Bygones (18 page)

“I seem to remember you liked our schefflera plant and watered it when I forgot to, so I thought it was safe to plan live plants into your furniturescape.”

She glanced at him and found him considering the collected samples. He shifted his regard to her and said, “I think I like it. Actually, I like the sound of everything so far.”

She smiled and went on, laying out her suggestions.

For the formal dining area a smoked-glass Swaim table on a brass base, surrounded by fully upholstered chairs.

For the foyer, a large mirror sculpture above a sassy Jay Spectre console table, flanked by a pair of elegant LaBarge side chairs upholstered in tapestry.

For the gallery, mirrored walls and a single faux pedestal directly beneath the chandelier, highlighting the sculpture of his choice.

A desk, chair, credenza, feather lamp and bookshelves for his drafting room.

For the guest bedroom, an art deco bed and dresser in cream lacquer, and a heavier concentration of lavender in the fabrics.

For the master bedroom, art deco once again—a three-piece suite in black lacquer from Formations, along with torchères and an upholstered chair. She suggested that the bedspread, wallpaper and vertical blinds all match.

She'd saved the coup d'état for last. For the family room, sumptuous Natuzzi Italian leather on a loose-cushioned sofa of cream that stretched out into forever and turned two corners before it got there.

“Italian leather is the finest money can buy, and Natuzzi is the best in the industry,” she told him. “It's expensive but worth it, and since you gave me carte blanche on the budget, I thought you might enjoy the sheer luxury.”

“Mm, I would.” Michael studied the colored brochure of the curved sofa. She recognized the look of covetousness on his face.

“Exactly how much is ‘expensive'?”

“I'll tell you later but for now submerge yourself in fantasy. The sticker shock will come at the end of the presentation, so if you don't mind waiting . . .”

“All right, whatever you say.”

“The sofa is available in cream or black, and either color would fit but I thought we'd go with cream in the family room. Besides, black shows dust. Here, let me show you the entertainment unit I think would be really wonderful.”

It was double wide and could be completely closed to reveal a solid, sleek surface of whitewashed oak.

“Whitewashing is being used a lot. It's rich yet casual, and I've repeated it in this ice-cream table and bentwood chairs for the adjacent informal eating area.”

There were more wallpapers, fabric samples, wood swatches and photographs to be considered, as well as furniture layout. By the time she'd covered the highlights it was 7:30 and she'd lost his eye contact and could see that he was suffering data saturation.

“I know I've given you a lot to consider but believe it or not, there's still more. We've barely touched on the accent pieces—floor urns, wall decor, lamps and smaller case goods, but I think we've covered enough tonight. Most people do a room at a time. Doing an entire home is Olympian.”

He leaned back, flexed his shoulders and sighed.

She laid a paper-clipped sheaf of papers on the table before him.

“Here's the bad news you've been waiting for. A breakdown, room-by-room and item-by-item with an allowance for additional small decor, which I'll select as I go—always with your approval, of course. The grand total is $76,300.”

Michael looked as if he'd been poleaxed. “Holy old nuts!”

Bess threw back her head and laughed.

“You think it's funny!” He scowled.

“I haven't heard that expression in years. You're the only one I ever knew who said it.”

Michael ran a hand over his hair and puffed out his cheeks. “Seventy-six thousand . . . Crimeny, Bess, I said I trusted you.”

“That's including the Natuzzi sofa, which by itself is eight thousand, and a custom-made five-by-seven rug for in front of the living-room fireplace. We could drop those two items and save you almost ten thousand. Also the mirrored walls in the gallery are fifteen hundred. I went with some pretty classy designers, too—Jay Spectre, LaBarge, Henredon—these are makers who set standards in the industry.”

“And how much am I paying you?”

“It's all there.” She pointed at the sheaf of papers. “A straight ten percent. Most independents will charge you the wholesale price plus ten percent freight, and seventy-five dollars an hour for their design and consultation time. And believe me, those hours can mount up. It's also important to realize that the term ‘wholesale price' is arbitrary, since they can say it's whatever they want it to be. My price includes freight and delivery, and my one-time trip charge, you'll remember, was only forty dollars, which I'll apply toward the cost of the job if you decide to go with me. You're welcome to compare, if you wish.”

She sat back, collected, with her eyes leveled on Michael while he looked over the list. He studied it in detail, only the rustle of the turning pages marking the passing minutes. She rose, refilled his coffee cup and returned to her chair, crossing her legs and waiting in silence until he finished reading and closed the sheets.

“The price of furniture has gone up, hasn't it?” he asked.

“Yes, it has. But so has your own social status. You own your own firm now, you're very successful. It's only right that your home should reflect that success. I should think that in time you'll have more and more clients into your home. Decorated as I've suggested, it will make a strong statement about you.”

He studied her without blinking until she wanted to look away but resisted. The light from the floor lamp on his far side put a luster of silver on the hair above his left ear. It painted his cheek gold and put a shadow in the relaxed smile line connecting his nose and mouth. He was an unnervingly handsome man, so handsome, in fact, that she had associated that handsomeness with unfaithfulness, so had intentionally chosen an unhandsome one in Keith. She realized that now.

“How much did you say that leather sofa's going to cost?”

“Eight thousand.”

He considered awhile longer. “How long before I get this stuff?”

