The One That Got Away (28 page)

According to the weatherman shouting on my TV the next morning, the neon blob on his map of Texas is one of Austin's exceedingly rare winter storms, which has moved in over the city just in time for my flight to New Orleans. He's calling for half an inch of snow, which nobody where I come from would bat an eyelash at, but around here that is literally historic. As I drive to the airport, snowflakes the size of quarters begin to fall, and traffic practically stops as thousands of Texans hit their brakes in confusion. The flakes are melting as soon as they hit the surface of the road, but my lane still slows to a crawl. Molasses in January, John would say.

“Come on!” I yell, banging on the wheel. The girl in the car next to me looks at me quizzically as she takes a drag on her cigarette. When her lane moves and she pulls ahead of me, I notice a pink breast cancer awareness bumper sticker under her rear window. Good to know she's
aware
that her boobs might one day turn on her. I bet she even does the self-exams when it occurs to her. Her lungs, apparently, are on their own.

Usually, walking off a plane into a strange airport is like a sugar rush for me, but as my eyes sift through the strangers milling around me while I make my way toward the taxi line in New Orleans, all I feel is lonely. I give myself a stern mental shake—this is not a pleasure trip, I am here on business. Everyone gets lonely on business trips.

I haven't told Jamie what I'm planning to do—it's presumptuous, and not
entirely
dissimilar to stalking a former lover who has already told you you need to move on. But the fact that she's not happy with their choice of architect has given me an opening. And as Eamon pointed out after they rejected my first proposal, one man's desperate is another man's persistent. Or one
woman's
persistent, as the case may be. I could sure as hell do worse than to take advice on persistence from one of the world's most accomplished athletes.

If nothing comes of it, then at worst I will have wasted a few hundred dollars, and a few days of my life; but at least I will have gotten to explore a new city. And at least I will have tried. But somehow, I don't think nothing will come of it. I was arrogant about the Dallas-Houston proposal, because I knew my design was good, and I didn't think the cost would matter. Now I know better. I understand what they will be looking for when they move to select a New Orleans site, and I know what the design has to accomplish. Relaxation and pampering—assisted by Jamie's bright herbal blends—with just a hint of local flavor.

Fortified by coffee, I drop my duffel at the hotel and roll out, armed with my camera, notepad, and laser measuring tape. I don't even waste my time venturing into the heavily touristed French Quarter, or the genteel Garden District, with its graceful nineteenth-century homes—Balm isn't right for those places. Balm is a modern brand, luxurious but hip, with just a little bit of an edge. Downtown, not uptown. Jamie's first location, in Austin, was in the still-evolving East Downtown area, and the Dallas and
Houston sites are in similarly up-and-coming neighborhoods; the New Orleans site should follow suit. So, I head for the self-proclaimed SoHo of the South, the Warehouse and Arts District.

The history of the neighborhood is in fact very similar to SoHo's: a nineteenth-century industrial neighborhood whose buildings fell into abandonment as shifts in commerce rendered them obsolete, then were gradually “rediscovered” and redeveloped in more recent years. And, I discover, the architecture is similar. Lots of sprawling four- and five-story buildings with rows of tall, generous windows that promise spacious interior ceiling height.

The broker I had contacted, pretending to be the owner of an upmarket pet grooming service (what the hell, it amused me), takes me through seven available spaces, three of which have real potential, so I document all of them with photos and notes. While I wait for my room service back at the hotel, I upload the day's photos to my laptop and scroll through them.

Of the three spaces I liked, one is a corner layout, so the space is flooded with sunlight from two walls of windows. This is a good thing, but poses its own challenges because I need to provide the treatment rooms with privacy. As the evening draws on, I rough out the base floor plan and sketch a few possible layouts on top, as well as some details to finish off the space. When I'm satisfied, I study the drawings. The concept is good—I like it. But there's nothing about it that says “New Orleans” to me, really. I can't shake the feeling that I'm not quite there. It's after eleven, and I should go to bed; but, instead of getting up, I cycle through the photos again, yawning. And that's when I spot it.

In one of my photos, half-hidden behind a taller building, is a single-story brick structure, on another corner lot. It has several windows that stretch all the way from the ground to what must be the ceiling inside, and the windows themselves are beautiful—classic old industrial steel casements, with tall, slatted wooden
shutters on either side. It's an odd mix of industrial architecture and New Orleans grace, and I love it. Gnawing on my thumbnail, I zoom the photo in tighter till I can make out the red lettering on the sign on the side of the building—
FOR SALE
.

By ten o'clock the next morning, I'm pretty sure I'm about to be arrested. Or, at the very least, questioned by the police. I have been lurking outside the mysterious brick building on St. Charles Avenue since a little after eight, taking notes and photos, and there isn't a doubt in my mind that everyone who sees me thinks I am casing the joint. Especially when I start shooting measurements with my laser.

I have no way to get inside; the place is locked and deserted, and the phone number on the sale sign keeps going to voice mail. But it's not even that important. I've got the overall dimensions of the building from the outside, and I can get a pretty decent look at the interior through the windows. It's empty, but the sheetrock on the ceiling and perimeter walls has been ripped off, as though somebody got most of the way through demo and then quit. If I had to guess, I'd say the buyer or developer defaulted and the place is now a short sale. I'm not sure if the Balm team would consider buying the real estate for the New Orleans location rather than renting, but, if so, this is exactly the kind of property they'd do well to pick up. Great location, bound to be a good price.

A call back from the property's broker confirms my suspicions about the sale circumstances. I jump in a taxi back to the hotel, churning with excitement. I've found exactly what I was hoping for: a terrific building that lends itself intuitively to a single defining design gesture. One of the hallmarks of historic New Orleans architecture is a townhouse with a floor plan built around
a central interior courtyard, which provides a serene, secluded oasis from the city streets outside. For Balm New Orleans, the courtyard would be uniquely appropriate both to the location and to their business. If opening the roof and setting up drainage proves too expensive, I can still create the effect with operable skylights. It even gives me a low-cost and low-maintenance way to incorporate the lemon balm plants into the design. It's perfect.

