Brave (Contours of the Heart Book 4)

by Tammara Webber

  “What do Harold and Sheila want to have done at the house? They’re rich as fuck, man, and old. Isaac shouldn’t be telling them no. They might not appreciate it coming from him, if you know what I mean.”

  While he was correct that rich people don’t care for being told no (who does?), I didn’t like his implication that the Andersons were racist but absolved of it because they were elderly and had money. That was all kinds of gross and probably defamatory.

  “It makes sense that a denial would come from Finance and Legal because of the liability aspect,” I said. “But that doesn’t matter now because they aren’t getting denied.”

  “I thought Maat said no.” His eyes widened and I realized my mistake, too late. “Wait. You pulled rank and got him vetoed?”

  I flushed, not with shy satisfaction over my victory, but with shame. What had I done?

  He hooted, grinning. “That is the best thing I’ve ever heard. Ha ha!”

  I considered stuffing my napkin in his open mouth.

  “Man, you just went full boss on your boss. He’s going to lose his shit. And he can’t do a damn thing about it because it’s coming from the owner of JMCH!”

  Which went right to the heart of my dread. Just because I liked getting my way and believed in the end result didn’t mean I enjoyed confrontation. I was not a hostile person. In a disagreement, my plan of attack centered on persuasion, not bullying. “I know you find this really humorous and all, but seriously—is he going to flip out?” So much for my plan to make a subtle inquiry. But if Joshua had a clue to what might happen next, I needed to know.

  “That’s the beauty—he can’t flip out. He can’t risk being rude to you. You’re the owner’s daughter.”

  “Hasn’t stopped him before,” I mumbled.

  “What’d he say to you? If he’s being disrespectful, you should report him.”

  Right. Report my supervisor for being disrespectful—a subjective accusation if ever there was one. I wasn’t about to run into my father’s company demanding respect for my ideas— Oh, hell. I just had.

  “It was just normal supervisory criticism, not character assassination. I’m fine.”

  I was so not fine. I still had no idea how Isaac might respond. And while I didn’t relish the thought of being justifiably reprimanded for subverting his authority, I didn’t want to push him over the edge and cause him to lose his job. If a confrontation over the Andersons’ great room wall happened—when it happened—I would have to pacify him and keep whatever angry shit he said to myself. After the house is complete, our clients are ecstatic, and this nonissue is resolved, he’ll get over it, I thought.

  That wasn’t how it worked out. But I wouldn’t know that for a while.

  • • • • • • • • • •

  There was no immediate showdown. Isaac didn’t even bring it up. In fact, he didn’t speak to me about anything the rest of the day. Or the next day. On Thursday, in the weekly meeting that I was only invited to because of my surname, he introduced talking points, held conversations, and put forth a good case for continuing to use subcontractors instead of assuming that economic recovery in the housing sector would be steady and the current summer boom at JMCH was permanent. But none of those exchanges included me.

  Hank sided with Isaac, reminding my father that JMCH had, in part, weathered the recession because we weren’t beholden to contractors like we were to employees, who required steady salaries and benefits and would put us at risk of layoffs if the growth fizzled.

  My father sighed, agreeing with a reluctant “Point taken,” though it was obvious he was partial to his viewpoint of nothing but blue skies.

  “Unless Erin has an objection?” Isaac said then, and everyone’s heads swiveled toward me.

  I glanced up from my notepad where I’d taken a few client notes but was mostly doodling a pair of perforated wedges with a perfect little ankle strap that I wished someone would design and produce. “What?” Why would I object to something I knew nothing about? My puzzled midafternoon I-need-caffeine brain tried and failed to process that question until I realized Isaac’s dark-as-bitter-coffee eyes were boring into mine for the first time that week.

  Unless Erin has an objection.

  Oh.

  I stomped my guilt and righteous indignation down—an uncomfortable mishmash of emotions that made me want to hide my face behind my hands while screaming—and cleared my throat. “No objection. Sounds reasonable to me.”

  “Relieved to hear it.”

  I wished he would look elsewhere so he wouldn’t see the remorse I didn’t want to feel or the fact that it didn’t keep me from wanting to strangle that smartass glare right off his face.

