By Design (30 page)

“Call him.”

“Yeah, call him.”

“Call him.”

“Do it now.”

Emmie dropped her pencil and clapped her hands over her ears, her tense fingers gripping the hair at her temples. “Quit it! Both of you!”

“Sheesh,” Trish muttered as she sorted through Emmie’s most recent contracts, notes, and invoices and put them in different colored folders. “Cran-
ky
!”

“That’s why she should call him,” Avery said, his legs draped over a corner of Emmie’s dining room table. “She’s obviously, you know, frustrated. It’s time she got her man back.”

“I’ll ‘get my man back’ when you get yours back, howzat?” Emmie sniped. “Called Adam lately?”

Avery raised an eyebrow. “I’ll have you know that I saw Adam just the other day.”

Now he had both women’s attention. “So what happened?” Emmie asked, leaning forward.

Avery toyed with some upholstery fabric samples. “It was . . . very good.”

“‘Very good,’ as in you’re back together very good?” Trish asked eagerly.

“‘Very good,’ as in very good for a little while. And then it was bad.”

Emmie slumped. “Like how?”

“Like even though we had a great time together, he told me he still wants his ‘freedom.’ And then the next night he went out without me. With ‘friends,’ he said. Yeah, I know all about those ‘friends’—at least two of them have been after him for ages. And I’m not sure he’s exactly fighting them off.”

“Yikes,” Trish murmured.

“Men suck,” Emmie grumbled, returning to her sketch.

“They do indeed,” Avery agreed.

Emmie looked up again. “You need to get your mind off things.”

“No, I am not taking you to a gay bar. You know I don’t do clichés.”

“Who said anything about a gay bar?”

“A straight bar? Boring.”

“No, I meant that I could use some help around here—”

“Ohhh, no. No way. No,
thank
you.”

“What the hell! Am I that awful to work with?”

Avery sighed. “You do need help, I’ll give you that.”

“That’s for sure,” Trish chimed in. “The state of these invoices is shameful. She needs a minder in a bad way.”

“My strength is being creative, I’ll have you know,” Emmie said, sniffing indignantly. “The other stuff is . . . secondary. But it needs taking care of. And so do I.”

“N-O.”

“I’ll pay you.”

“I’m in.”

“I can’t pay much, though.”

“
Now
it comes out.”

“But I can offer you full partnership in my multimillion-dollar firm sometime in the next . . . fifteen years or so.”

“I’ll make you a deal. How about if you pay me
and
we go out drinking? That’ll cover all the bases.”

“I think that’s a great idea,” Trish said. “Let’s all go. A Men Suck night.”

Emmie eyed her suspiciously. “You want in on a Men Suck night? Something you’re not sharing about Rick?”

Trish smirked. “You know that half the time I’m more than ready to trade Rick for a bag of magic beans.”

“All right,” Emmie agreed. “A Men Suck night. When? Saturday?”

“Fine,” Avery said, then made a face. “Wait. Can’t. I got a temp job working at the home improvement expo this weekend. I need my beauty sleep.”

“
You
got a
job
at the home improvement expo?” Emmie repeated.

“Yes! You’re not the only game in town, you know. And they’re paying me more than you ever will.” Then he added, more seriously, “You should get in there—it’d be good for you to start getting your name out to people other than your high school cronies.”

Emmie shrugged. “I know, but you had to sign up months ago. That was back when I was still slaving for Wilma.”

“Does Wilma have a booth there?” Trish asked.

“Are you kidding? Wilma, hawk his wares like a common street vendor?
Tres
low rent.”

“Of course.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Avery reassured Emmie. “I can get you in.”

“Really?” She thought for a moment. “It
would
be good exposure . . . Okay,” she agreed eagerly, “let’s do it. Are you sure you can get me in?”

“Positive.”

“Great. Wine to celebrate!” she declared, heading for the kitchen.

“Can I just have some water?” Trish called after her.

Emmie stuck her head through the opening between the kitchen and dining room like she had been yanked by a rope. “What!”

“Water, I said.”

“But . . . but . . .”

“I’ve been known to drink water on occasion.” Trish rolled her eyes at Emmie’s incredulous look. “I think I’m coming down with something, okay?”

