Their meeting lasted two hours, and by the time it wrapped up, Emmie had forgotten she was supposed to be repulsed by him. Graham was sophisticated, kind, and intelligent, and his treating her like an equal—and dragging Wilma along for the ride—had bolstered Emmie’s confidence. She was able to suggest layouts, paint colors, wallpaper patterns, fabrics, fixtures, all on the fly, without even stopping to refresh her memory of the era. And the more Graham had smiled encouragingly at her, the more she came up with. She spoke to him directly the entire time; it was like Wilma had been the one relegated to the status of a footstool instead of her for once.
When Emmie walked Graham to the door to see him out, Wilma wasn’t far behind. The lack of control over the situation was already driving him crazy. Then Graham turned to Wilma and asked him to retrieve his leather-bound notebook that he had left behind on the conference table, and Emmie couldn’t suppress a smile. She knew he had left it there on purpose. By asking Wilma to fetch it, Graham put him in his place once again.
Emmie nearly didn’t want Graham to leave; she was sure the minute he was gone, Wilma would turn on her. But she could cope with the inevitable payback just knowing she’d be working with Graham, and for a long time, too—it was a whole lot of house, and the crew Graham had employed had just gotten started. He had said large parts of it had to be gutted right down to its 180-year-old studs. This could take an entire year, at least. What could turn out to be a really, really great year . . . professionally speaking, of course.
Graham seemed pleased with the arrangement as well, and for a minute Emmie pretended that Juliet hadn’t been behind it all, that Graham just wanted to work with her. She got more material for her fantasy when he smiled and shook her hand, putting his left hand on top as well, as if to emphasize his words: “I really look forward to us working together.”
Graham took his notebook from Wilma, shook his hand more perfunctorily than he had Emmie’s, and let himself out. Wilma closed the door behind him, and both he and Emmie watched Graham stride down the street and out of view of the office windows.
“I have no idea what that man is thinking,” Wilma muttered haughtily, his chin up and his arms crossed, his hands gripping his elbows. He cast a sideways glance at Emmie. “But you will run all your ideas by me first—at all times. Understand? I will not allow you to ruin the reputation of my company with some horrid, half-baked notions that you call interior design.” Emmie nodded silently, trying very hard not to roll her eyes. “And if, at any time, I get even the slightest hint that you are not living up to my exacting standards, in any way, I am pulling you off this project and taking over, no matter what Mr. Cooper says. Is that clear?”
Emmie nodded again as both their gazes were drawn to Graham driving past the office behind the wheel of his silver Subaru. “Such a remarkable man, Mr. Cooper,” Wilma murmured, almost to himself.
And the spark of rebelliousness that Graham had inspired in her gave her the courage to say with a smirk, “Careful, John, or I’ll tell Travis on you.”
Wilma’s head whipped around, and he squinted at her with a threatening glare. Travis was Wilma’s companion of more than a dozen years. A towering, warm-hearted, chestnut-skinned teddy bear, Emmie liked him far better than Wilma, yet she never saw much of him. She wished he’d stop by the office more often, as Wilma tended to be much more even-tempered when he was around. Even cheerful, sometimes. Ah, well. Feeling unintimidated by Wilma’s death ray of an evil eye for once, Emmie merely smiled serenely and returned to her desk to flesh out some of the ideas that Graham had expressed an interest in.
After her rollercoaster day, Emmie was grateful to immerse herself in the resoundingly normal, if loud, Campo environment that evening to visit the brave, cast-bound Logan and, Trish phoned to remind her, to stay for dinner. She made it sound like a punishment, but Emmie was looking forward to a home-cooked meal and the company of friends—real friends, not ones who promised you things for keeping your mouth shut about their personal lives.
After Emmie spent plenty of time admiring Logan’s cast, autographing it with a flourish, hearing the saga of how he ended up with his fracture, and dishing out gifts of toys and comic books, she and the Campo family settled down to lasagna, some blaring toons on the TV to distract the boys, and an analysis of Juliet’s love life.
