Rusty Nailed (33 page)

“Caroline, you look lovely as always.”

“Hey, babe, why are you so pink?”

I turned and admired Simon. Charcoal gray suit, black tie, clean shaven, wonderful jaw and cheekbones. And a smirk—don’t forget the smirk. He knew I’d been school-girling over Benjamin.

“Oh, be quiet,” I shushed, letting his strong arms catch me up tightly against him. I kissed his nose and his eyes danced.

“So, do I get a private tour?”

“Semiprivate. I thought I’d wait until the girls and Ryan get here, then I’ll walk you around, show the place off a bit.”

“It looks amazing so far; I can’t wait.” He took my hand and squeezed. “So proud of you.”

I glowed.

And then I hosted. Guests were starting to arrive more quickly, photographers were milling about, and I needed to make sure that everything went smoothly. I waved to Mimi and Ryan when they arrived, and when Sophia sailed in a few moments later, I took a quick moment for a sip of champagne and an ass slap. I couldn’t help it, she looked amazing.

All my friends were there, and when Max Camden proposed a toast to Jillian Designs and more specifically little ol’ me, I was glad to have them all here to celebrate with me. It was big-time, baby, and in the big times, you want the people you love around you.

The evening was perfect and lovely, and in between talking with the various newspapers and posing for photographers, I mingled with many of the local business owners, who were delighted to discover that I was now a resident. It was a good feeling, beginning to belong to a community as close-knit as Sausalito. I adored this seaside town, and I could see myself settling in here for years to come.

Settling
in
. Not settling. Big difference.

I laughed with my friends, indulged in more than a glass of champagne, and was almost ready to pronounce the night a success. But while chatting with the mayor about how beautiful the hotel was, and how high expectations were for the new business it would be generating, I saw a certain sportscaster enter the lobby, scan for leggy redheads, and zero in the hottest cellist on the West Coast. Continuing to make small talk while channeling Mimi telepathically (it could work), I watched as Sophia and Neil met in the middle of the lobby. And began to argue. Loudly.

I excused myself from the mayor and swiftly made my way through the crowded lobby, where a production of
Take Me to Petty Town
was taking place.

“I still can’t believe you. It’s like talking to a brick wall.”

“I still can’t believe you don’t understand that you will never be up against this brick wall again.”

“It’s like arguing with a child.”

“The same child who called you and had to listen to some woman answer the phone? Giggling?”

“My mother doesn’t giggle.”

“Oh please, you expect me to believe that was your mom?”

“Why do you think I tried to call you back?”

“I don’t care. I hate you.”

“
Enough!
” I hissed, and grabbed them both by the elbows. Steering them behind the petit fours, I turned them both around and let fly. “That’s enough. I’m tired of listening to you two fight; it’s just ridiculous. Not here, not now, and not
ever
again. We’re all friends, and we’re going to continue to be friends, and I’m sick of you two dickheads making it miserable for everyone else! So knock it off—both of you,” I snapped.

As I turned to stomp away I heard Neil say, “Jeez, she didn’t have to yell at us,” which was quickly followed by, “I know, right?” from Sophia.

I caught Mimi trying to muscle her way over to the petit fours, and I told her to leave it alone—no more meddling. She huffed a little, but quickly abandoned her plan when Ryan asked her to dance.

Everyone was dancing. We’d hired a big band to play for the party, old meets new. And as I sipped my champagne in the middle of the gorgeous hotel that I’d designed, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I knew it was him. My skin told me.

“Glen Miller?” I asked, turning around.

“I might have requested it.” He grinned. “Moonlight Serenade” spilled over the dance floor, and I let myself be spirited away by my Wallbanger. He held me close, and as moonlight beamed down through the open windows, I sighed in his arms. Content.

Until Monica tapped me on the shoulder and told me we had a problem.

Excusing myself from Simon, I followed her toward the back of the reception area. Her face was beet red and full of apology as she sputtered and stuttered and tried to tell me what was going on. All I could get out of her was “coat closet.”

“What’s the problem? Is it full? We can use one of the guest rooms on this floor. Just ask housekeeping to bring up— Oh!”