“Have you forgotten Dr. Trish’s first rule of health care? ‘Alcohol on the outside cleans wounds; alcohol on the inside cures everything else’?”

“Humor me. Unless you want me to rechristen your bathroom, à la Caitlynn.”

Emmie gave her one last hairy eyeball, then turned away to root around in the kitchen for drinks and glasses. After a second or two she called, “Oh, no . . . Avery, I can’t do the expo. I couldn’t possibly get all the stuff I’d need in, what, three days? A booth, a big banner, mounted photos of the work I’ve done, flyers . . .”

“You won’t need all that stuff.”

“What would I do instead? Dance on a tabletop to get attention?”

“That might work, depending on what you wear—or don’t wear,” Trish said.

Avery laughed. “I’ll make you a flyer—artist here, remember? All you have to do is show up.”

“Avery darling, I love you!”

“I know.”

 

“I hate you. Oh, yeah—and you’re fired, too.”

“I was going to quit anyway. Your benefits package blows.”

“There is no benefits package.”

“My point exactly.” Avery glanced over at Emmie, who was looking pretty irritated in her Day-Glo green XXL T-shirt that she had knotted at the waist, trying to contain its bulk, and clutching a handful of matching colored flyers. Both shirt and flyers advertised Dan’s Discount Lumber & Stuff. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about.” Avery, also decked out in neon green, handed a flyer to a passerby, reciting, “Don’t get nailed by high prices. Shop Dan’s Discount Lumber and Stuff. Stop by booth thirty-seven and get a coupon for ten percent off anything in the store.” To Emmie, he went on, “At least I took the worst headgear.”

While Emmie sported a hammer-and-nail set of deely boppers—when she moved her head, the hammer seemed to be hitting the nail (sort of)—Avery’s set was a screwdriver and screw, so the screwdriver looked like it was hitting the screw, which just looked strange.

“It does spare me some dirty comments,” Emmie admitted.

Avery gestured at a tall man with a bristly mustache who was passing near her. She thrust a flyer at him, with one of her own strategically placed underneath. “Don’t get nailed by high prices, blah, blah, blah. And call By Design for all your interior design needs.”

The man stopped, looked her up and down, studied her deely boppers, and grinned. “I sure would—”

“
Don’t
say it,” she warned.

“—like to nail
you
.”

“Aaand he says it anyway. Besides, that doesn’t make any sense.
I
have the hammer—oh, never mind. Move along.” When the man lingered for a moment, clearly amused at his own joke, she snapped, “Move it!”

“What’s all this about being nailed?”

Emmie whirled around. Her hands and feet went ice cold as she stared in shock at the smiling man before her, the twinkle in his eyes hitting her with a vengeance. “Graham! What . . . what are you doing here?”

“I like to support the local vendors.”

She tried desperately to calm her thundering heart, failed. But she wasn’t so far gone that she couldn’t suspect. “Trish told you where to find me, didn’t she?”

Graham licked his lower lip as his smile broadened. “That’s classified—”

Then they were descended upon by Dan himself, who charged up to them, huffing and puffing.

“Hey,” the man said sharply to Emmie, “what’s this I hear, you’re handing out your own flyers? I didn’t hire to you to advertise your own business!”

Emmie shook her head, and Graham grabbed the stack from her, leaving her with just Dan’s flyers. “Oh, these? They’re mine. I just asked her to hold them for me.” He glanced down at the papers, then held out a few to people walking past. “Call By Design for all your interior design needs!”

Dan watched him suspiciously for a couple of minutes, then stomped off again. When he was gone, Graham turned to Emmie. “By Design? I like it.”

She moved to take the flyers back. “Thanks,” she said softly.

Graham moved them out of her reach. “Hold on. I would like to hire By Design for all my interior design needs.”

She blushed under his steady gaze. “Quit teasing me.”

“I’m not teasing you.” And it was true—he was serious. “Come on, I think it’s time for your break. I’ll buy you a soda.”

 

Emmie dropped into a chair at a sticky table in the snack bar and pulled off her deely boppers with a sigh. “Graham, it’s a bad idea.”