  “Great.”

  “Good.”

  chapter

  Nine

  Three weeks later, days before the Andersons’ closing date, Erin’s Horrible Downfall kicked off with an alarming text from my eldest brother. I’d just left a promising on-site meeting with a new client and had run by QuikTrip for gas and caffeine before returning to work. Perspiring from less than five minutes in ninety-seven-degree heat, I’d just taken a sip of my iced coffee and fired up the AC.

  Leo: It wasn’t my fault. The plumbing subcontractor can’t speak English. He didn’t do what I said. He’s just trying to cover his ass.

  I reread the text three times, hoping the words would rearrange themselves into some semblance of rationality instead of jumbled justifications for an unspecified horror. During the next exchange, my heart began a slow-motion thump, thump, thump—the kind that occurs when a homicidal clown has just grabbed the heroine’s ankle in the horror flick, or something unspeakable has happened in real life and you are to blame.

  Me: What?

  Leo: The wall. I never said to go through it.

  Me: What wall?? Please don’t mean what I think you mean.

  His next text was a pic of the Andersons’ custom great room mural, no longer a triumph of art and perseverance over dogmatic rules and shortsighted management. Since yesterday, when I’d last been on-site, the wall had become a hideous disaster of Leo proportions. A tire-sized portion of wallboard at the center of the painting had been damaged and patched over.

  Patched. Over. As in mudded and sanded, as though it were a nondescript section of a regular wall, no big deal.

  One justifiable fratricide, coming right up.

  Me: JESUS FUCKING CHRIST LEO WTF???

  Leo: Hey shut it I’m not the one that bends over and takes it up the ass for some whiny fancy ass bitch.

  Me: First, Sheila Anderson is one of our most important clients and you don’t like her because she’s a WOMAN with more money and sense than you will EVER HAVE.

  Me: Second, listening to our customers is my JOB.

  Me: And third, MAKING SURE SUBCONTRACTORS DON’T MUTILATE THE PROPERTY BEYOND REPAIR IS YOUR JOB.

  Leo: Face it “princess” you fucked up.

  Leo: Also my guys damage and fix shit all the time. It’s part of the building process and as you can see the WALL is just fine. Not our fault that you and your stick up his ass boss got something stupid approved by running to Daddy.

  Me: What is the deal with you and asses you homophobic dickwad, aside from the fact that you are in fact a GIANT ASSHOLE?! Do you want me to fail at this job? Is that your endgame? Congratulations and FYVM.

  I tossed my phone into the center console, so livid I was shaking and unable to get my seatbelt clipped. While I struggled and cursed the locking mechanism as though the tremors in my hands had zero to do with it, my phone trilled an alert. For once, I was grateful it sometimes decided to send calls straight to voice mail instead of giving me the option of answering, because the missed call was from Sheila Anderson’s cell.

  Before I could find the nerve to even listen to her message, my email refreshed and blew up from a conversation in which I’d been copied. The thread began with Mr. Anderson, whom I’d never actually corresponded with directly since he was fond of handing
all decisions off to his wife. It was addressed to my father. Cynthia Pike, Leo, and I were copied. A photo, similar to the one Leo had texted to me, was included, along with close-ups of the damage that looked—how was this even fucking possible?—worse.

  From: Anderson, Harold

  To: McIntyre, Jeffrey

  Cc: Pike, Cynthia; McIntyre, Leo; McIntyre, Erin

  Subject: Wall

  I’ve attached images for how the great room wall looked before and after your construction crew of idiots managed to wreck it. The artist’s remuneration was $50K; I’ll expect that credited back on my house at closing. As far as the wall itself, arranging a satisfactory repair (if such a thing exists, which I doubt) and coercing Sheila to accept that proposed resolution is on you.

  May God have mercy on your souls.

  Harold Anderson

  From: Pike, Cynthia

  To: McIntyre, Jeffrey

  Cc: McIntyre, Leo; McIntyre, Erin

  Subject: Re: Wall

  OMFG WTF

  Forward From: McIntyre, Jeffrey

  To: Sager, Ted; Greene, Hank; Maat, Isaac; Pike, Cynthia; McIntyre, Leo; McIntyre, Erin

  Subject: Re: Wall

  WHAT IN HOLY HELL??? WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS??? CONFERENCE ROOM 2 IN 20 MINUTES. EVERYONE. NO EXCUSES.

