"Which is weird in and of itself," Quinn interjects. "I mean, A, what in God's name does he see in her? And B, where was Dan in all of this?" She pauses when I have no answer. "Like, I know they're 'separated' and all, but she sure moved in awfully damn fast."
"I know," I say.
Neither of us says anything else for at least another minute. I chew my pizza thoughtfully while Quinn feeds her liquid diet and avoids her plate.
"So what did Brewster's assistant say?" she reminds me.
"Oh, yeah." I swallow the last bite of my crust and wipe my mouth with the white cloth napkin. "She asked me to keep an eye on Candace and see if I thought she was up to anything fishy," I say, my brows pulling together. "I sort of got the impression she thinks Candace is a gold digger."
The server returns, and Quinn waves away her plate even though she's barely eaten a third of her pizza. The waitress deposits two black folders on our table and then hustles away our dishes.
"Well, that's interesting," Quinn says once the swinging door closes behind our server, bringing with it a puff of air-conditioned air that's like a blast from heaven. "Very interesting."
We busy ourselves with pulling out our credit cards and paying our bills. I glance at the clock on my phone's screen and feel a flash of panic that my meeting with Rasmutin is less than two hours away, and I still have some fabrics to pull and prices to check, not to mention a board to finish. Plus, thanks to this lunch, I'm going to need a major freshen-up session in the firm's bathroom before I head out to meet my client.
As we approach our parking lot, Quinn turns to me and says, "Promise you'll tell me if you hear of anything else going on?"
I shrug. "Yeah, sure."
Clearly Quinn cares more about keeping her job than she likes to let on. As for me… Well, I'm not sure I know what I really want anymore.
* * *
By the time I leave my meeting with Amanda and Marc this afternoon, I feel as if I've run a 5K—my back is damp with sweat, and I'm exhausted. I finished my storyboard by the skin of my teeth and dashed out of the office certain I'd forgotten something, my mental checklist running on repeat in my head. Thankfully, I forgot nothing, and Marc loved both Amanda's and my presentations. We'll be needed on-site as soon as sheet rock is up in the model units, which could be as early as next week. But before then, I need to get orders placed for some of the furniture pieces to be sure they're here in time for the building's soft opening. Delays are inevitable with made-to-order furnishings, and it can take as long as nine weeks for a simple sofa to come in—sometimes longer.
I'm still pumping with adrenaline from the successful presentation when I get a text that destroys my buzz. 911. Kitchen pipe busted. Floors … mess … help!
"Oh my God," I say. I've just started my car and was about to head back to work, but instead I screech out of my parking space at Marc Rasmutin's office and prepare to drive to the bakery.
And then—smash!
"Shit!" I yell, my head jerking forward and then back again.
I turn to see that I've just backed into an SUV. How I missed it—the thing is the size of a Navy fleet vessel—I'm not sure.
I'm too busy for my own good, that's how. I'm meeting myself coming and going.
I take a second to assess myself, thankful that neither car was moving fast. The impact wasn't enough to trigger my airbag, and I doubt it's done much damage. Still, I'm shaking like a leaf and know I'll probably be sore tomorrow. I rub the back of my neck with my right hand before opening my car door.
I step slowly out of my car and approach the SUV's driver's side window. A woman with glossy dark hair is inside with the window rolled up, glaring daggers at me. I'm standing right beside her car before she finally rolls it down.
"I am so sorry," I say.
"Are you girls okay?" asks a man who's jogged over from the sidewalk. "I just called MPD for you."
Another man walks out the door of a neighboring business and comes over to us.
"Thanks," I say to both of them. "I'm fine, I think." I look at the woman, who's finally opening her car door. She's alone in the car. Despite the tinted windows, I can see car seats in the backseat of her vehicle, but thankfully they're empty.
"You're lucky my kids aren't in the car," she says in a haughty voice, echoing my thoughts, and I apologize again.
"Not much damage," announces the second man, who's made his way around the front of the SUV and is now rubbing a spot on my rear fender. I glance back and see a football-sized dent in the silver plastic panel.
