How to Look Happy (34 page)

*  *  *

By the time I’ve exited Brewster’s mansion and tossed my bag onto the floorboard behind the driver’s seat of my car, my anger at Candace and her lies has turned into a giant, fire-breathing, seething thing that’s making my hands shake and threatening to overtake me. Suddenly my reckless Facebook status that seemed like such a life-altering, career-threatening event feels like nothing, like an innocuous blip from a past, simpler life.

I open my door and slide in, dumping my purse onto the passenger’s seat and reaching into it for my phone while I start my car. I wake the screen up to text Carrie before getting on the road. I want to stop by her office if she’s free and let her talk me down before I try to find and confront Candace. If I don’t calm down, I might make the situation worse for myself.

When I pull up my text messages, I see that I have a new one, and my breath catches in my throat… It’s from Todd. After the revelations of the last thirty minutes I’ve almost forgotten how desperate I was to hear from him a mere two hours ago. His answering text makes my heart sink even deeper in my chest.

The grand opening? Am already going… Annalise invited. Will see u there?

I toss the phone back in the direction of my bag and reach up to swipe away the hot tear that spontaneously slides down my cheek as the phone’s hard-plastic case clatters down into the crevasse between the passenger seat and door. Anger and disappointment and hopelessness blear my view as I pull through the circular drive and out onto Brewster’s street.

Where am I heading? I don’t know.

I used to know exactly where I was heading, but now I don’t know a damn thing.

*  *  *

It’s after five when I turn my car onto Poplar Avenue, which means there’s no chance Candace, or anybody, for that matter, will be at the studio. I contemplate whether to go straight to Candace’s house or try to call her to track her down, but indecision and anxiety lead me instead to my own driveway. I can’t reach Carrie—she must be in a meeting or something because it’s rare for her not to answer her phone. Desperate to talk to somebody and hear comforting words, I contemplate calling my mom, but I don’t want to drag her into this mess or make her worry.

I’m still on the verge of falling apart when I turn my car into my narrow drive, so at first I don’t see the hulking vehicle that’s parked along the curb in front of my house. After I’ve slung my purse over my shoulder and slammed the car door, I’m walking to the side entrance with my keys in hand when I spot the dark blue Land Rover, and a new flare of dread washes over me.
Just what I need.

Sure enough, before I can get the key into the lock Jeremy jogs around the corner from the front porch. “Jen, hey,” he calls out.

I try to glare at him, but I can’t muster anything more than a weak grimace. “What’s up?” I mutter as his footfalls grow louder on the grass. I concentrate on making my fingers stop shaking enough to turn the key in the lock.

He glances at the door and then at me as he approaches, his forehead crinkling. “Are you okay?” He reaches around me and puts his hand on mine, pressing lightly against my back with his upper body. I cringe away from him and pull back my hand.

He turns the key in the lock easily and opens the door. I sigh and let him follow me in.

“No, not really,” I say, not looking back as I stomp toward the kitchen and toss my purse and phone onto the countertop, the leather and metal strap of my bag clattering against the granite. Simon rushes into the room, collar tags jangling, and to my great annoyance, Jeremy scoops him up, Simon’s whole body wagging from excitement along with his tail.

“What’s wrong?” Jeremy asks, crooning into Simon’s fur.

What’s wrong is that his voice is drenched with concern he doesn’t deserve to feel.

“What’s it to you?” I ask in a tone that’s probably sharper than any he’s ever heard from me. I wish I could actually growl. “I’m having the worst day of my life, and I can’t imagine you’ve come to make it any better.”

He’s quiet for a moment, long enough for me to turn from the cabinet where I’ve just reached for a glass and glance at him. I was planning to get some water and take an Advil, but I decide to go for something stronger, putting the tumbler back in its place and moving my hand up a shelf to grab a wine glass instead. I pull out only one.

His expression is soft. “I’d like to try,” he says.

I stare at him as if he’s just sprouted horns. “Jeremy, please do not tell me you’ve come here to get back together with me,” I say. My head is throbbing now with a pulsing ache, and I decide to take the Advil along
with
my wine. I push past him to walk down the hallway to my bedroom, noting his shocked and somewhat pained expression.

“Not real…um, no, that’s not—,” he’s saying, following me into my room. He sets Simon down on the bed, and his little doggie ear is cocked as he swivels his head back and forth between us. Seconds later he jumps down from the bed and points his body toward the door, turning in an expectant circle.

“Can you let him out, please?” I point at Simon as Jeremy continues to stare at me, ignoring him. “I’ve been out all day, so I know he needs to go.” Leave it to Jeremy not to notice.

Once he’s gone, I close my bedroom door, pop two ibuprofen tablets, and perch on the side of my bed with the wine glass, wondering what the hell my next step should be.
Well, that’s obvious. Get Jeremy out of my house.
Beyond that, I have no idea.