“The standard wait for custom orders is twelve weeks. Natuzzi takes sixteen because it's shipped directly from Italy and it comes over by boat, which takes four weeks by itself. I'll be frank with you and admit there's been some trouble over there lately with dock strikes, which could delay it even longer. But on the brighter side, sometimes we call the manufacturer and find out they have a piece already made up in the fabric we want and out it comes in six weeks. But figure twelve, on the average.”

“And what about guarantees?”

“Against defects and workmanship? We're dealing with quality names here, not flea-market peddlers. They stand behind everything, and if they don't, I do.”

“And what about the wallpaper and curtains? How long do I have to wait for them?”

“I'll place an order with the workroom immediately, and window treatments should be installed within six weeks. Wallpaper, much sooner. It's possible I could have paper hangers in here within two weeks, depending on their work schedule and the paper availability.”

“You take care of all that?”

“Absolutely. I have several paper hangers who do my work. I contract them directly, so you never have to do any of that. All you have to do is make arrangements to have the door unlocked when they come to do the job.”

Her estimate still lay on his lap. He glanced at the top sheet and his lower lip protruded.

She said, “I should warn you, I'll be in and out of your place a lot. I make it a point to check the wallpapering immediately after it's done, and I also accompany my installers when they come to put up window treatments. If there's something wrong, I want to find it myself instead of having you find it later. I also come out to see the furniture on site once it's been delivered, to make sure the color match is right. Do you have any problem with that?”

“No.”

Bess began gathering up the floor plans and putting them into the manila folder. “It's a lot of money, Michael, there's no question about that. But any interior designer you hire is going to cost a lot, and I think I have one advantage any other wouldn't have. I know you better.”

Their gazes met as she sat forward in her chair, with a stack of things on her knees, steadying them with both hands.

“You're probably right,” he conceded.

“I know I'm right. The way you've always loved leather, you'll go crazy over that Italian sofa, and the rich rug in front of the fireplace, and the mirrors in the gallery. You'd love it all.”

So would you,
he thought, because he knew her well, too, knew these were colors, styles and designs she liked. For a moment he indulged in the fantasy that she had planned the place for both of them, as she had once before.

“May I have a while to think about it?”

“Of course.”

She stood and he did likewise, while she bent to collect his cup and saucer.

Michael checked his watch.

“It's almost eight o'clock and I'm starved. How about you?”

“Haven't you heard my stomach growling?”

“Would you want to . . .” He cut himself off and weighed the invitation before issuing it in full. “Would you want to grab a bite with me?”

She could have said no, she should put away all these books and samples, but in truth she'd need them for ordering if he decided to sign with her. She could have said she'd better get home to Randy, but at eight o'clock on a Friday night Randy would be anywhere but at home. She could have simply used good judgment and said no, without qualifying it. But the truth was she enjoyed his company and wouldn't mind spending another hour or so in it.

“We could go to the Freight House,” she suggested.

He smiled. “They still make that dynamite seafood chowder?”

She smiled. “Absolutely.”

“Then let's go.”

She locked up and they left the Blue Iris with the lamps softly illuminating the window display. Outside the wind was biting, swaying the streetlights on their posts, whipping the electrical wires like jump ropes.

“Should we drive?” he asked.

“Parking is always horrendous there on weekends. We might as well walk, if you don't mind.”

It was only two blocks but the wind bulldozed them from behind, sending their coattails skipping and Bess hotfooting it to keep from toppling on her face in her high-heeled pumps.

Michael took her elbow and held it hard against his ribs while they hurried along with their shoulders hunched. They crossed Main Street against a red light and as they turned onto Water Street the wind shifted and eddied as it stole between the buildings and formed whirlpools.

His hand and his ribs felt both familiar and welcome against her elbow.

The Freight House was exactly what its name implied, a red-brick relic from the past, facing the river and the railroad tracks, backing against Water Street with six wagon-high, arch-top doors through which freight had been loaded and unloaded in the days when both rail and river commerce flourished. Inside, high, wide windows and doors faced the river and gave onto an immense wooden deck, which in summer sported colorful umbrella tables for outside wining and dining. Now, in bitter February the corners of the windows held ice, and the yellow umbrellas were furled fast, like a flotilla of quayside sails. It smelled wonderful and felt better, being in out of the chill.

Unbuttoning his overcoat, Michael spoke to the hostess, who consulted an open book on her lectern.

“It'll be about fifteen minutes. You can have a seat in the bar if you'd like, and I'll call you.”

They kept their coats on and perched on hip-high stools on opposite sides of a tiny square table.

“It's been a long time since I've been here,” Michael remarked.

“I don't come here often, either. Occasionally for lunch.”

“If I remember right, this is where we came to celebrate our tenth anniversary.”

“No, our tenth we celebrated down in the Amana colonies, remember?”

“Oh, that's right.”

“Mother took care of the kids and we went down for a long weekend.”

“Then which one did we celebrate here?”

“Eleventh, maybe? I don't know, they sort of all run together, don't they?”

“We always did something special though, didn't we?”

She smiled in reply.

A waitress came and laid two cocktail napkins on the table. “What would you like?” she asked.

“I'll have a bottled Michelob,” Michael answered.

“I'll have the same.”

When the girl went away Michael asked, “You still like beer, huh?”

“Why should I have changed?”

“Oh, I don't know, new business, new image. You look like somebody who'd drink something in a tall stem glass.”