Great. But it could be worse.
"Yours took the brunt of it," the man says, gesturing with his head toward me as he walks over to us. I imagine that's true, since what I'm driving might as well be a golf cart in comparison to her hulking vehicle. I almost giggle when I see it's a Chevy Armada—my ship analogy wasn't too far off.
I nod at the man, thankful I have full coverage. Though, looking at the woman, I have a feeling I'm going to pay regardless. She still looks pissed off, and she's tapping away at her cell phone screen, probably lacing the text with profanities aimed at me. When she looks up, I explain the emergency at the bakery, but it doesn't seem to help. Meanwhile, our Good Samaritans wander away—I'm the only one who thanks them.
I get back in my car to wait for the police to show up. It takes forever, and in the meantime, I text Chick to let her know what's happened and tell her I'll be there as soon as I can. As I scroll down the screen, I notice the thread of texts from Todd. I never gave him a real answer about going with him to the theater. Even though I'd love to accept, it feels too weird to go on what might or might not be a date with a guy I'm hiring to do work for me—even if my gut tells me he only wants to be friends. I doubt he really considers this a date.
I reread the thread. I ended it by telling him I have plans and can't go this weekend—which isn't a lie, though I don't feel at all good about my plans for Friday night. My stomach twists up at the thought of being alone with Brandon again, but at the same time, I know I'm not going to cancel.
At least my Saturday plans are more appealing. It's not just me who's been too busy for family time lately—and my mom has decided it's time to stage a full-on intervention. She sent out a mandate that I and every one of my in-town siblings join her and my dad for dinner on their thirty-seventh anniversary. She even sent an Evite with the title "Cats in the Cradle" Anniversary Dinner. She never has been one for subtlety.
Even though I had legitimate reasons to turn down Todd, I left the door open and only turned him down for this weekend—the show is running for a full month. I was planning to talk to him about it Thursday while we're hanging art, but now thanks to this leak, the installation might not happen this Thursday. As I realize this, a twinge of disappointment hits me, and I try to ignore the fact that it's over more than an interruption to my project schedule.
I'm texting with Carrie when MPD finally arrives, and then I get a ticket in addition to an insurance claim.
Fabulous. Just what I need.
One step forward, two steps back. Damn it if that isn't just the way life works.
* * *
By the time I finally make it to the bakery, the parking lot entrance is almost blocked by a boxy white van with EPD Disaster Recovery painted on the side. "Well, that doesn't bode well," I mutter to myself.
This day has had disaster written all over it.
Inside, though, I've missed the worst of the panic. The ear-splitting buzz of industrial fans emanates from the kitchen area, and I run through the front room—relieved to see that it seems to be intact—and around the pastry cases to find a different story. The wood floors in the kitchen are still wet in places, and the new finish looks to be almost completely destroyed. A smattering of workers in dark blue coveralls are squatting and kneeling in corners, mopping up remaining pools of water, and so is Chick, whose light blue dress is rumpled and stained and wet in places.
When she sees me she stands, shaking her head and wiping the
back of one gloved hand across the bridge of her nose. Her hair—bleached white-blonde this week, with streaks of fuchsia—is matted against her forehead.
"Damn," I yell over the noise of the fans, glancing around.
"Don't you know it," she yells back.
She walks around me through the kitchen area and gestures for me to follow. At the doorway to the customer portion of the store, she slips out of her soaking-wet Converse sneakers and leads me barefoot to one of the shop's brand new tables, installed just last week.
"What have they told you about the cleanup?" I ask.
"At least four days to fully dry out and at least ten before we even think about refinishing the wood," she says.
"What caused the leak?"
She shrugs. "Old pipes. It happened behind the prep sink on that back wall. They've patched it up and cut the water, but it will be Wednesday before I can get my plumber in here to replace the pipe."