“So let me get this straight,” Rick said. “The always-perfect Juliet Winslow is stepping out on her husband and two kids with a ‘hunky’ architect—you did say ‘hunky,’ right?”
“Hottie, actually,” Emmie corrected.
“Some player,” he said with a grunt, digging at his lasagna.
Trish looked at him. “Juliet, or this Graham guy?”
“Well . . .” Rick chewed and swallowed as he chose his words carefully. He’d learned long ago that if he tossed off what he thought was a harmless comment without considering it from all angles first, it could very well win him an all-expenses-paid night on the sofa before he even had a chance to figure out what his transgression was. “Dude’s single?” he asked Emmie, and she nodded tentatively; she’d had plenty of opportunities to check his left ring finger that afternoon, and there wasn’t even a hint of an indentation from a wedding band, or a telltale tan line. “Okay, then, Juliet’s more of a player here. I think, anyway. I know it’s not right, but if he’s a single guy, and she was . . . you know . . .” He shrugged as if to imply that a man couldn’t help but give in to any advances a woman like Juliet might have directed his way. Trish gave him a dirty look.
“I don’t know,” Emmie muttered. “I guess I’m just old-fashioned or something, but it’s just . . . ick.” She wasn’t sure she could express how conflicted she was feeling. And her violently fluctuating emotions were exhausting her. One minute the mere thought of Graham gave her the wibbles, and the next, she was furious with him. And disgusted. “I mean, cheating and expecting someone who’s practically a stranger to keep your secret . . .”
“Yeah, good job on that one.” Trish winked. “How long did you last—a couple of hours?” She stood up and started to clear the table.
“I’m not done yet!” Rick cried, stuffing his face with the last of his pasta before Trish whisked the plate out from under him.
“Yeah, y’are. It’s your turn to do the dishes, dude.”
Rick growled and trudged into the kitchen, licking his fork on the way. “Aw, but the kids are going to need my help putting together the slot car track! Thanks for the extra pieces, Aunt Emmie—now they have enough sections to go all the way under the dining room table.”
“Yeah, thanks a bunch, Aunt Emmie,” Trish said drily. “Nice try, husband o’ mine, but nothing doing. Emmie, can you give Mr. Overgrown Child a hand while I take a look at the schoolwork Logan’s teacher sent home?”
Trish nudged her husband in the ribs as she passed him in the kitchen doorway. Emmie smiled at how cute they were together as she started putting away the leftovers.
As Rick rinsed the dishes and stacked them in the dishwasher, he ventured, “So, I hear you kicked Kyle out on his ass.”
“Yeah, but it’s okay. He landed on Caitlynn’s boobs and they cushioned his fall.”
Rick laughed a little. “You sound like you’re taking it well.”
“Whatever, you know? Kyle was okay, but—”
“But you deserve better.”
“Awww.”Emmiesmiled. “Any more at home like you?”
“Not unless you’re a lesbian.” Rick was the youngest of five, and the only boy.
“Andrea’s an attractive woman.”
“I can see if she’s free, maybe hook you up.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
After a moment, Rick said, “Actually, there’s this guy at work . . .”
“Oh, no. No, no, no.”
Rick turned around, drying his hands on a towel. “You’d like him.”
“Come on, Rick,” Emmie groaned.
“He’s really nice—smart, and an artist. You’d like him.”
“An artist? At the supermarket?”
“Part time. He’s in college.”
“Oh, too young. Even better.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” Trish asked with a wicked grin, reentering the kitchen.
“You knew about this! Traitor! That’s why you guys fed me dinner? So you could soften me up before making the pitch?”
“Just trying to help you get back in the saddle, sweetie.”
“I don’t need any . . . saddle-getting-back-in . . . help, thank you very much.”
“But apparently you do need some help with your sentence structure. Logan’s doing his reading homework now—want to join him? You might learn something.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“He’s nice,” Rick offered again, a little desperately.
