Playing House

by Laura Chapman

  “Hey!” Bailey yelled. Boss or no boss, this crossed a line. “What is your problem?”

  “My problem? I’m gone for a couple of days and I find out you’re trying to push me out of my job. Let me tell you something, girlfriend. This show is called Playing House with Wilder and Waverly. I’m in the frickin’ title, babe, and there’s no way you’re taking my place.”

  Bailey couldn’t do anything but stare. Was she for real? Did she honestly think Bailey was trying to steal her job? She’d made up excuses to clients. She’d overseen projects, giving Waverly the credit, even when it wasn’t due. She’d lied to the viewers in middle America. Well, they hadn’t been lied to yet, because the show was still in production. But they’d be lied to when the show hit the airwaves.

  She’d even kept those darn social media profiles going. Bailey had done it all and this was her thanks?

  Bailey longed to say all of that—and more—but her fear of unexpected unemployment was stronger.

  She sucked in a breath and attempted to keep her tone light. “I’m sorry, Waverly, for whatever I did to make you feel like I was trying to edge you out of your own show. But I swear, everything I’ve done has been to keep things moving without halting production.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not trying to take my place on the show?”

  “No—definitely not. I don’t want a show. I couldn’t handle the pressure.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” She ran a gloved hand through her flowing dark hair. “I watched some of the footage you’ve been filming the past week. It’s good. Really good.”

  “You saw the dailies?”

  “Renee told me they were going to introduce you as a more significant secondary character of sorts for the season. The way we have with Felix.”

  “That’s what she told me, too.”

  “I didn’t realize what that would look like until I saw the dailies. And, well . . .” She shrugged. “You and Wilder have great chemistry. On-screen,” she added almost as an afterthought. “The homeowners like you. So does Wilder. I can tell.”

  “But I’m not you. People won’t tune in to see me or my designs. They’ll watch to make sure you’re okay and to cheer you on as you recover from the flu.” Or whatever excuses they ultimately went with to explain her absence. “You’re Waverly Aldrich, the most famous designer alive.”

  That seemed to mollify her at least. “Okay.”

  She took one of the other coffees—Wilder’s by the looks of it—and went back inside. Bailey waited on the front porch a moment longer to wait for her heart to stop pounding. She wouldn’t forget that confrontation—or the very real fear that she could do the wrong thing and end up fired—any time soon. Renee suddenly appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.

  “Sorry about your car. I’ll have someone take it for a wash.”

  “That’s o—”

  “We’ll have a production assistant take it through the car wash,” she insisted. “Waverly doesn’t always think before she acts. That’s why I’m here.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” Because truthfully, Bailey probably would have forgotten about the coffee until it chipped the paint or did some other damage.

  “And . . . I have to say I’m relieved you’re not trying to manipulate the situation.”

  A flash of annoyance shot through Bailey but disappeared almost as quickly.

  “I’m just here to do my job.”

  “I know. And it isn’t always easy.”

  Out of anyone, Renee understood just how difficult this whole deal was. She’d been there from the start. Bailey wondered how she put up with the mood swings and the diva behavior. Of course, this could all be new. Wilder had said this season was different from the others. Maybe that was the case in more ways than one.

  ***

  The phone rang just as Wilder was climbing into his truck at the end of the evening. It had been a long day, and he was looking forward to a beer with whatever combination of lean protein and vegetables he ordered in for the night. Then he’d go right to bed and catch up on some of the rest he was sure to miss when Virginia stayed with him for the weekend.

  It was tempting to let the call go to voicemail—particularly if it was Waverly or Renee with some last-minute request—but he checked all the same. He guiltily winced when he caught the name on the display.

  “Pops. Sorry. I meant to call you back.”

  “Which time? This morning? Or was it last night? Or the day before that? Or when your mama called on Sunday?” Though his tone was teasing, there was a hint of censure below the surface.

  “All of them. I’m really sorry,” he said again. “It’s been crazy.”

  “Problems at the job sites?”

  “Nothing major. We’ve actually had a pretty smooth time of it so far.” When Waverly wasn’t leaving the job site early—or skipping town—to work on yet another fabric line (or to get some face time with her boyfriend). Even then, Bailey had more than made up for her absence on set. “It’s a million little things to keep track of, and they’re all happening at the same time. You know how it goes.”

  “That I do.” His father seemed to hesitate a moment before asking, “So what’s going on in your life off the job site?”

  Wilder gave a short laugh. “What life? I don’t have time for much of one.”

  “Well, I’m sure that’s true. But you must have some time for . . . extra-curricular activities.”

  Wilder frowned. “What are you getting at?”

  “Oh, nothing.” His father cleared his throat. “I couldn’t help but notice that design assistant of yours is a bit of a looker.”

  Wilder said nothing about his father’s apparent non sequitur. Knowing Pops, it probably wasn’t such a random switch in thought. But he still couldn’t say anything. If he agreed with the statement, his father would want to know why he hadn’t asked the nice girl out for a drink. If he disagreed, well, Pops would know he was a damned liar.

  When Wilder still said nothing, his father continued. “She’s smart and clever. You seem to get along well. Have a nice rapport of sorts. Good banter.”

