt Emmie—now they have enough sections to go all the way under the dining room table.”

“Yeah, thanks a bunch, Aunt Emmie,” Trish said drily. “Nice try, husband o’ mine, but nothing doing. Emmie, can you give Mr. Overgrown Child a hand while I take a look at the schoolwork Logan’s teacher sent home?”

Trish nudged her husband in the ribs as she passed him in the kitchen doorway. Emmie smiled at how cute they were together as she started putting away the leftovers.

As Rick rinsed the dishes and stacked them in the dishwasher, he ventured, “So, I hear you kicked Kyle out on his ass.”

“Yeah, but it’s okay. He landed on Caitlynn’s boobs and they cushioned his fall.”

Rick laughed a little. “You sound like you’re taking it well.”

“Whatever, you know? Kyle was okay, but—”

“But you deserve better.”

“Awww.”Emmiesmiled. “Any more at home like you?”

“Not unless you’re a lesbian.” Rick was the youngest of five, and the only boy.

“Andrea’s an attractive woman.”

“I can see if she’s free, maybe hook you up.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

After a moment, Rick said, “Actually, there’s this guy at work . . .”

“Oh, no. No, no, no.”

Rick turned around, drying his hands on a towel. “You’d like him.”

“Come
on
, Rick,” Emmie groaned.

“He’s really nice—smart, and an artist. You’d like him.”

“An artist? At the supermarket?”

“Part time. He’s in college.”

“Oh, too young. Even better.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Trish asked with a wicked grin, reentering the kitchen.

“You
knew
about this! Traitor!
That’s
why you guys fed me dinner? So you could soften me up before making the pitch?”

“Just trying to help you get back in the saddle, sweetie.”

“I don’t need any . . . saddle-getting-back-in . . . help, thank you very much.”

“But apparently you do need some help with your sentence structure. Logan’s doing his reading homework now—want to join him? You might learn something.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“He’s nice,” Rick offered again, a little desperately.

Emmie raised an eyebrow. “That’s an awful lot of nice, buddy.”

“I think you should give him a chance,” Trish said. “I haven’t met him, but—”

“You haven’t
met
him? You’re going on
Rick’s
recommendation? No offense,” she tossed to Rick.

“None taken.”

“Give the guy a chance!” Trish urged. Emmie crossed her arms and frowned at her stubbornly. Trish sighed. “Okay, if you’re going to be like that, it’s time for the secret weapon.”

Trish reached into the fridge but kept her eye on her friend the entire time, as though afraid she’d bolt. She put on her best James Bond evil-genius accent. “I hear you’re open to a leetle . . .
persuasion
, Miss Brewstah.”

“What are you talking about, Campo?”

Trish drew out a parfait glass covered in plastic wrap and waggled it at her friend. “Pudding, my friend . . . and, to sweeten the deal, I’m going to top it with artificial whipped topping made from soy products and plastics!”

Emmie made a grab for it, but Trish was too quick. Holding it out of her reach, she said in her normal voice, “Promise to go out on
one
date with Avery first.”

Emmie boggled at the name. “Avery? Seriously?”

“He’s nice!” Rick said for the umpteenth time.

“Promise!” Trish ordered her friend, keeping the pudding high out of reach while Emmie continued to jump for it.

Emmie stopped jumping and pouted. It was a dirty trick. She was helpless against the power of the pudding, and Trish knew it. “Promise,” she grumbled.

You know,
Emmie thought,
this is nice.
Sometimes a date with a charming, good-looking guy was just . . . nice. It was a nice night—cold, but perfect for the winter festival downtown. The neighborhood looked so cute, with all the little shops open late, their windows glowing, and friends chatting on the street corners. The donuts, cider, and hot chocolate being doled out at the Kiwanis booth were nice, the carolers were nice, every part of the night was perfect for walking around and getting to know this genial Avery person.

