Interior Motives (2 page)

“Listen to me, Farrell. I know you want your funky, antique, hand-carved Mexican doors. And I don’t question your design sensibilities. But would you just look at those things for a minute?”

I did. I stared at the gorgeous hundred-plus-year-old mahogany doors with the kind of patina baby-fresh woods envy. “I’m looking, Dutch, and I see the perfect doors for this design—the ones I told you about three weeks ago when they came into the auction house’s warehouse. I knew even before that. The minute I opened the email with photos from Ozzie’s shopping trip south of the border, I knew they belonged in Tedd’s office.”

“And I told you back then your assistant might be spinning his wheels, that the doors might not fit the frames. And that’s the deal.”

“But look at the doors.”

“I have. They’re to die for. Okay? But I have to live in the present—with these.” He pounded the wood trim in the doorway. “Back when those things were carved, no one thought about codes and standards and all those boring things. That doesn’t mean I get to ignore them. I have an inspector to face.”

“You’re the contractor, right? Figure out how to fit them.”

“How? You want me to knock the place down, stick the pieces and parts in a time capsule, and zip us back to nineteenth-century Mexico?”

“Hey, if that’s what it takes, go for it, Orwell.”

I stomped out. All right. I’m not proud of it, but that’s just what I did. I stomped like a two-year-old whose mother had whisked her blanky to the wash. But what good is a contractor if he can’t do what you need him to do?

True, Dutch works wonders with the budget, comes in on time or earlier, and manages to make ho-hum structures look anything but. Still, I’m the designer, not him.

I want my doors.

Even if they don’t fit.

Which is totally unreasonable.

Which is why I had to make a U-turn in the hall of Tedd’s office. At one of the doorways in question, I paused.

“Um . . . ah, Dutch?”

“What now?”

Oh boy.
That growl didn’t bode well for my apology. “I don’t blame you for being ticked off at me—”

“Ticked off? Can I trade you in for six normal doors?”

My cheeks turned to the hot side of the color wheel. “I doubt you’ll get any takers on that bargain. I know I’d pass.”

“Huh?”

I tucked a bunch of wild hair behind my ear, then held out my right hand. “Peace? I know I acted like a brat, and I’m sorry. Please forgive me, and please work with me on the doors.”

He stared at my hand as if it were the Trojan horse full of . . . well, stuff as old as the horse for him to stick in the remodel—like the doors. Poor guy.

“Come on, Dutch. I feel really stupid, and we have to work together on this project. Meet me halfway here, will you?”

“Halfway might be too far.” He took my hand, yanked me toward him, and added insult to injury by ruffling my already more than ruffled hair. “I can’t change code restrictions, and you know it.”

I swatted at his hands but landed no swats. He’s taller and quicker.

With one hand I shoved my crazy hair out of my eyes, and with the other I smoothed my taupe T-shirt over the waist of my long denim skirt.

“Okay.” I could be gracious. “So replacing the doors is out. And halfway—whatever that might mean—is also out. What can we do with the doors? Even you have to admit they’re gorgeous.”

Dutch stepped toward the troublesome decorative elements, intense concentration on his rugged face. He ran a hand through his dark hair, then pulled out a measuring tape and applied it to one of the doors. He shook his head.

“I can’t see how I can use them, Haley.”

“There has to be something you can do. They’re perfect for the design
and
for Tedd.”

“Who’s bandying my name?” the gorgeous Latina shrink asked, a half smile on her red-lipsticked mouth. “Are you two at it again?”

“Yes—”

“No—”

She laughed. “I guess there’s not much the Merrill and Farrell comedy team can agree on, is there?”

Dutch’s eyebrows crashed into his hairline. “Comedy team? I don’t think so. It’s not so much that we disagree as that Haley hasn’t learned that not everything is possible. Sometimes things just don’t work. Like here.”

I ignored his dumb comment. “So you don’t really hate the doors?”

“Weren’t you listening? I never said I did.”

“You just don’t see how to replace the old ones with these.”

“Well, these are the old ones, the really old ones, but no. I can’t hang these instead of standard doors and stick to code.”

The word
hang
caught my attention. Ideas strobed through my head. “What if . . . ? Hey, go with me here, okay? These frames are wider than the doors.”

“That’s the problem.”

Tedd crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, her smile now full-watt bright.

