How to Look Happy (14 page)

“…real estate agent just sent me this one in Central Gardens,” Amelia is saying, and I speak up.

“Central Gardens—I love that neighborhood. It’s my favorite part of Midtown,” I say. Two years ago I helped a client restore a century-old house in the historic district, which isn’t far from the area where I live now but from a tax bracket standpoint might as well be a different zip code.

The houses are stately and laid back at the same time—so Memphis—with manicured gardens and architectural significance. The area suits Amelia perfectly, and I start to feel excited for her. But that doesn’t touch the level of excitement I feel when she says, “Hey—can you help me design my new house?”

I stare at her for approximately eight-tenths of a second before squeaking, “Um, yeah! Are you kidding me?”

Wow, wow, wow!
I can’t help it—my brain immediately goes to the fact that designing a house for Amelia Wright, also known by her pseudonym, Mel Henry, is a
much
bigger coup than designing for Emory Brewster. The whole city might know who Emory Brewster is, but the whole
world
knows who Mel Henry is. I mean, yeah, she’s my friend, so I shouldn’t feel so shocked that she’s asking me, but…

“Wait a minute,” I say. “Why wouldn’t Noah design your house?” Noah is an architect, and he’s well-known in his field for being the lead designer of a chain of high-end boutique hotels. Surely when she thinks this through she’s going to rescind the offer.

But Amelia is shaking her head. “He doesn’t do much with interiors. He usually partners with interior designers. Besides, he doesn’t have the time,” she adds. “He’s gone so much right now with the Seattle project, and soon they’re breaking ground in London.” Her bottom lip pokes out as she says this, and she looks so dejected that Carrie and I lean in at the same time for a hug—a friend cocoon.

“Can’t you go to London with him?” Carrie asks, and instead of answering, Amelia leans back in her chair, circling her belly with her palm.

“By the time he has to go over I’ll be in my third trimester,” she says. “No air travel, especially international travel.”

“He won’t be gone around your due date, will he?” asks Katie, echoing my thoughts.

“He’d better not,” Amelia says. And then, looking down at her belly, she smiles a small, mysterious smile, as if she’s told herself an inside joke. “He’ll be here,” she says, sounding like she’s willing it to be true. She looks up and locks eyes with Katie. “He told Carl that if they made him miss the birth of his son, he’d quit. Carl’s terrified of losing him as it is.” She pauses, and her voice is quieter when she repeats, “He’ll be here.”

“I don’t know how y’all do it,” Carrie says. “International freaking power couple.” She grins as Amelia smirks at her. Amelia gets all embarrassed when you talk about her fame. “Have you been anywhere interesting lately for the movies?”

She starts telling us about the newest movie,
Wrecked
, which is in postproduction and slated to release this fall. It’s the third movie based on Amelia’s book series, which is a post-apocalyptic love story called
Shattered
. Even though the series has four books, it’s being made into five movies, which means Amelia will be involved in this project for at least another three years. It’s so freaking exciting that I can’t believe I’m sitting here and hearing this. When we’re talking about Amelia’s work life it feels almost detached, like we’re discussing an article in
US Weekly
. Like, how weird is it that my friend Mel is an international celebrity? She’s so
normal
.

She would absolutely kill me if she knew what I was thinking. I smile to myself and continue listening.

“They’ve already started shooting
Salvaged
,” she’s saying. “They’re combining the production for parts one and two since they’re using the same director. Plus, Colin’s not getting any younger.” She laughs, and Katie practically spits sangria through her nose.

“So I take it you two still aren’t on speaking terms?” Katie asks, and I’m glad she’s bold enough to say it—because I know we all want to. Colin Marks is a touchy subject with Amelia, and we don’t bring him up unless she does it first.

Amelia waves her hand in front of her face. “Oh, gosh, yeah. We’re fine,” she says. “Water under the bridge.” She wrinkles her nose up. “We kind of have no choice.”