“I don’t see anything bad about it.” He popped a soft pretzel nugget into his mouth, offered the paper boat to Emmie. She declined. He said simply, “I need a new designer. I fired John. Well, bought my way out of the contract, to be more precise. But it was worth it. The stuff he wanted to do to the house . . .” He shook his head in amazement.

“I thought you, of all people, would be able to keep a tight rein on him.”

“That would have been a full-time job all on its own. Emmie, I want you back. Please.”

Emmie hesitated.
What a loaded request.

Graham let out a breath. “Professionally, okay? You do great work, you had all the plans finalized. You . . . you love the house. And we want the same things. For the house,” he added, then paused. “I know what you’re thinking, but I’m a big boy. I can keep myself under control.”

Not exactly what I was worried about,
Emmie said to herself.
Now,
my
control, on the other hand . . .

“Look, I’ve got to get going—I have to pick Sophie up from a play date. Can we talk about this another time? We can meet at the house, and you can see the progress so far.”

Augh. He was wearing her down, all right. Of course, it didn’t take much. “I . . . I don’t want to be there with all the guys and everything.” She knew if she were welcomed by the workers assuming she’d come back to the job, she’d definitely cave.

“Okay, then, after hours. Today, even. The sooner the better, as far as I’m concerned.” At her dubious look, he added, “I promise to keep my hands behind my back and stay at least three paces from you at all times.” Emmie couldn’t help but smile. “That’s better,” he said softly. “How late are you working here? Or”—he laughed—“don’t you care?”

“I’ve gotta stay—Big Dan’s paying me fifty bucks. A self-employed woman like me can’t skip out on that kind of payday.”

“Okay. This thing goes till, what, nine o’clock? Come to the house anytime after that. I’ll be there.”

 

The door opened before Emmie could raise her hand to knock. Graham stood before her, backlit by the garish high-watt glare of a utility lamp, tipped upward in its triangular bracket on the floor.

“Hi,” Graham said.

“Hey.”

“I’m glad you’re here.” He ushered her in and closed the door behind her. “Take your coat?”

As she surrendered her jacket, Emmie took a close look at him. He seemed uncharacteristically fidgety. Well, so was she.

“Let’s, uh, start with the upstairs.” He picked up a flashlight from the steps and unplugged the utility light. “These can get pretty hot. And we don’t want anything catching fire, do we?” he said, with a bit of a smile. He led Emmie to the top of the stairs. “Let’s start in here.”

He opened the door to the master bedroom and gestured for her to go in first. She glanced at him as she went past him.
Definitely acting strange,
she thought.
What does he have up his
—Then she stopped short, stunned at the sight before her.

Graham had finished the master bedroom. Everything was complete—everything—from the sumptuous paint color on the walls to the restored cupboards to the refinished broad plank floor to the ornate light fixtures. Several Oriental rugs crisscrossed one another, gracing the space with rich colors and patterns. A fire roared in the repaired fireplace. And Emmie was most shocked to see the antique bedroom pieces—the ones she’d originally chosen—filling the room. The tall-post bed rose up high on her right, covered in luxurious linens. The dresser, the chest of drawers, the washbasin, the beaded lamps, even the rocking chair sitting by the fireplace. It was all there, and looking even better than she’d imagined it.

She made her way into the room, thawing in the warmth of the fire and marveling at the sight of her favorite room finally completed. Then she noticed what was lighting the room: several candelabras . . . filled not with candles, but with a dozen upturned mini Maglites, red, blue, silver, black, the beams of light reflecting in the bank of windows. She crossed to the bureau, lightly touched one of the flashlights, and smiled a little.

“Considering your history with candles,” Graham said from behind her, still in the doorway, “I thought you’d be more comfortable with those.”

She turned to him, aware that her mouth was open, but unable to close it. “How . . . ?”

“The furniture? Well, I got the invoice, and it was . . . suspiciously inexpensive. So I called Rod to ask about it, and he sort of . . . sold you out. He, uh, expressed concern about your mental state, to be honest. What did you end up with, anyway?”

“You don’t want to know.” She looked around the room again. “Graham—”