  “What,” he asked, rubbing the growing ache in his forehead, “are you suggesting?”

  “Oh, I’m not suggesting anything. It just seems to me that a girl that smart and pretty might be worth getting to know a little better. Maybe over a drink after work some evening. That’s all.”

  Sometimes his father was a little too easy to predict. And sometimes he was entirely too perceptive. “Pops . . . you know it’s not that simple.”

  “Why not? Seems like taking a pretty girl out for a beer is an easy thing to do if you go about it the right way.”

  “I can’t just ask out a woman because I like the way she looks and talks.” And smiles, and walks, and wrinkles her forehead when she’s picking out paint colors, and sighs about bad carpeting. And basically everything else she did.

  “Why not? That’s the usual reason for askin’ out a pretty girl.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Virginia’s mama doesn’t seem to think so.”

  “Well, no, but . . .” But what? “I just can’t.”

  “Look, I didn’t call to upset you,” his father said. “And I’m not telling you how to live your life. But before I drop this subject and ask you about tile and swatches, I’ll say this: Your mama and I raised a smart young man. He might make some choices I don’t understand,” he added, making Wilder groan. “But he’s a good man, and I have every confidence that if he puts his mind to it, he could accomplish just about anything he wanted. Even taking a pretty girl out for a discreet nightcap.”

  Wilder waited a beat. “Are you done?”

  His father sighed. “I reckon I might be.”

  “Good. Now let me tell you what’s happening at the project house.”

  It was a safer subject—tiles and swatches. It was at least one that didn’t have Wilder breaking into a cold sweat.

  ***

  S
he was driving him insane. Or at least to distraction. Neither were good when they were about to demo another house. It might look easy on TV. Wilder and the crew, tearing into a building. Their sledgehammers and excavators a-blazing, without much regard for precision. But there was an art to it. Well, maybe not an art so much as a skill, though he’d never tell Felix as much. Art or skill, it still required concentration.

  He wasn’t going to be able to do that with Bailey on site.

  They’d been twice as busy since Waverly’s return the week before. They’d had to pick up shots for the camera and double up on client meetings. Renee was insisting they work ahead. She doubted Waverly planned to stick around for long, and she wasn’t taking chances. Every day began at dawn and ended well after the sun set. He should be too tired to think about anything but drywall and mortar.

  But he always found time to think about Bailey.

  It didn’t matter that he hadn’t managed to have a private conversation with her in over a week. When he wasn’t talking to her, he was thinking about talking to her. When they weren’t working on the same project, he made up excuses to visit her work site. He was like a love-struck teenager. He wanted to kick his own ass.

  Which was why he was stopping by to check on the design team’s final walk-through of one house before he joined the demo team.

  He stepped into the fifty-year-old house, admiring the updates his team had put together. It should be Bailey on camera for this one. Even though he understood the network would never go for it, he still wished it could be her. She was the one who had brought the plans to life during Waverly’s unplanned hiatus.

  Everywhere he turned, he saw Bailey’s touch. The custom-made wrought iron staircase and matching chandeliers. The re-salvaged wood they’d painted white in the living area. The Austin stone hearth in the great room that carried up into the library on the second floor.

  He stroked the rustic redwood mantle. That had been another Bailey touch. They’d gone a few rounds over it. He wanted to make something from the stone, but she’d insisted on bringing in the same wood they’d used to wrap the beams overhead. She’d been right. It was perfect. All of it. From the wall color to the white porcelain squirrel perched on the mantle. It all worked.

  She had a knack for what it took to make a home. He wondered where she’d developed that talent, given her history of working on commercial properties. Maybe it came to her naturally.

  A tightness settled in his chest, and he pushed away from the mantle to carry on his inspection. Outside the newly installed bay windows, thunder clouds rolled in over the hills. It was good the exterior paint had dried. It would delay them at least another day or two to repair any water damage.

  Boots clacked on the hardwood floors overhead. He grinned instinctively. Bailey must be back at work in the library. She’d been fretting over every inch of that room, not wanting to forget anything before they handed over the house. Maybe he should go up and see if she needed help. He could spare an hour to let Bailey boss him around. He’d move rugs and chairs from one spot to another until she was satisfied with where they’d live.

  He wouldn’t even complain.

  Then maybe when they finished, he could talk her into grabbing a beer after he checked in with the demo crew. He’d make some excuse about wanting to pick her brain about a house he wanted to buy. He wasn’t really in the market right now, but she didn’t have to know that.

  Felix and Paige intercepted him before he could follow through with his plan. Ever since lunch last week, Paige had made regular appearances on the job sites. She claimed she was in the area, but Wilder could tell a fangirl when he saw one. Since she’d been given a free pass to hang out, she wasn’t letting the invite go to waste. Felix encouraged her to stop by whenever. He went all gooey-eyed whenever she was around. Sucker. At least Wilder wasn’t the only guy acting like a lovesick puppy.

  “It looks great in here.” Paige admired the near-finished product in awe. “Y’all don’t mess around.”

  “Thanks.” Wilder slipped his hands in his pockets and leaned against the banister. “A lot of this is your sister’s handiwork.”