Colin is the lead actor in the movies based on Amelia’s books. When she met him, he was a rising star in his second season of a hit series on HBO. After landing the role in
Shattered
, his fame skyrocketed, and now he’s one of Hollywood’s biggest tickets—and a notorious playboy. The big question is whether or not he played around on Amelia. She dated him for about a year and a half before she reunited with Noah. During that time Colin was rumored to be involved with two different co-stars, but Amelia doesn’t believe the rumors were true.

I have my doubts, and so does Carrie. We’ve discussed this at length, although we’d never say that to Amelia. But I’m glad that when Colin proposed to her, she said yes to Noah instead. Noah worships the ground she walks on, and she deserves that.

Amelia is forced into close contact with Colin whenever there’s a major press push around the movies. When they were dating, they were accosted by photographers everywhere they went. Even now, two and a half years after their breakup and with Mel’s belly swelling with another man’s baby, paparazzi practically break their necks trying to snag shots of “Colinmel,” their old press-generated nickname, together. Anything for a scandal.

Katie looks like she wants to ask more, but Amelia promptly changes the subject. She turns to me. “So, this house was built in 1910,” she says. “It has these beautiful carved handrails on the main staircase and three stained glass windows that the real estate agent swears were designed by Frank Lloyd Wright’s atelier in Chicago.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know about that, but they’re period, at the very least.”

Amelia doesn’t have a design background, but she’s really into homes and antiques. She’s also a talented artist, though if you ask her she’ll deny it.

“You sound pretty serious about this one,” I say.

“We’re planning to make an offer this week,” she says. “Noah wants to walk through it with an inspector first, but as long as that goes OK, I think this might be the one.”

She and I squee at each other, eliciting another round of spirit hands from Nathaniel, who’s just walked up to give Carrie another beer. Apparently she’s gone totally over to the dark side.

I roll my eyes at Nathaniel, order another glass of wine, and then turn to Amelia and say, “I can’t
wait
to see it.”

Amelia crosses her middle fingers over her index fingers. “Let’s hope we get it.”

I cross my fingers too and hold them up in front of the bar. Now that she’s dangled the idea of designing this house in front of me, I don’t know what I’ll do if the inspection doesn’t go well. I feel a swell of optimism that I haven’t felt in weeks, at least as far as my career is concerned. This could be the break that finally pulls me out of my slump.

It’d also give me automatic progress on numbers one, two,
and
six on my Comeback Plan.

*  *  *

Friday morning at work, I can barely concentrate because I can’t stop thinking about the fact that tonight I’m going out with
Brandon Royer
. Of all the things that have happened to me in recent weeks, this is the one I’d have been least likely to predict six months ago.

I’m sitting at our community worktable with one hand on top of a stack of fabric and the other hand under my chin, staring up at the copper pendant lights.

“Can’t decide?” Ellie Kate asks. I jump and see that she’s about three steps away—she’s now in that half-walk, half-waddle point in her pregnancy, and she has one hand on her lower back. She slides out a rolling chair and then eases herself into it.

I glance down at the stack, which contains commercial-grade fabrics in a variety of Easter-egg colors—upholstery options for a row of booths that line one side of the bakery. The place is going to look wacky, and I love it. Luckily, so does Chick, the owner. I’m glad that if I have to have a career slump, at least my main client adds a little levity to the situation. I imagine things would look even more dire if my most exciting project on tap were, say, a dentist’s exam room.

“No, that’s not it,” I say, exhaling in a slow gush. “Here, I’m going with these four.” I move the small, paper-backed squares of fabric around and push four toward her on the faux-wood tabletop. I hold two of the squares perpendicular to the other two to mimic the angles of seats. “These two on the seat backs, the other two on the bench cushions. Mixed and matched.”