Emmie raised an eyebrow. “That’s an awful lot of nice, buddy.”
“I think you should give him a chance,” Trish said. “I haven’t met him, but—”
“You haven’t met him? You’re going on Rick’s recommendation? No offense,” she tossed to Rick.
“None taken.”
“Give the guy a chance!” Trish urged. Emmie crossed her arms and frowned at her stubbornly. Trish sighed. “Okay, if you’re going to be like that, it’s time for the secret weapon.”
Trish reached into the fridge but kept her eye on her friend the entire time, as though afraid she’d bolt. She put on her best James Bond evil-genius accent. “I hear you’re open to a leetle . . . persuasion, Miss Brewstah.”
“What are you talking about, Campo?”
Trish drew out a parfait glass covered in plastic wrap and waggled it at her friend. “Pudding, my friend . . . and, to sweeten the deal, I’m going to top it with artificial whipped topping made from soy products and plastics!”
Emmie made a grab for it, but Trish was too quick. Holding it out of her reach, she said in her normal voice, “Promise to go out on one date with Avery first.”
Emmie boggled at the name. “Avery? Seriously?”
“He’s nice!” Rick said for the umpteenth time.
“Promise!” Trish ordered her friend, keeping the pudding high out of reach while Emmie continued to jump for it.
Emmie stopped jumping and pouted. It was a dirty trick. She was helpless against the power of the pudding, and Trish knew it. “Promise,” she grumbled.
Chapter 7
You know, Emmie thought, this is nice. Sometimes a date with a charming, good-looking guy was just . . . nice. It was a nice night—cold, but perfect for the winter festival downtown. The neighborhood looked so cute, with all the little shops open late, their windows glowing, and friends chatting on the street corners. The donuts, cider, and hot chocolate being doled out at the Kiwanis booth were nice, the carolers were nice, every part of the night was perfect for walking around and getting to know this genial Avery person.
Plus, it was a relief to focus on a pleasant event after her semi-awkward Thanksgiving dinner with her aunt’s family two days before. She didn’t have anything against her Aunt Phyllis, but she would have vastly preferred having her father there as well. But—surprise, surprise—her father had left her a voice mail on Tuesday, announcing he was going on a cruise. A cruise! Over a family holiday! When he had just gotten back from a tropical vacation! She was starting to think her father wasn’t only running away from the memory of her mother, but also was running away from spending time with his only child.
That stung, but Emmie had to admit it was a real possibility. She and her father had never had a super-close relationship; her father was always blustery and clumsy with her, and she had never been a daddy’s girl by any stretch of the imagination. Oh, she loved him, and he her, but their relationship worked better in a more abstract sense. Emmie was her mother’s daughter all the way; she’d looked for her mom whenever she needed help or advice or someone to confide in. Her mom had been her friend; her dad was the somewhat distant guy in the recliner in the living room, watching TV.
On occasion, Emmie recalled, her mother tried to nudge her toward spending more time with her dad, but it always ended up being an excruciatingly awkward episode for the both of them. Bob tended to be clumsy with his affection and his communication even on the best of days, and it seemed that was even more of a problem when it came to dealing with his daughter.
No, they had been far better off with Jennifer in the middle. So, of course, once she was gone, that was when things got really messy. Emmie couldn’t blame her father for keeping his distance now. The parameters of their relationship had been set decades ago. It was just that . . . sometimes she thought it would be nice if they could build something new, now that it was just the two of them. Maybe that was too much to ask, after all these years.
But Emmie put all that behind her to enjoy her date with Avery, and so far it was going just fine. They got along well, talking easily about art and design and pop culture. He had bought her a hot chocolate without asking her to fork over some money, like Kyle would have done; he didn’t clank when he walked, having squirreled away a six pack of beer in all of his pockets, like Kyle would have done; he made room for her on the sidewalk and held shop doors open for her but didn’t do that damned hand-on-her-back-to-steer-her thing, like Kyle would have done. However, he also did something that Kyle wouldn’t have done—not in a million years.