Back at the hotel, I set to work. I don't know how to describe what happens to my mind when I work through a design, except to say it's like a trance: an extended period of intense concentration during which my usually cacophonous brain goes silent, except for an absolute focus on visualizing, drawing, and reworking my lines to resolve the flaws I spot as I draw. I study the design periodically, checking it for rhythm, proportion, balance, just as John taught me all those years ago. I don't notice hunger or fatigue; all I'm aware of is the black-and-white landscape taking shape in front of me. When I finally toss my pen onto the desk and stretch backward in my seat, exhausted, I am genuinely surprised to discover that it's almost nine o'clock in the evening.

I creak up from the desk and flick open the draperies. The lights of New Orleans stretch out below me in an unfamiliar pattern of orange and white, the streets dark and glossy with rain. Now that the storm of creative output has spent itself, I can physically feel the weight of everything else that I've been dragging around settling back in my shoulders. I
need
for Balm to hire me on again; I need something to throw myself into, and I need it badly. I've got to have something to distract myself from all this hurting. Work is a healthier drug than any of the other options.

First thing the next morning, I email the photos and the sketches from both potential sites to Jamie, with John's address bcc'd for
good luck. Deliberately, I do not include the addresses.
One of these two is your New Orleans location
, I write.
And these designs are perfect for them, because I understand your brand and your goals. You should be able to afford either space. But first, you have to hire me back again
.

Forty minutes later, I have a response.

Girl, you've outdone yourself. They want to see you the first week of January
.

It's been so many weeks since I felt something as basic as happiness that it takes me a second to recognize the odd bubbly sensation in my chest. But I let it froth around inside me like water in a hot tub. I did it. I fucking
did
it.

I close my eyes and imagine John doing a gleeful improvised line dance across the kitchen at the old farmhouse, sunlight soft in his white hair. I can practically hear his laughter, the scuffing sound of his feet. It makes me sob and laugh at the same time. But for the first time since I lost him, it feels
good
. Maybe this, maybe something a little like this, is what Nicole was talking about, all those years ago.
May his memory be a blessing
.

May
their
memories be a blessing.

I spend the rest of the weekend crisscrossing the city, dutifully checking out every historic house in my Lonely Planet. I do a ghost tour and a swamp tour and a riverboat cruise. I stuff myself with beignets and Cajun food. And yet, the longer I'm there, experiencing all these new and guidebook-recommended things, the more acutely homesick I become. I miss Danny, and Newman, and my own comfortable bed, and even my homey little office.

And, of course, I miss Eamon.

Incredibly, it's snowing again when I land on Sunday night. Austin hasn't seen snow in fifteen years, and now there have been two
storms in the space of four days. I'm sure more than a few people are busily preparing for the Rapture.

The house is silent and empty when I get home; Danny's still at work and will be for hours. Even Newman, who is usually all over me like a needy girlfriend when I return from a trip, is avoiding me; I spend five minutes searching all his favorite spots before I give up on him. I flop down on my bed without turning the light on, booted feet sticking off the end. I take out my phone and stare at its dark screen.

I've been delaying the moment of turning it back on after the flight; as long as it's off, there's still the possibility that Eamon has called me and I just don't know about it yet. For all I know, he could be across town right now, wondering when I'm going to call him back. I savor this delicious image for a moment, and contemplate leaving the phone off till morning to draw out the fantasy as long as possible.

I press the on button and wait for it to boot up, hope and dread playing tug-of-war with my stomach.

No new calls.

The flicker of hope snuffs out like a poorly struck match. Alone in the silent dark, I realize how much I'd been hoping that he would contact me today. That he'd want to share his amusement at the city's snow-induced helplessness with a fellow veteran of actual winters, and he'd forget he was angry at me long enough to call. That, somehow, knowing I was physically out of town would make him miss me, enough to reach out to me and tell me he'd forgiven me. But he didn't.

But I miss
him
. So badly I can't think straight. And I can't stand the thought of going any longer without seeing him, without telling him how I feel, even if what he has to say is that I've messed things up too badly for him ever to trust me again. I have to go all in. And since waiting for him to initiate contact has yielded nothing but two weeks of solitary confusion, I'm going to
have to reach out to him. If Mohammed won't go to the mountain, the mountain is going to have to come to Mohammed. Though it occurs to me the parties in this scenario are somewhat misnamed—if anyone is a mountain, it is the six and a half feet of unyielding stubbornness with whom I seem to find myself locked in a battle of wills.

I roll onto my stomach and turn the phone over and over in my hands, like a wishing stone. It's all very well and good for me to decide to reach out to him, but how exactly am I supposed to combat such a masterful application of the silent treatment? Do I need to make some kind of grand, cinematic gesture to convince him of my sincerity? A flotilla of man-appropriate flower arrangements? Skywriting? I have a brief vision of myself standing outside the house in Travis Heights in a trench coat, holding a boom box over my head.

Whatever I do, I need to do right now, before I lose my nerve. It's starting to reach into that witching hour of the night, when it's easier to do and say things you wouldn't dare in daylight. Like
I miss you. I love you. Please give me another chance
.

Shivering with nerves, I dial his number.

There's a cautious pause between when he picks up and when he says hello to me, sleepy-voiced. “Sarina?”

Longing courses through me at the rumble of his voice. “Did I wake you?”

“Well…yeah. What's going on?”

So much to say, but I give him the simplest answer. “I miss you.”

“You had to call me at twelve-thirty on a Sunday night to tell me that?”