I’d opened the door to the coat closet and saw something I can never un-see. Burned into my retinas forever was the image of Neil and Sophia, on a pile of minks. Going at it like—well, you guessed it.

“
Yes! Yes! Yes!
” Sophia was shouting. She should: Neil was . . . Hmm, how shall I put this?

Ever seen a Clydesdale?

As I say, I can never un-see.

As luck would have it, they “finished” while I stood there, my jaw on the floor next to his jacket and her undergarments. I backed out, slammed the door, and as they afterglowed on the other side, I instructed Monica to keep everyone away for at least five minutes.

And that any cleaning bills should be sent directly to Neil at NBC.

•  •  •

T
wo weeks later, Simon was back out on the road. Cambodia. He was doing a series on secret cities and hidden temples, buried by centuries of the jungle taking back the land. The photos he was sending back to me were haunting, riveting, and beautiful.

I still had my hands full. After the Claremont opened I finished up the last few projects I had going over there, worked with Jillian on some new office protocols, and then decided to take a few personal days to rest and relax. What I was really doing was putting the finishing touches on the house. I wanted to surprise
Simon when he came home and have it totally ready. Jillian had stopped by to help.

Initially I’d balked at ordering so much new furniture, but Simon kept insisting, “Make it how you want it, and I’ll love it. It’s just money, Caroline.”

Anytime anyone says something like that, you know they’ve got wads of it. I’d seen a few figures on some of the banking reports when Simon bought this house, and Mother of God, it was a big wad.

Big Wad—what a great name for a band.

So order I did. I aimed to marry my style and his, while honoring the original beauty of the house. Taking my cue from the natural landscape all around, I let the surrounding hillside inspire the palette throughout, especially in the living room. Buttery creams, burnished bronzes, soft muted greens, and splashes of goldenrod made the house cozy. It was made even cozier by the tall stone fireplace where a fire crackled merrily, framed by refinished built-in bookcases stacked high with our collection of books behind the leaded glass doors. And by the bay window perched the customary telescope through which I could see San Francisco.

Windblown Girl on a Cliff with an Orange
hung over the original wooden mantel, which now gleamed golden after being rubbed rich with oil. Simon loved this photograph of me, cringing in embarrassment at having my picture taken, orange juice clear on my lips and chin, hair blown out wildly by the Spanish wind. It was his favorite, and he’d insisted that it be displayed somewhere downstairs.

A long, thin custom shelf filled with the bottles of sand Simon had collected was positioned on one wall, with a smaller shelf just below with bottles from our trips together.
Tahoe, Nerja, Halong Bay,
they clustered together to tell the beginning of our story, with plenty of room for the next chapter.

In the kitchen, where marble shone and the counters were
of a very specific height, pots of rosemary, parsley, and thyme sat happily on the windowsill, catching the morning sun. My double ovens stood majestically, ready to bake cookies and pies and zucchini bread until Simon said uncle. So . . . forever.

In a place of honor on its own marble round was my KitchenAid mixer. Stainless steel. Cool to the touch and crafted to perfection. Was there an undermounted lighting fixture directly above it, to make it a beacon of hope and goodness throughout the land? You bet your sweet bippy.

And on a solitary shelf built in the exact center of the wall, a collection of Barefoot Contessa cookbooks were arranged—chronologically, of course. And in a windfall of good fortune, the title page of each one was inscribed
To Caroline. Love, Ina.

Simon’s friend Trevor’s wife Megan’s friend Ashley’s boss Paul at the Food Network had them signed for me. And no one could touch them but me.

Jillian and I walked through the home, adjusting things here and there. Fluffing a pillow. Adjusting a vase. In the living room, I paused to display the final piece. I threw Simon’s afghan—which we’d once spent a monumental night under, trying to keep the horror of
The Exorcist
at bay—over the plush chocolate couch. Jillian looked at it quizzically, no doubt wondering why a retro orange and pea-green afghan was the focal point in a room such as this. I looked around at the palette that I’d created, the afghan bringing it all together, and told her, “It was his mom’s.”