  “Really? Which part?”

  He exchanged a glance with Felix and decided there was no harm in giving her the truth. “Most of it. She kind of took the lead on this project.”

  Just like she’d taken the lead on every other project they’d started in the past month.

  Paige nodded slowly, seeming to take in her surroundings more closely. “She does good work.”

  “She does.”

  “She always was a self-starter. Especially when it came to home design. You should’ve seen the house we grew up in.”

  The offhanded remark piqued his interest. Maybe he’d been looking at Paige’s presence the wrong way. She could be a resource rather than a distraction. Who better to play the part of the Bailey Meredith Wikipedia page than her own sister?

  “What was it like? Your house?”

  “We lived in an old, rundown shanty of sorts.” Paige ran her hand over the wrought iron banister. “We didn’t have a lot. Mama taught middle school, which isn’t exactly a cash cow operation. Our father sent money, but most of that went toward the mortgage and into our college funds. Anyway, when I was in fifth grade—Bailey would’ve been nine—Mama took us to one of those Parade of Homes deals in Houston. We’d never seen houses so big or pretty. Not in Smithville. Well, we came home and Bailey was determined we could make our place every bit as nice as those big old houses.”

  “What’d she do?”

  “She saved up her money for months. We didn’t get much of an allowance, but every penny of hers went into a jar. She sold lemonade from the driveway every Saturday. She helped clean at one of the neighbors. She probably broke a dozen different child labor laws to fill that jar.” Moving from the banister, Paige inspected the painting on the wall across from the entrance. It was another Bailey find, one from a local artist who did central Texas landscapes. This one was of Lake Austin and the sloping valleys and peaks of the rolling hills. “When she finally had enough, she begged Mama to take her to the hardware store for some paint and rollers and brushes.”

  Little Bailey must’ve been a pistol. Wilder could almost see her. He imagined she was a lot like Virginia. Precocious. Adventurous. Fearless.

  “When she finally let Mama and me into her bedroom to see what she’d done . . .”

  “You were blown away?” Felix guessed.

  “I think ‘annoyed’ might be a better way to describe Mama’s reaction.” Paige shook her head. “Bailey, bless her heart, had gotten more paint on the floors and windows than on the walls. Her technique wasn’t very even. Instead of crying about our less-than-supportive reaction, Bailey just squared her shoulders and told us that she’d fix it and do better the next time.”

  “Did she?”

  Paige nodded, returning to the stairway, running her fingertips over the railing once again. “This time she asked our grandad for some help. He showed her what was what, and by the time she was in middle school, Bailey had turned our little shack into a showroom. Then our mama’s friends started asking for her help redoing their homes. Before long, Bailey was in the business of making people’s dream homes realities.”

  Lost in her memory, she grinned. “That little row of houses in our old neighborhood is still probably one of the prettiest in all of Texas. Bailey always said what they lacked in size they more than made up for in style.”

  Felix slipped an arm around her shoulder. “You should’ve seen this place before we got here. Total gut job.”

  “Did she boss you around much?”

  “Only all the time.”

  “Poor thing.” Paige laughed again. “That sounds like Bailey. She’s a bossy little thing. I bet she kicked you out if you weren’t painting to her liking.”

  “Has she always been that way?”

  “Pretty much. She’s never been afraid of getting her hands dirty or telling it like it is. And she
’s always been the independent sort. Never really needed anyone.” Paige gave a wry half-grin. “I suppose that’s how she’s dealt with our dad never being around. I always wanted everyone to love me, and she wanted to prove that she didn’t care what anyone else thought—she’d figure it out for herself.” She elbowed Felix lightly in the rib. “How’s that for self-aware? No one will ever be able to say we Meredith girls don’t know who we are.”

  Before Felix could come up with a smooth response, a loud boom shook the house from the new sound-proof glass windows to the freshly-wrapped beams. The lights flickered off and on, then off again. Not even a second later, the telltale rumble of thunder followed.

  “Jesus.” Felix let out a whistle. “What was that?”

  “Lightning.” Paige shivered and hugged her arms close to her chest. “It must have struck nearby.”

  “We should check to make sure everyone is okay.” Wilder started up the steps. “If it hit the house—or one of the power lines—we’ll want to make sure we don’t have damage anywhere.”

  The words were barely out of his mouth when he smelled it. The unmistaken hint of smoke in the air. As it registered, a voice upstairs shouted, “FIRE!”

  Chapter Twelve

  This was perhaps the single most exciting project Bailey had ever done. She’d designed an honest-to-God library. Aside from building a ballroom, it was the most whimsical and exciting notion a homeowner could request. The client in this situation wanted something stately enough for her lawyer husband yet refined and classic for her tastes. That had been a tall—but fun—order to fill.

  Felix and Wilder custom-built the shelves themselves. To match with the rest of the farmhouse’s feel, they rescued wood pulled out of the now-open living space on demolition day for the shelves. They carried the Austin stone fireplace from downstairs up through the library, making it a true showpiece.

  She admired the fireplace while she rolled a rug out in front of it. She couldn’t wait to see how it all looked once everything was set. That was her favorite part. Putting the pieces together, then stepping back to watch the house come to life.