Plus, it was a relief to focus on a pleasant event after her semi-awkward Thanksgiving dinner with her aunt’s family two days before. She didn’t have anything against her Aunt Phyllis, but she would have vastly preferred having her father there as well. But—surprise, surprise—her father had left her a voice mail on Tuesday, announcing he was going on a cruise. A cruise! Over a family holiday! When he had just gotten back from a tropical vacation! She was starting to think her father wasn’t only running away from the memory of her mother, but also was running away from spending time with his only child.

That stung, but Emmie had to admit it was a real possibility. She and her father had never had a super-close relationship; her father was always blustery and clumsy with her, and she had never been a daddy’s girl by any stretch of the imagination. Oh, she loved him, and he her, but their relationship worked better in a more abstract sense. Emmie was her mother’s daughter all the way; she’d looked for her mom whenever she needed help or advice or someone to confide in. Her mom had been her friend; her dad was the somewhat distant guy in the recliner in the living room, watching TV.

On occasion, Emmie recalled, her mother tried to nudge her toward spending more time with her dad, but it always ended up being an excruciatingly awkward episode for the both of them. Bob tended to be clumsy with his affection and his communication even on the best of days, and it seemed that was even more of a problem when it came to dealing with his daughter.

No, they had been far better off with Jennifer in the middle. So, of course, once she was gone, that was when things got really messy. Emmie couldn’t blame her father for keeping his distance now. The parameters of their relationship had been set decades ago. It was just that . . . sometimes she thought it would be nice if they could build something new, now that it was just the two of them. Maybe that was too much to ask, after all these years.

But Emmie put all that behind her to enjoy her date with Avery, and so far it was going just fine. They got along well, talking easily about art and design and pop culture. He had bought her a hot chocolate without asking her to fork over some money, like Kyle would have done; he didn’t clank when he walked, having squirreled away a six pack of beer in all of his pockets, like Kyle would have done; he made room for her on the sidewalk and held shop doors open for her but didn’t do that damned hand-on-her-back-to-steer-her thing, like Kyle would have done. However, he also did something that Kyle
wouldn’t
have done—not in a million years.

Nice,
Emmie thought, glancing at her date.
Real nice.
Had she really seen what she thought she saw?

Emmie felt completely neutral about Avery, no matter how nice he was. She compared her reaction to him to the capering butterflies Graham inspired—oh, look, there they were now, still in her belly, acting up at just the thought of him—and she knew that Avery didn’t measure up in the slightest. So, because she really didn’t care whether they had a second date or not, let alone whether they ever forged a real relationship, she decided now was the perfect time to start being more assertive when it came to dragging the truth out of men. Even if it did guarantee she’d end up a perpetually single, old, crazy cat lady someday.

“Avery?”

The young man leaned his blond head closer to hers as they walked; the holiday parade was passing, presently featuring the middle school band’s honking, squeaking rendition of what may or may not have been “Jolly Old St. Nicholas,” and it was difficult to hear much of anything else. “Yes?”

Once they were on the next block, she turned to face him squarely. He flicked his long bangs out of his eyes. “Avery . . . did you just check out that guy’s butt?”

Avery had a beautiful smile, dimples, a chin that came to a dramatic, handsome point and was adorned with a little peach-fuzz stubble. He turned on his glittering smile now. “Er . . .” He half laughed. “Well . . .”

“You dumbass,” she said, but affectionately. “Why didn’t you tell Rick, when he said he wanted to introduce us?”

Avery sighed with relief, shrugged, and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “I don’t know . . .”

“Don’t say it’s because he’s the store manager and you were fearing for your job or something stupid like that.”

“No, Rick’s cool. But the other guys at work . . .”

“You work at a supermarket, not down on the docks!”

“There’s a lot of testosterone in the stockroom! All that swearing and spitting and . . .”

Emmie laughed, shook her head, and started walking again. Avery took long strides to keep up with her.

“So you’re not mad?”

“No. I think you’re being silly, though.” Emmie sighed, studying him. “Got a boyfriend?”