Chick pulls off her gloves and places them on the round tabletop, reaching up to scratch the side of her nose and push her sweat-damp bangs out of her eyes.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" I ask, glancing toward the kitchen, where a worker just emerged carrying black plastic garbage bags in both hands. He takes them out the front door, letting it swing open behind him.
Chick is shaking her head. "Nah. Thanks, but I'm about to get out of their way. The worst of it is over."
"I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner."
"Oh, no. No worries," she says. "You couldn't exactly help getting in a car wreck! Are you okay, by the way?" She leans around the table and looks me up and down.
"I'm fine. My car is mostly fine, just a dent." I shrug it off. I'm forming the question I most want to ask when she interrupts me.
"This isn't going to affect the opening," she says, and I feel my eyes grow wide.
"How so?" The bakery's soft opening is supposed to take place a week from next Friday, and the grand opening fund-raiser is set for the Saturday after that. "We won't even have the floors refinished by the time customers start coming in."
She's shaking her head again. "I know, I know. But I've already sent out email blasts and put up flyers everywhere, and the Art League has started advertising for the opening night party." She gestures with her head toward the back of the house, where the man with the garbage bags just returned, shutting the door and lowering the decibel level in the room considerably. "Besides, all the damage is in the kitchen, and we can just shut the kitchen off for the opening."
"But—" I start, and she cuts me off.
"It's an inconvenience, sure. But we still have the catering kitchen on Monroe for another two months. I was planning on transitioning the bakery's operations over here slowly. We'll just have to treat the party, and our first couple weeks of business, like a catering gig. Or a pop-up shop, which we do all the time anyway."
I'm shaking my head and looking at her with awe. "You amaze me," I say. "And it's my job to troubleshoot."
She holds up the gloves. "I've had time to think while sopping up Lake Michigan back there."
"And this Thursday?" I ask, glancing toward the front room where we're supposed to be installing Annalise's artwork.
"Is still on," she answers definitively.
I know it's wrong, and completely incongruous with the disaster-recovery effort happening a few feet away from us, but my stomach does a little dance of excitement when I learn that I'll get to see Todd on Thursday after all.
* * *
I don't sleep well Monday night, what with the wreck and the bakery disaster and the situation with Brandon and the fact that every time I wake up—which is often—project schedules for three different clients are swimming in front of my eyes. Finally, at 4:30 I get up—screw it—and pad into my office to get some work done. I still haven't come up with a sofa that meets Nestor Santiago's approval, and I need to get a start on designing their master bath. I'm meeting the two of them again Wednesday afternoon, and I'm hoping for a firm commitment so I can start the ordering process.
I finally get too sleepy to keep my eyes open around 6:00 a.m. I fall into bed and don't wake up again until Simon is licking my face, and the sun is streaming through my window at an alarming angle.
I shoot straight up in bed. "Shit. What time is it?" I say out loud and grab my phone. It's 9:47.
"Oh, damn. Damn, shit, damn."
I'm hopping around my bedroom like a Vegas entertainer on hot coals, pulling on the first items of clothing I see—a wrinkled linen skirt I need to take to the cleaners and a white blouse I hardly ever wear. There's no time for a shower, but at least I don't have any reason to be dressed up today. I'm due at Brewster's house at 10:30 to oversee construction of the built-in bookshelves in his study.
I brush my teeth, wash my face, and pop in my contact lenses in record time, deciding to skip makeup—I'll slap on some concealer and lipstick in the car. I really, really need to run by the office to grab a few things related to the condo project, but I don't have time. Instead, I scoop up my Santiago project files so I'll have something to do if there's downtime at Brewster's today.
Ugh. Brewster's today. All day.
I know I should be excited to have back the project that's rightfully mine, but all I can muster up is a deep feeling of dread. I wish I'd never gotten myself involved with that man. Something about him creeps me out—even though I've barely seen him in person. Plus, I feel strange working in his house knowing Candace probably slept in it last night.
Once I've let Simon out and put food and water in his bowls, I slam out of the house and screech across town to Brewster's mansion. From the start, everything about this project has thrown me off my game—I'm hardly ever late for appointments, but I always seem to mess up where Brewster is concerned.