When I finally emerge from my room, I’ve splashed cold water onto my face and changed from my taupe dress slacks and short-sleeved sweater into jeans and an ancient Memphis Tigers T-shirt. Jeremy is sitting on the sofa, hunched forward with his hands laced in front of him. Simon is back inside the house, and he jumps off the couch and runs to me as I enter the room.

I curl up on the other end of the sofa, Simon settling contentedly between us. I take a slow pull on my wine before I say, “So, spill it. Why are you here?”

At least his bewildering presence has pulled me out of the blind rage I was feeling on my drive home. I’ve calmed to the point that I’m almost placid, and the half glass of wine I’ve already drunk is further dulling my senses.

“I…” He starts to speak and then stops, still hunched forward with his elbows on his knees. He pushes back and angles his body toward me. “I broke up with Brianna.”

I start to protest, and he holds up a hand. “I’m not here to ask you to come back to me,” he says. “I’m fully aware how badly I’ve screwed up any chances of that. I’ve screwed up everything I’ve touched since I broke up with you.” His voice breaks on the last few words.

“Are you here for sympathy, Jerm? Because I’m sorry, but I’m all out. I’ve used up everything I’ve got, especially today.”

I kick my legs out from under me in agitation, sitting up properly on the sofa as his words start to sink in. I stare at him in incredulity. “You broke up with Brianna, and she’s
pregnant
?” He’s even more selfish than I’ve given him credit for.

He looks down at his hands again. “I can’t do it,” he says. His voice is miserable. Several long seconds go by before he looks up at me again. “I don’t love her. I do love
you
, but I can see that it’s too late for that.” He stares at a point outside my front window as I search my muddled brain for anything to say.

“It’s fucked up, right?” he says after a long, quiet moment. “The way we don’t recognize that we have everything we want until we don’t have it anymore?”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

“I had everything I wanted,” I say before opening them again. I look straight at him, though he’s still avoiding my gaze. “At least, I thought I did.” I laugh once, a hard sound. “You’re the one who helped me see I didn’t actually want those things.”

He looks at me then, and his eyes are so anguished I feel an instant pang of guilt. “I’m sorry,” I say, pausing for a beat. “But it
is
true. And I’m done lying to myself.”

“You’ve changed,” he says. He doesn’t phrase it as an accusation, just a statement. Another true statement.

Before I usher him out my front door for the last time, I wish him the best, really meaning it. Even after everything he’s put me through, I don’t hate Jeremy. I can’t.

But my heart aches for the little girl—because, for some reason, I’m just sure Jeremy is having a daughter—who’s done nothing wrong and who will go through life always wondering why she wasn’t enough to make him love her. I know that feeling well.

I hope she realizes someday…sooner than I did…that it isn’t her who’s the problem.

Absolution

When Carrie finally calls back an hour later, the multiple threads of the story of my day come spinning out of me so fast that none of what I’m saying makes sense.

“Hang on. I’m coming over,” she says.

It’s 7:30 when she knocks on my door, and by then I’ve downed two-thirds of the bottle of wine, a glass of water, and another Advil, but my head is still splitting. My fingers have been itching to dial Candace’s number, but I know I’m not ready to talk to her yet. I need some perspective—both time to think and the objectiveness of an unaffiliated third party. That’s why I haven’t called Quinn. She’s too close to the situation.

My wise, caring, and infinitely generous best friend is exactly who I need.

When I open the door, she’s holding two brown paper takeout sacks from Sekisui, my favorite sushi place. “Oh, wow,” I say, my stomach growling instantly. I’ve been so worked up today that I never ate lunch. “Thank you.”

“You sounded so upset. I figured you weren’t thinking about food.”

“You know me well.” I follow her through the living room, and we get a spread laid out on my kitchen table before I launch into what I know about Candace’s various deceptions.

“What do you think she could be hiding?” Carrie asks, dipping a spicy tuna roll into a plastic ramekin of soy sauce with her wood chopsticks.

“I don’t know,” I answer between bites. “All I know is that Aubrey thinks the firm needs money and that Candace’s marriage fell apart sometime in the past three or four months.” I pick up a piece of sashimi and hold it midair while I add, “It’s so weird. One day everything seemed fine, and the next, she was crawling in bed with my client and telling me that she and Dan were separated.”

“Weird, yes. Definitely weird.” Carrie wipes a smear of sauce from the corner of her lips with a white paper napkin. “But what do you think could be happening with the firm? And what does it have to do with her and Dan?”

I furrow my brow, running my tongue over my teeth as I consider her questions.