I did some more ignoring, this time of what I suspected Tedd’s smile meant, and continued to think out loud. “To stay within code we can’t make the doorways narrower.”

“Right again—think about Tedd’s clients in wheelchairs.”

Another look at the wide hall, which opens to the generous waiting room, and one of the million ideas began to jell. “Of course. But what if . . . ?”

I walked to the waiting room, tapped my lips, and thought some more.

Behind me, Tedd’s sharp, high-heeled steps followed Dutch’s heavier ones.

“What if . . . ?” Dutch prodded.

My brain buzzed as if on a Starbucks overdose. “I hadn’t planned artwork for the hallway, but what if I use the doors as wall art?”

He gave me one of his “Now you’ve really lost it” looks. “Now, wait. Hear me out. We all agree the doors are fabulous. And they’re historic treasures someone—us—has to save. So if they can’t be used in modern construction, why don’t we take advantage of their art value? The carving is magnificent.”

Tedd headed back to where I’d stacked the doors. She ran a red-tipped finger over the intricate detail, her smile wider by the second. Dutch joined her.

I followed, certain of my new vision.

Patience is not one of my stronger virtues, and it didn’t show any sign of fortification right then. But I bit my tongue and zipped my lip. I waited them out.

When Dutch gave a soft “hmm . . .” I knew I’d won the battle. And, to my credit, I didn’t crow.

Instead, I said, “Don’t you think small, museumlike halogen spots above each door panel, like the ones I had installed around the perimeter of the waiting room, would make for a dramatic display?”

Dutch began to nod. He whipped out his measuring tape again and nodded some more. “Not only are the doors narrower than the openings, but they’re also shorter. That means we should have enough space above them for your spotlights to aim just right. Now, I’ll still have to figure out a way to hang them without pulling down the walls—”

“Aw, give me a break, Merrill! I can’t believe you’re about to throw up another roadblock. That should be a piece of cake for you.”

“Yeah, like I can leap tall buildings and stop runaway trains, right?”

I blushed again. “Well, maybe you’re not quite Superman, but you’re pretty handy with hammer and nails. Get with the program, Dutch ‘the Toolman’ Merrill. Give that old-TV-show guy a run for his money.”

“More power, huh?”

I faked a punch to his shoulder. “There you go! Chalk one up for the Toolman.”

We all laughed, more out of relief at the averted stand- off than at my lame excuse for a joke. Then my cell phone rang.

It was the shipping company about the delayed Guatemalan chairs. A multitude of apologies and excuses followed. I controlled my irritation—what else could I do? These minor headaches are part and parcel of my much-loved career.

“So what’s the verdict?” Tedd asked.

“Another few days—he
promises
. I was afraid he was even going to offer me his firstborn kid as collateral for the chairs.”

“That’s too bad,” Tedd said. “I can’t wait to see them. The samples I fell in love with that time I went to Tijuana were incredible. I know they’re going to look fantastic in my waiting room.”

I grimaced. “So do I . . . if they ever get here.”

“Just so long as your part of this deal doesn’t slow my part down,” Dutch offered.

“Give me a break! They’re just chairs. They go in last,
after
you’re done doing your thing.”

“Come on, kiddies,” Tedd said. “Let’s try to get along now—”

“Teddie!” a warbly female voice called from the waiting room. “Are you here, dear?”

The psychologist glanced at her watch on her way to the front. “Look at the time! Yes, Darlene. I’m here. Is Jacob with you?”

“Of course, dear. I wouldn’t come without him—it’s Cissy’s day off, remember?”

My curiosity got the better of me—when doesn’t it? Since we began the redesign of Tedd’s office, I’d met more than a few of her other clients. I say “other” because I’m on the books too. Tedd has helped me deal with personal bogeymen a time or two. So I wanted to get a look at Darlene and Jacob, whoever they were.

Besides, something about the elderly woman’s voice tugged at me, so I followed Tedd into the waiting room. When I walked past Dutch, I had to do some more ignoring, since he muttered, “There goes that nose again. Snoop, snoop, snoop . . .”

It wasn’t easy, but I prevailed. Actually, it was my curiosity that won; it dragged me into the waiting room to catch a glimpse of Darlene and Jacob. I let my dignity squawk.