When I get there, the workers' trucks are already out front. I ring the doorbell, tapping my foot impatiently, and am shocked when not Aubrey, but Emory Brewster himself opens the door.
I'm so flustered that I stutter and start offering explanations that don't even make sense. "So sorry…up all night…working at five this morning…my dog…no alarm clock." Holy cow, I'm an imbecile.
Brewster opens the door wider, his eyes never leaving my face. His expression is both amused and condescending, and I imagine he must look that way a lot. A side effect of being a smarmy asshole who's smarter than most of the people around him most of the time.
"Are you late?" he asks in a cool voice, looking at the expensive platinum watch on his left wrist. "I hadn't noticed."
He gestures with an arm into the interior of the house, and I move past him and then half walk, half run toward the study. My heart is beating hard and fast, and even though he's just told me it doesn't matter that I'm late, I still have that panicked feeling like I just missed my plane or no-showed for a final exam.
When I reach the study door, I hesitate, turning to face him. His phone is at his ear, but he's not talking on it, and because of the way his eyes quickly rise to mine, I have the sure sensation he was just staring at my ass. My face grows hot, and I swivel again, walking into the study without saying a word to him. He follows me in.
Within a few minutes my heart rate returns to normal, and I'm in my element, hunching over a mahogany desk that's been pushed into one corner of the room and marking up my sketches to make sure the carpenter and his assistant understand exactly what I want them to do. I've intentionally avoided any glances at Brewster, though I can see him in my peripheral vision and hear him making calls, one after another, and speaking in a low voice.
Why in hell's name is he here? I was counting on spending the day with Aubrey, who's still creepy but in a less overt way.
This house has a weird vibe—almost a pall. It's like those V.C. Andrews novels I read as a kid…My Sweet Audrina meets Flowers in the Attic. Ohmygosh. Are Aubrey and Brewster related? Maybe she's his niece. Maybe a cousin? That would explain a lot, like why she lives here and why she has a more-than-professional concern about his
well-being.
But if she lives here, why isn't she here today? And why is he here? Is he that particular about the installation of this damn cabinetry?
As the carpentry crew gets started, I feel conspicuous, so I pull out my phone and start going over my schedule for the rest of the week. I return several emails and then take my laptop out of my bag to go over my notes on the hearth room. I realize with dismay that I'll have to break the radio silence between me and Brewster, who is still in the room.
"Do you mind giving me your Wi-Fi password?" I ask him through clenched teeth.
He glances up at me with the same amused look on his face that he'd given me earlier. I'm glad he finds my frazzled ineptitude so damned funny.
"That's proprietary," he says, and I glare at him.
He chuckles and gives me his network name and password. "Thanks." I bury my head in my computer again.
But it's too late. I've opened the door for conversation, and now he crosses the room and sits on the arm of a large, rolled-arm reading chair just to the right of me. He cranes his neck so he can see my screen. I resist the urge to turn it away from him, even though all I'm looking at is a scanned rough of his kitchen and hearth room.
"Whatcha working on?" he asks in a patronizing tone, like an uncle asking his five-year-old niece to explain her crayon drawing.
I don't look up from my screen, avoiding a glimpse of his unnerving aqua eyes. "I'm going over the furniture plan and schedule for your hearth room," I say. "Now that the hardwood's ready, I'm getting in the marble guys to reface the hearth before we start installing furniture and accessories."
"You're very efficient," he says, and there's something unfinished about the way he says it. Like he's comparing me to his previous design team, who clearly didn't fit that description. I'm burning with curiosity over his relationship with Candace, but I don't want to open the door for any personal questions.
Neither of us says anything for a few long minutes, but I can feel his eyes on me, and he doesn't move from the arm of the chair. The silence is uncomfortable, and so is his proximity. I thought he was busy and important. Why is he spending the day lounging alongside the designer he's paying to run this project for him?
How to Look Happy (Unlucky in Love Book 3) Page 21