“You know, I haven’t thought about the two things together quite like that,” I say after a few seconds. “But hearing you ask it that way makes me wonder. What
does
Dan have to do with the firm’s finances?” I pause, setting my chopsticks down despite the fact that I’m still famished.

As far as I know, Candace’s soon-to-be ex-husband, whom I’ve only met a couple of times, has nothing to do with Greenlee Designs. In fact, Candace started the firm two husbands before him. And I know without question that the business I’ve brought in alone in the past year is enough to have the firm on sound financial footing.

“I think you’re onto something,” I say to Carr, foregoing the chopsticks and plucking my next bite off the black plastic tray with my fingertips. I pop it into my mouth, my brain circling around this new connection.

“Something happened that Candace has been trying to hide from us,” I say, remembering Quinn’s comments about the withdrawal from the firm’s account and Candace’s sudden decision to pull Carson off the books and hand them to an outside accountant. “Something that might have to do with Dan and something that’s bad news. And I have to find out what it is.”

I owe my clients that. I start mentally calculating who’s paid what and what’s outstanding. Obviously, I’m not turning another penny of my clients’ money over to the firm until I get to the bottom of this situation. I’m suddenly glad that funding for the Rasmutin project’s been put on hold and that I haven’t yet talked payment with Amelia. Brewster has some orders outstanding that might be problematic, but I have a feeling he knows more about the firm’s financial troubles than I do.

There’s a good chance that every order I currently have placed through Greenlee Designs is paid up and delivered—except the Santiagos’ living room furniture, which is on order with a fifty percent deposit, and that makes me nervous. But knowing my tendency to overreact, I try not to get ahead of myself. After all, I don’t actually know that the firm can’t pay its bills.

“Good luck with that,” Carrie is saying as she picks up her Diet Coke. She takes a long swig. “Do you really think she’ll tell you what’s going on?”

My thoughts are spinning like an electric meter during a power surge.
Carrie’s right.

I shouldn’t be giving Candace so much of my business and my clients’ money for so little return. And from what I’ve seen, she isn’t bringing in money on her own. If Brewster’s house is any indication, Candace is in too far over her head to handle her own clients.

The firm just lost Ellie Kate, Quinn is sending résumés, Rachael is spending all her time on what looks like unrelated freelance work, and Brice isn’t yet a registered designer.

Which means that Candace needs me if Greenlee Designs has any shot at staying solvent. Though it might already be too late for that.

“Yeah, I think she’ll talk,” I say, popping open an edamame pod with my teeth. I chew and swallow the bright green bean before adding, “I think she’ll have no choice.”

*  *  *

The next morning, I enter the office shaking like a skittish kitten, in part from nervousness and in part from getting only three and a half hours of sleep. I tossed and turned for hours, mulling over the possibilities of Candace’s secrecy. The half gallon of caffeine I dumped into my body before leaving the house twenty minutes ago isn’t helping the shaking.

But it’s all for naught because Candace isn’t here. Not that I expected her to be in the office yet, since it’s not even 8:30, but according to Carson, she’s not coming in at all.

“So you’ve talked to her this morning?”

“Briefly,” Carson says, rolling her eyes. “She’s not very forthcoming with her schedule these days, which is kind of a problem when reps call. I don’t know where she is or what’s going on with her half the time.”

It’s the most information Carson has ever divulged to me at once. “Join the club,” I say, nodding.

“Hey, Jen?” she calls as I start to round the corner into the studio.

I pause mid-step and crane my head back to look at her. “Yes?”

“Do you think… I mean… Should I be looking for another job?” Her eyes are filled with anxiety, and I think about the little girl she’s raising on her own.

I turn around and walk back into the lobby, propping my arm on the reception desk as I lean in closer. I didn’t get a full glimpse into the studio, but I did see Rachael’s head bent over her desk just past the partition. “I don’t know what’s going on either,” I say in a low voice. “But I’m trying to find out. I’ll let you know if I learn anything.”

“Thanks,” she says in her quiet way, before the phone on her desk starts to buzz.

As her hand stretches toward it, I motion for her to wait. “Will you do the same?” I ask her.

She’s nodding as she picks up the receiver. “Absolutely,” she mouths at me before saying in a sing-song voice, “Greenlee Designs. How can we help you?”

As I push back from the desk and round the corner into the studio, I listen to her chat with the caller for a few seconds, sounding as if everything is fine, and it’s just another normal day at the office. In a way, it’s reassuring.

No, I can’t get the answers I’m seeking today, but what I can do is work. I can move my clients’ projects forward, out of the path of the rubble of Greenlee Designs that seems to be crumbling around my shoulders.

I sigh and settle in at my desk, preparing for a long, sleep-deprived day.
First things first.
Before my laptop even fires up all the way, I’m on the phone with two different sets of contractors, getting the ball rolling on Brewster’s house.