  From: Sager, Ted

  To: McIntyre, Jeffrey

  Cc: Greene, Hank; Maat, Isaac; Pike, Cynthia; McIntyre, Leo; McIntyre, Erin

  Subject: Re: Wall

  We have an interview scheduled in that conference room at 11.

  From: McIntyre, Jeffrey

  To: Sager, Ted

  Cc: Greene, Hank; Maat, Isaac; Pike, Cynthia; McIntyre, Leo; McIntyre, Erin

  Subject: Re: Wall

  I DON’T GIVE A GODDAMN. CANCEL IT.

  From: Sager, Ted

  To: McIntyre, Jeffrey

  Cc: Greene, Hank; Maat, Isaac; Pike, Cynthia; McIntyre, Leo; McIntyre, Erin

  Subject: Re: Wall

  Yes sir, I’ll postpone it until this afternoon.

  From: McIntyre, Jeffrey

  To: Sager, Ted

  Cc: Greene, Hank; Maat, Isaac; Pike, Cynthia; McIntyre, Leo; McIntyre, Erin

  Subject: Re: Wall

  POSTPONE IT UNTIL TOMORROW. MAYBE I’LL NEED TO HIRE A WHOLE NEW STAFF BY THEN.

  The gas station was five minutes from the office, or roughly seven hours from the Mexican border if I drove straight there instead. As I pulled into the road, I gave the idea serious consideration.

  Pros: I had a savings account into which my trust fund had dispensed quarterly cash since I turned twenty-one, and two months’ worth of paychecks in my debit account. I had a credit card in my name. My car had a full tank of gas.

  Cons: I’d have to go home to get my passport. I would be quitting something in the most spectacular fashion in the history of Erin Quitting Something—no living it down, ever. And I would have to take my high school Spanish and make a go of it. Hola, mi nombre es Erin.

  I jumped like a spooked rabbit when the driver behind me honked; I’d spaced out and missed the light turning green. I did not want to face my father and his key employees (plus my idiot brother). Every one of them knew—or would soon know—whose fault this fiasco was. But above all, I did not want to face Isaac Maat. Would he be furious or smug? Furiously smug? Smugly furious? These were the only options I could conceive aside from a 450-mile-long drive straight down I-35 and a freckled as fuck future.

  I pulled into the JMCH parking lot like a robot on autopilot and asked myself, What’s the worst that can happen?

  Answers spilled into my head, none of them implausible. Leo would escape unscathed, because he was right—his guys scratched surfaces, bumped frames loose, and knocked holes in the wallboard frequently in the process of doing something else. Blunders were patched up or replaced quickly, and as a rule the client remained none of the wiser. But those damages were perpetrated on standard construction drywall, upmarket countertops, and satin paint finishes in Lemon Custard or Newport Sand or Perfect Cream. Not irreplaceable works of art.

  This was my fault, when it came down to it. All. My. Fault. I was going to have to deal with the ruined wall in a way that satisfied the Andersons or die trying. But as much as I wanted to trust in my remarkable capacity to come up with innovative solutions to predicaments like this one, nothing came to mind.

  Good-bye, cruel world.

  • • • • • • • • • •

  Our butts had barely hit the chairs before my father thundered into the room and slammed the door shut behind him. He paced at the head of the table instead of sitting, staring down at the phone in his hand.

  “How?” The word was a long, angry growl. When no one answered immediately, it was barked. “How?”

  Leo leaned forward, one meaty palm up. “The guys have to make wallboard repairs all the time, Dad. It wouldn’t have been a big deal if that painting hadn’t been on it.”

  “You think?” my father shot back and Leo shrank back a bit. “Who did this?”

  “The damage or the rep—”

  “Both. Both! Who did it? Who authorized it?”

  Leo shrugged, but his shoulders remained taut. “One of Phil’s crew—some guy, Pedro or Juan, I dunno—installed cabinets where the dishwasher was supposed to go—”

  “What the fuck does a dishwasher have to do with the great room wall?”