She nodded, and we stood for a moment just taking it all in. It was done, and it was kind of perfect. “Looks great, kiddo. It’s really lovely.”

“Thanks.” I sighed, letting myself really feel the house and all it had come to mean.

“When’s Simon coming home?” she asked as we headed back into the kitchen.

“Friday night. I’m glad I could get all this done before. Coffee?”

She nodded and grabbed the cream from the fridge while I poured. “You two want to come over for dinner Sunday night?”

“That’s funny, I was going to ask if you wanted to come over here! Be our first dinner guests?”

“We’ll be here.” She smiled.

We sat down across from each other at the island, and while she added sugar to her mug, I looked at her carefully. I needed to talk with her, and I was hoping she’d still want to come for dinner after I said what I needed to.

“So, Jillian, I need to talk to you about something.”

“Hmm?” she asked.

“It’s about the partnership,” I began.

She smiled sadly. “You’re not taking it, are you?”

“How in the world did you know that?” I asked, baffled.

“It was a hunch. So tell me why.”

“I’m not turning it down, but I have a proposition for you.”

“I’m listening.”

And she did. I gave voice to everything I’d been feeling about my job and my work and my place within the firm. In my heart I was purely a designer. I’d enjoyed the business aspects I’d taken over while she was away, but for me it was more enjoyable just to know that I could do those things, and do them well.

I didn’t actually want to
do
them. And while I knew I was turning down the Job of a Lifetime, I needed to be strong enough to say no. And here’s the important part.

Turning down the job was honestly the only thing I could do. I liked my life, and more important, I liked my
quality
of life.

It wasn’t that a man was telling me that I needed to have his dinner on the table at 6:00 p.m. five nights a week. It was that I wanted to cook dinner for Simon sometimes, and not have to work twelve hours the day before to make that time.

It wasn’t that anyone was telling me that I couldn’t have it all. It was me saying good Lord, no,
I
can’t have it all—and why the hell would
I
want to?

I had the life I wanted. And I wasn’t afraid to say no to something more.

But I did still want a bigger piece of the action.

So here was my proposal, and it was incredibly simple. I’d take on a supervisory position within the firm, especially when Jillian was abroad. I’d continue to mentor Monica, sponsor new interns, and be the point of contact for all new business. I’d retain my existing clients, take over for some of Jillian’s, and be responsible for bringing in new clients. And if Jillian approved, we’d hire an office manager to execute the day-to-day operations. Sure, there’d be long days when there were projects on a deadline, but no more working Sundays. No more leaving the office after 9:00 p.m.

There’d be plenty of time for running my own show later on, if I changed my mind. For now, this was exactly what I wanted to do.

“Wow, you’ve really thought this out,” she said, flipping through my proposal. Which I’d prepared with graphs and charts, and bound in a colored folder. And hidden behind the cookie jar, until I was ready to bite this bullet. “You sure about this?”

“Yes. It’s what I want, as long as you’re okay with it.” I held my breath.

She paused for so long I had to let it out and take another. Had there always been tiny little stars in the kitchen?

“Okay, Caroline—I think we can work with this. Let me show this to my accountant, but I see no reason it can’t work,” she said at last.

I finally breathed deeply. No more tiny stars.

•  •  •

F
riday night, eight fifty-seven. I busied about the kitchen, getting things ready. Simon had texted me when his plane touched down,
and he was on his way home from SFO. He’d been flying for hours and I knew how wiped out he’d be. But I still wanted his homecoming to be something special.

As I took one more pass through the first floor, making sure everything was in its place and looking spick-and-span, I paused by the dining room. Specifically, the window that was cemented shut. I winced every time I saw it and the deep windowsills that Clive barely got to enjoy before he ran away.

The sound of Simon’s key in the front door brought me back from my thoughts and I sprinted into the kitchen.

“Babe? I’m back. Hey, when did you— Whoa!” I heard him say as he became aware of his surroundings.

When he left ten days ago, there was still chaos. The end was in sight, but it was still rough. But now it was complete. And tranquil. And filled with the smell of homemade chicken soup.