In the large, boring beige space stood a tall, slender woman who brought to mind lace and tea parties and all the niceties of the late Victorian period. She wore her snow white hair pulled into a soft Gibson-girl knot at the top of her head, and the lapels of her pale mauve silk suit were embellished with tiny seed pearls. A spectacular strand of more pearls, golden and marble sized, circled her neck, while the diamonds on her hands sparkled in the weak incandescent light of the table lamps.

At her side a gentleman stood tall and strong, his hair a steely gray, his eyes almost the same color. But something about his gaze struck me as odd. Sadness swept over me, even though I had no idea why.

“Jacob darling,” Darlene said with a pat to one of the overstuffed beige sofas. “Come sit here while I talk with Teddie. You’ll be in the sun, and you know you like that.”

The haunting gray eyes turned to Darlene, then to Tedd, to me, and finally back to Darlene. A frown creased Jacob’s high forehead.

“Who . . . who are you?”

My stomach sank to my toes. His disorientation spoke loud and clear. Dementia, possibly Alzheimer’s. How terribly sad.

With infinite patience Darlene murmured more soothing words. Tedd waited at their side, silent, a soft smile on her lips. I stepped back so as not to disturb Jacob any further.

I prayed under my breath. I asked for strength for Darlene, clarity for Jacob, wisdom for Tedd.

A tear slid down my cheek.

Dutch’s large, warm hand settled on my shoulder, and I surprised myself when I leaned back.

“Tough, isn’t it?” he whispered.

“I can’t begin to imagine.”

Darlene took a magazine from the central coffee table, opened it to a colorful ad, and placed it in Jacob’s hands.

I glanced at my erstwhile nemesis. “Awesome, isn’t she?”

He gave me a crooked grin. “I don’t think I could ever come up with that much patience.”

“And love . . .”

“For better or for worse . . .”

We watched for long moments until Willa, Tedd’s new secretary, stepped out from behind her reception desk and sat next to Jacob. With gentle words she struck up a one-sided conversation with the elderly man.

Only then did Darlene turn to Tedd. “He’s had a bad week.”

“And you?” Tedd asked.

Darlene shrugged. That’s when I noticed that her suit dwarfed her. Either she’d borrowed the outfit, which I doubted, since it seemed so perfect for her, or she’d lost weight—a great deal of weight—since she’d bought it.

Her sigh was more sob than sigh. “I start treatment again next week.”

Tedd tried to hide her reaction to Darlene’s words, but I’d come to know her pretty well in the last year. The tiny flare of nostrils and the quick blink revealed her shock.

She only nodded. “Want to come in now?”

Darlene stepped into Tedd’s counseling office, her shoulders high, her step firm, her demeanor made more tragic by the display of courage.

Before the door closed, Tedd asked, “How many chemo sessions will you need this time?”

I looked up at Dutch.

He looked down at me. “The doors are no big deal.”

2

After that it was hard to find fault with Dutch or to hassle over details; I’d just had a look at the greater scheme of things. My troubles were nothing compared to the burden Darlene carried.

I focused on the paint technique I’d chosen for the office walls. For that certain south-of-the-border flavor, without going touristy Mexican, I’d decided on a plaster and glaze finish that would—I hoped—make the plain old drywall look like aged adobe. By the time I’d coated a couple of feet of wall in the tinted goop, I wore almost as much of it as the drywall itself did.

“That is fascinating,” Darlene said.

“Ack!” I spun around, the trowel full of glop in hand, and dropped a big splat of the stuff at her feet. “I didn’t hear you.”

She smiled, although the smile didn’t quite make it to her Liz Taylor violet eyes. “I knew Teddie was having work done to the office, and I asked her if I could take a peek. I love what you’re doing.”

My grin came out crooked. “To the walls or to my clothes?”

Her laugh did brighten her gaze a tad. “It’s like I used to tell my boys when they were little—messy, but good.”

The globs that clung to the old overalls and tank top I’d brought to change into fit right into the first category. “I’ve never been accused of being a clean painter, so I guess I shouldn’t expect to be a neat faux techniquer either.”

“What is that you’re using?”

I launched into a detailed explanation, thankful I could give her a short break from the troubles she faced. Her interest fueled my zeal, so I told her how I’d mixed pigment into the mush and would later apply a blend of more color and glaze medium. My goal was a warm, aged hue on the now imperfect texture of the walls.