  “The kitchen is on the other side of that wall. The plumbing and gas lines enter the house there. They accidentally bumped through it when they were ripping the cabinets out. It happens.” He tried another shrug.

  My father pressed both palms against the table and Ted, seated nearest him, angled away, his face a blotchy mask of dread. If a door straight to hell opened up in the floor, I was pretty sure Ted would jump right in. He was not cut out for reporting directly to Jeff McIntyre.

  “That mistake should have been caught before that painting was done—”

  “And it would have been if procedure had been followed. Aftermarket customizations aren’t supposed to be added until the house is transferred.” My brother had never uttered the words procedure or aftermarket in his life. He must have consulted a JMCH handbook and a dictionary and then spent several hours memorizing those two sentences. He leaned back in his chair, elbows resting on the arms, and glanced across the table at me as if musing how this flagrant oversight could have happened. “But someone got approval to do things out of order this time.”

  No he didn’t. That rat bastard!

  “I want that laborer fired, whoever he is,” Daddy snapped. “Fire the whole lot of them, including Phil.”

  Leo gasped, mouth agape, and pointed at me. Pointed. Like a five-year-old. “But Dad, this is Erin’s fault—” Phil was a buddy of his from high school.

  “Jeff, if the crew was just following orders—” Hank interrupted.

  Panic clawed at my throat. I had no idea how complicit Phil was or if he was at all. No idea if the damage had resulted from a legitimate accident or was straight-up Leo sabotage for my invasion of JMCH and the subsequent loss of our father’s full attention. Could he be that petty?

  “Were they?” Daddy glared at Leo, who glared at me. Question answered.

  “This is on me.” Isaac’s voice rose just above the others, silencing everyone.

  Ted’s mouth hung open and Cynthia angled one brow like a stunned cartoon villain. Leo didn’t even try to hide his exultant half grin, the fatheaded asshat.

  “I approved the request, and I’ll have to work out how to repair the damage to the wall and salvage our image, if you will allow me that option.” Isaac’s gaze was locked on my father, who knew damned well he’d allowed me to circumvent the rules and my supervisor’s efforts to uphold them.

  Daddy nodded once, addressing Isaac without a single telltale glance at me. “Fix it, or I will make sure it never happens again.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”

  Both behaved as though I had nothing to
do with this calamity, when I had everything to do with it.

  “Hank.” My father inclined his head toward the door before he turned and left the room. Hank followed. “Leo,” he barked from just outside the door, and my clueless brother stood and sauntered after them, happy to see someone else take the fall for his mistake, even if the intended target—me—hadn’t been hit.

  Without a glance in my direction, Isaac Maat rose and left the room.

  “Goddamn,” Cynthia muttered.

  Yeah.

  chapter

  Ten

  That night my subconscious startled me awake with the recurrent nightmare that had plagued my nights since last fall. Christina had fluctuated between mumbled annoyance and cursed condemnation whenever her sleep had been trashed by my pitiful whimpers or shrill yells. Since graduation, it hadn’t occurred once, and I’d begun clinging to a naïve hope that moving home and working full time—a signal to my brain that I was finished with school, with that campus—had made it stop.

  Nope.

  As I bumbled through my morning routine of yoga poses, I tried to focus on the lone bright sides: the interval between last night’s nightmare and the last time it had occurred, and the fact that my bedroom was on the opposite side of the house from my parents, who slept with a white-noise machine humming to drown out Jack’s bulldoggy snores (and Daddy’s). My brothers had long since moved out, so since I’d boomeranged back home, I had the east wing to myself. Maybe I should have been bothered that I could be chainsawed in my bed and no one would hear me shrieking, but I was too grateful for the privacy.

  Pax and Foster had witnessed an episode on Christmas Eve. They’d each come home for a few days bracketing Christmas—Pax from New Mexico and Foster from Dallas. When I’d screamed, both of them had torn into my room half-awake, Pax wielding a bat (of course), and Foster brandishing a museum-quality sculpture not intended for home defense that he’d grabbed from a hallway niche between our rooms.