As I transfer my mental to-do list onto my favorite purple pad of Post-its, “Jen’s Amazing Comeback Plan” pops suddenly into my mind. I finish jotting down all the project-related tasks I can think of, among them checking the delivery status of every single item I have on order, and then pull up the document on my computer screen.

Against my better judgment, I stand and wander to the break room to pour another cup of coffee—my fourth this morning—before returning to my desk and studying the items on my list.
What a crazy year.
When I made the list, I was so worried about what I’d done, how it looked. Now that I’m on the other side of the Facebook crisis, with most of my comeback plan items accomplished, it’s funny how much less
vital
the whole thing seems.

I mean, I do think my hard work and planning helped me overcome the screw up. At the very least, it helped me
feel
like I was doing something about it. And I am happy I didn’t totally derail the career I’ve worked so hard to build. But the funny thing is, the part of my comeback plan that still eludes me—the part that, in all honesty, has nothing to do with Facebook or my job or anything that’s within my control—is the part that really matters.

I think about Carrie and David and how truly in sync they are. They’re helping each other on the path to following their dreams, which is what a relationship should be. Same with Amelia and Noah. I’ve never had that, not with Jeremy, not with anybody—not even when I thought I did, because now, looking back, I can see how empty we were, how unsupportive of each other.

I stare at the list, which has six items on it, and think about the final item I deleted so many weeks ago.

No. 7. Find someone to be truly happy with.

Work, I can handle. Life, not so much. Jeremy and I, we wanted the same things at different times, and different things the whole time. Brandon and me, same deal.
And now I’ve screwed up my chances with Todd.
My heart sinks, and disappointment tingles in my limbs as I picture his face the last time I turned him down.

When it comes to men and me, it’s like I’m operating in a perpendicular universe.

“Stick with what you’re good at.”

I mutter the words out loud without meaning to. The advice came from my mom as I was struggling to pick a college major. Even though I loved art and knew I wanted to do something creative, I almost majored in engineering because I was worried art wasn’t a practical career path. And now I can’t imagine doing anything else.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to push the images of Todd out from behind my eyelids. When I open them again, I focus on my work, because that
is
what I’m good at.

Work and me, we were made for each other.

*  *  *

By the end of the day, I’ve scratched off every item on my to-do list but one. I have a whole team of people scheduled to meet me at Brewster’s door at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow, thanks to extreme persuasion techniques (read, begging) and calling in every favor I’ve ever accumulated in this field. With any luck, and with a little strategic help from Aubrey, I can complete his rooms without ever setting eyes on the slimeball again.

I’ve also checked on all my orders and learned that the Santiagos’ furniture deposits cleared the manufacturers’ accounts.
Whew.
I won’t be turning any more funds over to Greenlee Designs until I find out what the hell Candace is hiding.

Which leads me to the unchecked item on my list—I still have no freaking clue where Candace is or when she’ll be back in the studio. I finally mustered the courage to call her cell…and got her voicemail. I left a message that I need to talk to her right away, but I’m not holding out much hope that she’ll call back.

“Um, Jen?”

I snap my head up, shocked to hear Rachael’s voice. “Yeah? Hi.”

Her face is sheepish. “Hi.” She shifts from one foot to the other, standing by the corner of my desk. She seems torn, unsure of herself.

“What’s up?” I prompt her. The information Aubrey disclosed about Candace’s further deception has me thrown off-balance, and I still don’t know what to think about Rachael. All these weeks and months, I haven’t trusted her, thinking she was working to turn Candace against me. In my defense, she fueled the flame of my distrust when she stopped talking to me.

Or did I stop talking to her?

“Well…” she starts. She looks exhausted, so I hold up a finger and jump up, snagging a chair from the community table and dragging it over for her to sit. Brice is the only person besides us who’s still in the office, but he’s back in the lounge area, talking quietly on his cell. Everybody’s keeping secrets in this place, it seems.

Rachael puts her hand on the chair back but doesn’t sit in it. She gives me a shaky smile. “I know you’ve been mad at me,” she starts, and my mouth pops open the slightest bit. “I just want you to know that I never went after your spot on the Paris trip. When Candace told me you’d turned down the partnership, she said you didn’t want to travel anymore because of the wedding and all.”

When she realizes she’s brought up my foiled wedding, her rosy skin turns four shades darker. But I barely register that because I’m focused on the sentence before it.
Turned down the partnership??
I try to focus on the words she’s saying while my brain spins in circles.

“I just wanted to let you know that I’m…I’m sorry about all of that. And that I’m leaving,” she says, not exactly looking at me. “I don’t think I’m cut out to be a designer.” Her chin juts a few centimeters higher. “I’m helping my brother with his start-up construction business. I’ll be managing the books, and maybe down the road there’ll be some design work for me to do.”