Nice, Emmie thought, glancing at her date. Real nice. Had she really seen what she thought she saw?
Emmie felt completely neutral about Avery, no matter how nice he was. She compared her reaction to him to the capering butterflies Graham inspired—oh, look, there they were now, still in her belly, acting up at just the thought of him—and she knew that Avery didn’t measure up in the slightest. So, because she really didn’t care whether they had a second date or not, let alone whether they ever forged a real relationship, she decided now was the perfect time to start being more assertive when it came to dragging the truth out of men. Even if it did guarantee she’d end up a perpetually single, old, crazy cat lady someday.
“Avery?”
The young man leaned his blond head closer to hers as they walked; the holiday parade was passing, presently featuring the middle school band’s honking, squeaking rendition of what may or may not have been “Jolly Old St. Nicholas,” and it was difficult to hear much of anything else. “Yes?”
Once they were on the next block, she turned to face him squarely. He flicked his long bangs out of his eyes. “Avery . . . did you just check out that guy’s butt?”
Avery had a beautiful smile, dimples, a chin that came to a dramatic, handsome point and was adorned with a little peach-fuzz stubble. He turned on his glittering smile now. “Er . . .” He half laughed. “Well . . .”
“You dumbass,” she said, but affectionately. “Why didn’t you tell Rick, when he said he wanted to introduce us?”
Avery sighed with relief, shrugged, and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “I don’t know . . .”
“Don’t say it’s because he’s the store manager and you were fearing for your job or something stupid like that.”
“No, Rick’s cool. But the other guys at work . . .”
“You work at a supermarket, not down on the docks!”
“There’s a lot of testosterone in the stockroom! All that swearing and spitting and . . .”
Emmie laughed, shook her head, and started walking again. Avery took long strides to keep up with her.
“So you’re not mad?”
“No. I think you’re being silly, though.” Emmie sighed, studying him. “Got a boyfriend?”
“No, not just now.”
“So you’re not cheating on anybody by being out on a date with me.”
“No, I would never do that.”
“Well, that’s something.”
“I really like you, Emmie. Can we be friends and, you know, hang out more?”
He took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. She rested her he
ad on his shoulder. “Sure. After all, what would a sassy single girl be without a cute gay frie—oh, crap.”
She stopped short, and Avery stumbled, taken by surprise. Up ahead, Juliet emerged from a shop and bounced down the single step onto the sidewalk. She was hard to miss, in a puffy white down jacket short enough to show off her pert tush wrapped in expensive, tight jeans, a baby-blue knit hat and matching mittens, and soft, calf-high boots with some sort of fluffy lining.
“Somebody you know?” Avery asked.
“You could say that.”
“She’s hot.”
“Humph. And you said you wanted to be my friend. Whose side are you on, bub?”
“Sorry.”
Emmie fervently wished that Juliet would turn left and walk away from them instead of toward them, but she wasn’t holding out much hope—not the way her luck was going lately. Sure enough, Juliet turned in their direction. And the next person to emerge from the shop. . .
“I hate my life,” Emmie whispered.
“I smell drama,” Avery murmured.
Emmie began, in an overly sweet tone, “Avery . . .”
“You need me to pretend to be straight and madly in love with you right now, don’t you?”
“You’re very perceptive. Yes, please.” And Emmie gripped his arm with her free hand as well, moving closer to him.
“Are we trying to make her envious, or him jealous?”
“Yes, please.”
“I can’t wait to hear the details.”
But Emmie couldn’t give him any just then, because Juliet had spotted her and was waving merrily.
“Emmie!” Juliet cried, as though running into her was the highlight of her evening.
“Hi, Juliet,” she said politely—and far more reservedly.
Juliet gave Avery the once-over, obviously expecting an introduction. “This is my dear friend Avery,” Emmie filled her in, emphasizing the words “dear friend” and letting Juliet draw her own conclusions. “Avery, this is Juliet, an old friend from high school.”
By Design Page 8
