How to Look Happy (19 page)

Or at least I’d want to.

As I pull up in Brewster’s grand, circular drive, my mind is spinning over the long to-do list I still need to complete this week. This afternoon I’m meeting with the artist I mentioned to Chick to gauge her interest and ability in providing art for the bakery study room, and before I can go home tonight I have to start doing some initial sketching and space planning for the Santiagos’ house to get ready to present ideas to them next week. And that’s because tomorrow I have what could turn into an all-day site visit and meeting at the bicycle factory.

I’m trying not to quake from the stress of it, but that isn’t easy, considering I’m heading into the lion’s den. At least the lion is off devouring somebody else right now. Aubrey told me Brewster is in Nashville today for a deposition, so I know he won’t show up unexpectedly.

Once I’m inside and Aubrey and I have made the expected, stilted small talk, I walk through the project spaces—two rooms, the study where Candace began her treachery and the hearth room off of Brewster’s pseudo-rustic kitchen. I’m taken aback by how little has been accomplished since I was here last. The old furniture hasn’t even been removed from the hearth room, for which Candace has ordered this staggeringly expensive exotic hardwood that hails from a depleted Brazilian rainforest. I saw in the file that it’s already shipped, and our subs should be doing prep work by now.

I would have chosen a more sustainable flooring option, but whatever. I also would have had the schedule for this job drawn out to the smallest detail, with subcontractors hired and listed with anticipated dates and times on the project calendar. The file is so amateurish that I’m assuming Candace handed off the schedule—and pretty much all the dirty work—to Rachael, and it’s a shoddy, disorganized jumble of mess. She doesn’t even have bids yet for the built-ins that are going into the study, though I’m supposed to be overseeing the construction work next week. Yeah, right.

I’m starting to wonder if Candace handing this job back over to me is a new form of punishment rather than a reward.

After completing my walk-through, I sit down with Aubrey to go over Brewster’s calendar and make a plan to coordinate the heavy construction work into a two-week period when he’s scheduled to be out of town, since she thinks it’s best if we disrupt his routine as little as possible.

It’s probably not ideal to work with a client you dislike as much as I’ve grown to dislike Brewster, but at least I don’t work
for
him, like she does. The whole time we’re talking, my mind is screaming,
What’s your story?
But I don’t feel comfortable asking Aubrey questions that aren’t related to the job.

So I’m surprised and almost relieved when she’s the one who starts talking.

“Do you think…Candace…is on the up-and-up?” she asks me, her voice so tentative it’s tremulous.

“What do you mean?” I ask, my head cocked to one side.

“I mean, the way she’s done this whole thing—do you think she’s…using him?”

I stare at Aubrey for a few long seconds, and then I word my reply carefully. “I actually know very little about the way she’s done things. She pushed me off this project almost before it started, and she’s told me next to nothing.” I hesitate and then add, “I think she’s only bringing me back in because she has to, since my coworker hasn’t been up to the task of managing a project this large.”

Might as well be frank, since she’s asking.

“But you do know that she’s seeing him, right?”

“She did tell me that, yes.”

“And isn’t she married?”

I nod slowly. “Yes, but she told me she and her husband are separated.” I’m trying to keep the judgment off of my face since I am, after all, supposed to be on the side of my employer. But I’m sure Aubrey can read it in my eyes. That honest face of mine and all.

Aubrey nods too. I’m dying to know why she cares so much—the way she’s acting, almost…jealous, makes it seem as if she has more of a personal interest in Brewster’s situation than a professional one. I’m wondering if
she’s
involved romantically with Brewster. From the start I’ve had the feeling that she lives here, which means this whole thing just keeps getting weirder and weirder.

“Do you think you might—” She stops and starts over again. “Will you—tell me, that is, if you get the feeling that Candace is interested in Mr. Brewster for something other than…legitimate…reasons?”

“Oh…kay,” I say, my eyes narrowing into two confused slits. “Can you tell me why I should be looking out for these nefarious intentions?”

She pauses for a long moment, looking past me out the big picture window in the den where we’re sitting. It’s one of at least four separate living rooms in the house, and this one is decorated in the same fabricated Tuscan style as the rest of the mansion, with a subtle Venetian plaster treatment on the walls and mostly neutral furniture. It’s a comfortable room, but I don’t feel Brewster in the space at all, which makes it feel
un
comfortable to me, like I’m a stranger visiting a squatter in someone else’s life.

By that I mean Brewster, though I get the same feeling from Aubrey—like she’s not at all comfortable in his home or her own skin. I glance up at her, watching her consider my question.