“No, not just now.”

“So you’re not cheating on anybody by being out on a date with me.”

“No, I would never do that.”

“Well, that’s something.”

“I really like you, Emmie. Can we be friends and, you know, hang out more?”

He took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. She rested her head on his shoulder. “Sure. After all, what would a sassy single girl be without a cute gay frie—oh, crap.”

She stopped short, and Avery stumbled, taken by surprise. Up ahead, Juliet emerged from a shop and bounced down the single step onto the sidewalk. She was hard to miss, in a puffy white down jacket short enough to show off her pert tush wrapped in expensive, tight jeans, a baby-blue knit hat and matching mittens, and soft, calf-high boots with some sort of fluffy lining.

“Somebody you know?” Avery asked.

“You could say that.”

“She’s hot.”

“Humph. And you said you wanted to be my friend. Whose side are you on, bub?”

“Sorry.”

Emmie fervently wished that Juliet would turn left and walk away from them instead of toward them, but she wasn’t holding out much hope—not the way her luck was going lately. Sure enough, Juliet turned in their direction. And the next person to emerge from the shop. . .

“I hate my life,” Emmie whispered.

“I smell drama,” Avery murmured.

Emmie began, in an overly sweet tone, “Avery . . .”

“You need me to pretend to be straight and madly in love with you right now, don’t you?”

“You’re very perceptive. Yes, please.” And Emmie gripped his arm with her free hand as well, moving closer to him.

“Are we trying to make her envious, or him jealous?”

“Yes, please.”

“I can’t wait to hear the details.”

But Emmie couldn’t give him any just then, because Juliet had spotted her and was waving merrily.

“Emmie!” Juliet cried, as though running into her was the highlight of her evening.

“Hi, Juliet,” she said politely—and far more reservedly.

Juliet gave Avery the once-over, obviously expecting an introduction. “This is my dear friend Avery,” Emmie filled her in, emphasizing the words “dear friend” and letting Juliet draw her own conclusions. “Avery, this is Juliet, an old friend from high school.”

“And a good friend still,” Juliet added with a tinkling laugh. Emmie raised her eyebrows at Graham, who had caught up and was sort of lurking in Juliet’s shadow as he stood looking in the other direction at nothing in particular. Juliet turned around and tugged on Graham’s sleeve. He turned to face Emmie and Avery, nodding politely, his gaze meeting Emmie’s eyes for a long moment. She swatted at the little butterflies that tickled her insides again. God, she was crazy about him . . . but here he was, out with Juliet. Which put her right back to being angry. And disgusted. And hurt. She looked away with what she hoped was an icy snub.

“Professor Cooper?”

All eyes turned to Avery.
Oh, for the love of . . .
Emmie groaned inwardly.
What fresh hell is this?

Graham brightened in recognition. “Avery! Good to see you!”

They shook hands, and Avery explained to Emmie and Juliet, “I took a course in historic architecture from Professor Cooper at JCC last year.”

“Small world,” Emmie murmured.

He said to Graham, “That was a great class—I learned a lot.”

“Thank you, Avery. That’s nice of you to say. But I’m not a professor,” he was quick to add for Juliet’s and Emmie’s benefit. “Just an adjunct instructor. One class a semester, when I have time.”

Juliet bubbled, “Graham is a
won
derful architect. He’s doing some work for me, in fact. I just bought a shop, and it needs a lot of TLC. It’s right over there.” She indicated a dark storefront down the block. “We were just taking a look around the place and thought we’d stop by the festival and warm up a bit. I can’t help it—I have a thing for candied nuts.”

As if to corroborate Juliet’s story, Graham dolefully held up a tiny, white paper bag from the candy shop and shook it a few times so the nuts rattled around inside. He looked for all the world like a melancholy lapdog.
Serves him right,
Emmie thought, although a faint twinge of pity stirred deep down inside her.

“Congratulations on the new business,” Avery said politely. “What kind is it going to be?”