“Cute!” says Quinn, popping over from the other side of the room and slamming her body into the chair next to me, making herself the yang to Ellie Kate’s yin. I have a couple of renderings printed out beside the fabrics and my file open, and Quinn pulls the file over to herself and peruses it. “This is looking good.”

“Thanks,” I say. I love it myself, but it’s always nice to hear affirmation. Especially from Quinn, who doesn’t give it charitably.

She turns her appraisal on Ellie Kate. “You look like you’re gonna explode any day,” she says. “How much longer till you’re outta here?”

Ellie Kate smiles, her face serene, and I feel a little rush of panic. Things are changing so fast around here. Without Ellie Kate, the firm will be completely off-balance. We have Carson, who keeps mostly to herself, Brice, who’s always disgruntled, Rachael, who’s categorically avoiding us all, and Quinn, who’s, well, Quinn. And then there’s Candace, of course.

Who, come to think of it, I haven’t seen in a while.

“Five more weeks,” Ellie Kate says in answer to Quinn’s question. “I’m trying to wrap up the Marvella project before my maternity leave starts.”

“Maternity leave?” Quinn snorts. “Girl, we all know you’re not coming back. Might as well own it.”

Ellie Kate’s face reddens. Even though Quinn is right and we all know she’s planning to stay home with the kids after the new baby comes, she hasn’t officially announced any plans.

“If my husband made as much money as yours does—if I had a husband, that is—I’d stay home, too,” Quinn continues, which raises my soap box and makes Ellie Kate turn an even deeper shade of pink.

“Not everybody went to college for an M.R.S. degree,” I say. “Why should Ellie Kate have to give up her own career just because her husband has one? She’s a talented designer.”

Ellie Kate’s face looks like it’s going to spontaneously combust at this point. She’s shy anyway, but now not only have we forced her to enter the argument, we’ve given her no way to win. I feel immediately abashed.

“I mean, you know, being a mom is a good career choice too,” I say, and it sounds lame, even though I do believe it.

She smiles at me. “I might come back,” she says, looking at Quinn.

A few seconds go by, and then we all laugh.

“OK, no, I’m staying at home,” she says and then pauses. “I haven’t talked to Candace yet, though, so hush up.”

“She knows, honey,” says Quinn. “She’s been around the block before.”

Quinn has a point. The design field—like teaching and nursing and, hell, probably most fields at this point—has a high turnover rate among childbearing-age women. Two designers have come and gone for that reason in the years since I’ve worked with Greenlee Designs. I’ve vowed to Carrie that I won’t be one of the deserters—you know,
Lean In
and all that. But then again, I’ve never experienced the demands of working parenthood before. I know from my sister-in-law Catherine how difficult the juggling act is and how painful it is for her to drop the kids at day care five days a week.

Not that I’ll be finding out for myself any time soon.

That turns my mind back to tonight’s date, and I start to feel all scattered and tingly again. I tune out of the conversation, mentally scanning my closet to figure out what I’m going to wear. Something that says,
I’m hot, available, and absolutely not desperate.
The last thing I want is to look like I’m trying too hard.

“Whatcha thinking about?” Quinn asks out of nowhere in a sing-song voice. Ellie Kate looks up at me in surprise, and now it’s my turn in the hot seat.

“Look…she’s blushing!” Quinn says, and she scoots her chair closer. “Got a date tonight?” She waggles her eyebrows up and down, and then when I don’t deny it, she asks, “Who with?”

I can’t help the small smile that tugs at the corners of my lips. “Just this guy I know from years ago,” I say. “We reconnected on Facebook.”

Ellie Kate looks interested, but Quinn seems disappointed. “Oh,” she says.

I stare at her for a couple of seconds. “Why? Who did you think it was with?”

A funny look crosses her face. “Nobody,” she says. She pokes me hard in the arm, twice. “So, did you ever
date
this guy from years ago? Dish.”

“Ow!” I rub at my arm and scowl at her as I answer. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yeah, we went out in tenth and eleventh grade.”