She meets my eyes for the first time since the conversation turned personal. “Emory, I mean, Mr. Brewster. He’s been hurt a lot,” she says, surprising me again. The impression I’ve received from the times I’ve met Brewster in person are of a man with the bristling impatience of someone who always gets what he wants. I didn’t sense a whit of vulnerability.

But that shows what I know. One lesson I’ve learned since I started dancing in the shadows of people’s home lives as an interior designer is that we know nothing about people from the fronts they present to the world. However, people’s homes—their tastes, the things they choose to keep or buy, and whether or how they maintain their houses—these things offer a deeper glimpse into people’s minds than almost anything else about them.

Brewster’s house is like a museum dedicated to modern residential life—more of a catalog spread than a home. Even his bedroom, which I saw on my initial tour of the space, holds no trace of personality. And I gained almost nothing from him in our initial meeting. He wouldn’t even fill out my client questionnaire, just waved his hand in the air and said to “buy what I thought worked best.” As a client, he’s like a blander version of Jay Gatsby—and that’s saying something.

This makes me think of Jeremy’s weird comment to me when we were breaking up, that “in seven years he hadn’t figured out the first damn thing about me,” and it scares me a little. Surely I’m not like Brewster in that way? Or Jeremy himself, for that matter. Jeremy is the one who’s all smoke and mirrors, all front. But me, I’m the girl with the honest face. My house is quirky and lived-in and reflects everything I love. What could he even have meant by that statement?

I realize Aubrey is staring at me with an expectant look on her face, which pulls me back to the situation at hand. Suddenly I can’t wait to get out of here.

“Um, yeah, okay,” I mumble. “If I get the idea that Candace is…like, gold digging or something, I’ll let you know.”
As if.
Candace’s soon-to-be ex-husband is loaded, as were her first and second husbands. She has no reason to find a new sugar daddy.

I’m expecting Aubrey to laugh me off or act embarrassed. But instead she nods, with a serious expression on her face. “Thank you,” she says.

As she walks me out, she makes a vague comment about the weather, and I comment vaguely back, and it’s as if this whole situation resulted from a normal project on a normal day, with normal people involved.

What a job I have.

Accentuate the Positive

I spend the entire morning Friday on a site tour of the bicycle factory, which is currently being gutted and parceled out into individual condo units. The 1930s building is steel frame with a brick exterior and huge plate glass windows—very old-school-meets-International-Style, and the developer wants to keep that juxtaposition intact. I couldn’t be more excited. I can already visualize a finished unit in my head.

The interesting thing about this project is that Marc Rasmutin, the developer, awarded the bid not just to me but also to another designer, Amanda Jossamon-Barnes. I’ve always liked Amanda—she’s a bit older than me, probably mid-forties, and has two tween-age daughters who look exactly like her, as if they arrived via immaculate conception, no father involved at all. And there
is
no father involved. From what she’s told me and what I’ve heard through the grapevine in Memphis’s small, gossipy design community, she’s raising her girls completely on her own, while running her own successful business.

I’m charged with designing one entire model unit, and Amanda is designing another. We’re collaborating on the interior finish selections for the remaining spec units. The finished building will contain forty-six condos, along with ground-floor retail space that isn’t leased yet. Marc alluded to the fact that depending on the tenant, we might get pulled in on that project too.

I’m super-excited but also nervous, since this is another big job at a time when I’m swamped with big jobs. But I’m so thankful to be busy that I decide to focus on the positive.

After the site tour we have lunch off-site at a deli within walking distance, and then the meeting wraps with a presentation that Marc conducts from a makeshift podium set up on the bare concrete floors of the construction site. Me, Amanda, the architect, the general contractor, and a group of five or six men in suits who I’m assuming comprise the investment team are wearing hard hats and sitting in metal folding chairs, watching Marc give his speech in front of a projector screen with images and renderings. When it’s finished, Amanda turns to me.

“I’m bursting with ideas,” she says.

“Me too. We should probably schedule a meeting in the next few days to make sure we’re in line with each other.” Marc made it clear that while he wants Amanda and me to put an individual spin on our units, bringing our own aesthetics and sensibilities to the project, he also wants cohesion in palette and style. It’s rare that I get to make design decisions carte blanche, and I’m aching to get to my worktable and start drafting out ideas.

“That sounds great.” She pulls out an iPad and taps into a calendar app. “How’s…Tuesday afternoon? Say 2:30?”

I’m scrolling down my own calendar on my phone. “I’m booked all day Tuesday,” I say.