“A florist shop,” Juliet informed him, then exclaimed, “You two should come see it!” And she pulled out the keys from her jacket pocket.

“Oh . . .” Emmie started shaking her head a little too vehemently. “Nnooo, I don’t think—that is, we have to—er . . .”

“It’ll only take a minute. Emmie, I
really
want to get your thoughts about the space. I’m hoping that once Graham has done his part, you could take care of the design elements—you know, like we discussed?”

Emmie started to protest anew, but Juliet wasn’t going to take no for an answer. She grabbed Emmie’s arm and practically pulled her down the block and across the street.

 

It seemed colder inside the vacant shop than outside on the street. Emmie could feel the icy chill of the linoleum floor seeping up through the soles of her boots. She looked around at the shadowed space: high ceilings, cupboards, a dilapidated counter. A doorway in the far wall revealed a hall that stretched straight back, dissolving into darkness.

Avery wandered around and gazed appreciatively up at the tin ceiling, just visible in the light from the streetlamps. Emmie stayed where she was, near the front windows. Juliet took her elbow and pulled her farther in.

“Take a look over here,” she said as she hauled Emmie across the room. “It’s the original counter. Not in the greatest shape, but I thought maybe we could do something to bring it back.”

Emmie tried to focus on the woodwork while wondering if she could get away with bolting from Juliet a third time. She doubted it.

“I just love the dark sage green on the front—was it the original color, do you think?”

Emmie tried to collect her thoughts and respond without sounding like an idiot, even though the last thing in the world she wanted to do was talk turn-of-the-century design elements with Juliet in this cold, dark, echoing space. “Uh . . . no, I don’t think so. If this counter was made from high-quality hardwood, it would have been shellacked, not painted. I can’t really tell what kind of wood this might be—I’ll know better when I see it in daylight—”

Emmie gave herself a virtual dope slap. Had she just agreed to be Juliet’s designer? It seemed Juliet assumed as much. She got the feeling the woman did this a lot—acted as though you wanted what she wanted, and voilà—instant compliance from everyone in her orbit. Emmie wondered if that was how she hooked Graham.

And where was Graham, anyway? Avery was across the room, examining some dusty built-in cabinets with leaded glass doors, but Graham had slipped away.
Lucky,
Emmie thought. She wondered if he knew about some secret passage, some hidden exit—or at the very least knew where Juliet kept a space heater. Emmie was
freezing.
She shivered.

“Oh, I am
so
sorry,” Juliet breathed, putting a petite, finely manicured hand to her mouth in an exaggerated gesture of shock. “I’m being terribly rude, keeping you in the dark and cold like this. I can turn up the heat and get the lights on—”

Emmie started to tell her not to bother, that they wouldn’t be staying, but Juliet called out for Graham. No answer. She started to call him again, but Emmie cut her off, if only to avoid seeing Graham behave like her footman again. Besides, she hated it when women acted like helpless things, ignorant of big, scary, allegedly masculine stuff like switching on a breaker.

“Don’t trouble Graham,” Emmie said. “I can get it. Thermostat, breaker box, they must be in the back room, right?”

“The thermostat’s right here,” Juliet said, rounding the corner into the hallway and adjusting it upward, “but the breaker box is back . . . there, I think.” She gestured loosely with her other hand, and Emmie thought she saw her look a little uncomfortable. Trust Juliet to be afraid of the dark. That sealed it—Emmie would take care of this herself, if only to do something that Juliet couldn’t. Showing off a bit, perhaps, but Emmie was too irritated to care.

She groped her way down the hall and entered the back room. The faint glow of a sodium vapor light in the alley shone through a dirty, six-paned window high up on the back wall. She stood in the middle of the room for a moment while her eyes adjusted to the light; she could make out cabinets, a couple of doors, and an old, stained sink under the window. Then Emmie heard footsteps behind her. She spun around; it was Graham, closer to her than she expected. She stumbled backward a step.