That’s when I’m presenting to the Santiagos. Monday is also out because I’ll spend all day prepping for that presentation. “How about Wednesday at eleven?”

She consults her schedule. “No, I’m doing an installation that morning. I’ve got the afternoon open though. Three o’clock?”

I shake my head, scrolling down my screen. “Sorry. I’m in a project meeting then.” I laugh, continuing to scroll. “Okay, what about Thursday at ten?”

She chuckles too. “Thursday morning is okay, but does nine work instead of ten? I have a lunch meeting I’ll need to prepare for.”

“Done,” I say, adding the appointment to my calendar. I look up, and she’s doing the same. “Damn, you’re as busy as I am.”

“It’s nice to be busy,” she says, smiling at me as she tucks her tablet back into her bag. “Much better than the alternative. Although some days I really wish I could clone myself.”

I nod, in full agreement with every part of her statement—especially considering how close I came to that “alternative” when I badmouthed my boss on Facebook. “Tell me about it.”

*  *  *

I get back to my office around 2:30 and spend the next two and a half hours hunched over the worktable drawing rough sketches, studying the renderings Marc emailed this afternoon, and researching similar adaptive-reuse projects. I want to go into Thursday’s meeting with Amanda with a clear vision so her ideas don’t muddy up my own, but at the same time, I’m looking forward to collaborating with her. She’s a class act, and her work is possibly my favorite among all the designers in the city—even Candace, whose designs can be kind of fussy and heavy-handed. Amanda leans to a clean, simple aesthetic that forms a smooth bridge between modern and traditional design—important in a city like Memphis that’s slow to embrace trends and where it’s tough to coax clients out of the Southern-traditional past. A college professor of mine liked to say that Southerners live “behind the Magnolia Curtain.”

I’m so absorbed in my work that when Carrie texts me around five and asks me if I’m in for SOB, I gasp. I’ve completely forgotten that I told Brandon I’d meet him for drinks this afternoon.

Immediately, my stomach tightens into a knot. Almost since the moment I said yes to meeting him, I’ve regretted the decision—but not enough to contact him and cancel. I glance down at myself. I’m pretty well put together today thanks to my client meeting, but because the site visit required sensible shoes, I’m not exactly dressed for a date.

It is what it is.
I don’t even want to go, so there’s no need to look like I dressed up for him. I text Carrie back, and then reluctantly I shut down my laptop, gather up my materials, and start loading things into my bag to take with me so I can work this weekend. If not for this date with Brandon, I’d probably be in the office past dark again tonight.

As I’m bending over my cubbies, shelving items I don’t need to take home, Quinn walks up behind me and says, “I heard you talked to my cousin the other night.”

I straighten up, startled. “Huh?” I’m rushing around, barely listening to her because I’m actually going to be late—Brandon and I are meeting in Midtown at 5:30, and it’s already after 5:15.

She follows me to my desk and watches as I pull my purse from my desk drawer and sling it and my heavy bag over my shoulders.

“Todd,” she says, and at that I stop moving so suddenly that my bag crashes hard against my right hip. “Urff,” I grunt.

I stare at her, my head cocked to one side. “Todd is your cousin?” I pause for a second, processing this. “Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”

She shrugs, leaning up against the edge of Ellie Kate’s desk. She and I are the only two people left in the office, which is typical for a Friday afternoon, especially in the summer. Actually, I’m surprised
she’s
still here.

“I knew he was just getting started and needed the work, and I know how particular you are,” she says. “I figured if you knew it was nepotism you’d blow me off.” She shrugs again. “And I knew he’d do a good job. Todd’s good at everything he does.”

That sentence pulls my mind straight to the gutter, and I blush, something Quinn doesn’t miss. She smirks at me. It hits me that she might be trying to set me up with something more than a work referral, but I won’t give her the satisfaction of going there.

“Well, you’re right,” I say, regaining control of my senses and digging for my car keys. “He did do a good job. I’m planning to call him again to help with the Sweeties installation.”

Did I really just commit to that?
Ah, well. It’s inevitable that I
will
call him. Something about Todd—and we’ll call it his magnetic personality—won’t let me write him off. Just the thought of seeing him again, of talking to him on the phone, even, sends a weird charge down my spine, though I’m quick to ignore it.

“Good,” she says.

I glance over at her as I start toward the door, and she’s still watching me with a smug look on her face. I shake my head and move toward the lobby.

“Have a good weekend,” I call over my shoulder. And then my thoughts turn to Brandon, and I feel weird and tingly and charged up all over again.

*  *  *

It turns out I have heels in my trunk.

They’re tucked into a gym bag that I used last week not for going to the gym (my gym membership fee is pretty much a donation at this point) but for changing clothes at Carrie’s house after work one day.

I remember them just as I’m pulling into a paid parking lot in Cooper-Young, and I debate with myself for a full two minutes before deciding to retrieve them and change out of my sturdy, closed-toe flats, which were designed more for comfort than style.

The flats are a “this is no big deal…let’s get this over with” kind of shoe. The heels, on the other hand, are total “fuck me” shoes—pale pink, buttery leather with a strap that wraps around my ankle and up my leg. It might sound stupid, but somehow I feel that by choosing to put on the shoes, I’m choosing to make other bad decisions tonight. As if to punctuate the thought, I pull down the visor mirror in my car and spend another two or three minutes reapplying mascara and lip gloss.

All of this can lead to nothing good, I tell myself, but can’t seem to make myself listen.

Outside the door to the restaurant, I pause and take a deep breath. Brandon is sure to be here already—it’s 5:48. In fact, I feel a surge of guilt that I haven’t texted to let him know I’m running behind. I’m past fashionably late now.

A group walks up behind me, and I’m forced to either step aside for no good reason or push into the restaurant ahead of them, so I choose option two.
Here goes nothing.

Once inside, I spot Brandon immediately—in part because he’s so damn cute that every woman in the restaurant is probably aware of his presence and in part because the place is not big and comprises one long, open room. He’s sitting on the center stool at the long bar, chatting with a mop-haired bartender. A sign that reads, “Water is for washing” hangs on the wall behind the bar, and the TVs in the room are tuned to a St. Louis Cardinals game. I’m more attuned, though, to the jailbait blonde who’s practically hanging off of Brandon’s right arm. She’s leaning toward him, ample cleavage visible in the deep V of her tight purple top. I kid you not—she’s batting her eyelashes and laughing too loudly at something Brandon or the bartender has said.

For some reason, this quells my nerves.
Game on.

I slide onto the empty barstool to Brandon’s left and say, “Cracking up the room, I see. You haven’t changed a bit.”

I wink at him and then look to the bartender, who’s already sliding a beer coaster in front of me. The blonde has a half-drunk fruity cocktail in front of her, so I say, “What’s good on tap?”

Eh, what the hell?
I think. And then,
Carrie would be so proud.

Mop Man rattles off a list of beers I know nothing about, but when he mentions the one Carrie was drinking at SOB last week I stop him and say, “I’ll take a Wiseacre Ananda.”

He nods and turns, and only then do I brave another glance at Brandon. As hoped, he looks impressed. Also, cleavage girl is no longer touching him. She’s turned and is now facing the girl beside her and talking in a low voice—about me, no doubt. I smile to myself.

“How’s your week going?” Brandon asks in a lazy, relaxed drawl, as if he’s already two drinks in. For all I know, he might be.

I give him a wry smile. “I’m not really sure. I haven’t had time to pause and ask myself that question.”

“Well, that’s good, right? Everybody wants you.” A tiny hint of a spark comes into his eyes as he says this, which lights an instant spark in other places in my body. This is so, so bad.

“You tell me,” I reply coyly, thinking
What the hell am I doing?
I’m acting like I’m in a competition with the blonde to see which one of us will take Brandon home tonight. I notice that she’s facing forward again and sitting close enough to him that their thighs might even be touching. I shift on my stool so I’m closer to him, too.

The bartender sets my beer in front of me and then turns to her. “Another appletini?” he asks, even though her glass is still half full.

“Um,” she says, and Brandon glances in her direction.

“Ah, come on,” he says. “The night’s young.”

The night’s young?
Did he really just say that? Of course he did—how could I forget that Brandon can be such an asshat? I think about him dumping me for Missy Tompkins and shift on my stool again, moving slightly away from him. I pick up my beer and glance around the bar.

Cooper-Young is more of a nighttime spot than a happy-hour hangout, but the place is already about two-thirds full. In a few hours it’ll be standing room only. Most of the people here are dressed in work clothes like me and like Brandon, who’s wearing a navy suit with a pale pink shirt and no tie.
Why am I attracted to the types of guys who wear pink?
That’s probably my problem.

Jeremy could pull off pink. Todd likely wouldn’t touch a pink shirt to save his own life…unless he accidentally threw a red sock in the wash.

Wait
. Why am I thinking about Todd?

I shake my head again and take a long pull on my beer and then another one. Carrie’s right, actually—this stuff isn’t half bad.