by Leslie Caine
“Age before beauty, Sullivan,” I fired back, and silently called him every four-letter word in the book; I could rename his business easily enough. He normally wasn’t this hostile to me. The prize of a feature story was obviously bringing out the worst in him. Granted, I, too, would kill to get Denver Lifestyles’ publicity for my business—but I would much rather kill with kindness. I gave him an angelic smile, secretly hoping that the incredible weight of his ego would cause his head to implode.
The doorbell rang. “Aha. That will be our carpenter, Taylor Duncan,” Randy announced as he headed toward the door. “You two will share his services.”
“Taylor’s your stepson, right, Carl?” I asked, noting how polar-opposite he and Kevin McBride looked as they stood side by side. The short, solid Kevin was the shot glass to Carl’s tall, thin champagne flute. “And he knows what he’s doing? He’s experienced enough to work on two different projects at once?”
“Absolutely. When it comes to carpentry, Taylor’s a real whiz kid.” Behind Carl, however, Kevin McBride was shaking his head at me and giving a thumbs-down. “And just for the record, Kevin and I have a lot more riding on this competition than you and Steve here do.”
Kevin nodded. “The loser has to watch the Super Bowl at home with Axelrod. The winner gets to watch the game live and in person—with a ticket to the big show itself.”
Glowering at me through his wire-rimmed glasses, Carl spat out, “So you’re not allowed to lose. Or else!”
“That goes double for you,” Kevin told Sullivan.
A bear of a man—six foot five at least—lumbered into the room behind Randy. Taylor Duncan’s head was shaved, and he wore work boots, overalls, and a spiked dog collar. His bare, corded arms were a mass of teal-blue tattoos, like a singularly ugly toile infused into his skin. “Hey, Carl. Kevin. Sorry I’m a bit late.” He had received a split vote regarding his carpentry skills, but if this had been a lumberjack competition, Taylor would have been the man I wanted on my team.
“One more thing before we all get to work, folks,” Randy announced. “Since I got a bad ticker”—he patted the left side of his chest as if to give us a visual—“I won’t be able to do much in the way of heavy lifting. I’ll keep an eye on the clock and keep things running smoothly at both houses. Come Sunday night, I’ll be impartial, no matter what’s gone on from now till then. I’ll decide which of you two folks has produced the best interior design and which has the inferior design. My wife says she’ll help out with the sewing and picking up after everybody. Understand?”
I understood, but I was boiling mad. This was one hell of a raw deal. No one would expect two football teams to play the Super Bowl with just five minutes’ notice, yet these jerks had blindsided me into a direct competition with Sullivan. Would Denver Lifestyles have fun with the Gilbert-versus-Sullivan aspect and publicly reveal the loser of this competition? “I don’t know how I feel about this,” I began. “The thing is—”
“Let me show you something that might help persuade you.” Steve snatched a notebook off the counter behind him and started to write furiously.
He ripped off the top sheet and thrust it at me. He’d written: Hey, Gilbert! You earn $$$$ for 2 days’ work! Even though you’ll lose!!
I crumpled the note into a tight ball while clenching my teeth. If a client hadn’t been present, I’d have tossed the paper in his smug face. “You’re on, Sullivan.”
He gave me one of his cover-boy smiles and arched an eyebrow. “Bring it on, Gilbert.”
Steve Sullivan and Kevin McBride left for Kevin’s house; over his shoulder as he left the room, Taylor mumbled something about needing to get set up in Randy Axelrod’s backyard. Seconds later, Sullivan was back, shouting through the front door, “Hey, Gilbert. Move your van. I’ve got to get mine out.”
“Say please, Sullivan, and I’ll oblige you,” I shot back.
When he said nothing, my curiosity got the best of me. I stormed outside, weighing the notion of singing a line or two from a tune in HMS Pinafore just to bug him; the idea of polishing a door handle “so carefully” as to be made “the ruler of the Queen’s navy” suddenly had a certain appeal. I found him standing by the garage. He was massaging his temples and had such a worried look that I almost asked if he was all right. He spotted me just then, cleared his throat and, turning on his heel and ignoring me, got into his van.
I backed up my van and parked in the space Sullivan had vacated while he drove a mere two doors down the street. Why hadn’t he simply walked over here after finding the note on Kevin McBride’s door? Could he have suspected something was up and been prepared to turn down the assignment and drive home? Had it just been his desire to defeat me in this wacko competition that made him stick with this job? If so, for a pair of interior designers, we were being disgustingly macho.
I decided to save myself a few steps later and bring some of my tools and paint supplies inside with me now. Opening the back doors to the van, I gasped when Randy Axelrod’s voice unexpectedly boomed behind me, “Can I help you carry stuff in?”
“Didn’t you just say you had a weak heart?”
“Sure, but I know when to take it easy. I’m not made of eggshells.”
“You can carry the brushes, rollers, and pans.”
“Will do.”
I took my time stacking the supplies. I needed a moment to collect myself. “Aren’t you worried about inspiring hard feelings between you and your neighbors by being a judge?” I asked Randy.
“Why would judging a couple rooms make anyone feel bad?”
“Someone might object to having their brand-new room deemed ‘an inferior design,’ as you called it.”
“Ah, hell, that won’t matter.” He chuckled. “They already do hate me.”
“Who? Kevin and Carl?”
“Yeah. And their wives, too.”
I winced at the concept of that much discord so close to home, which should always be everyone’s very least discordant place to be. As we headed up the walkway, I tried to send him the telepathic message: Life’s too short.
“Don’t look so concerned, honey,” he said with a laugh. “It’s not like I’m fond of them, either.”
“Then why judge their rooms? And spend the weekend helping them remodel? Why subject yourselves to one another’s company when it’s not absolutely necessary?”
“Hey.” He shrugged, opened the door, and held it for me with his foot. “Beats sittin’ around the house, watching football.” We stashed the supplies just inside the door. Randy tapped his chest. “Watching the Broncos lose is the worst thing I can do to my heart, if you ask me.” He fidgeted with his mustache and surveyed our surroundings. “I never should’ve sold Carl this house in the first place.”
“This used to be your house?”
“Up until five years ago. After my first heart attack, we decided to simplify—get a smaller place.”
I looked across the street at the house, which appeared to be the smallest in the immediate neighborhood. Though this was December and not exactly the season in Colorado for lush yards and bountiful gardens, it was clear at a glance that someone was taking immaculate care of the grounds. Gigantic plastic candy canes had been placed to either side of the base of the driveway. An old-fashioned wood sled adorned with a lovely evergreen wreath and bright red bow leaned against the gray house—a simple but immensely elegant decoration. The sight made me yearn for a white Christmas. “That’s your house over there?”
He snorted. “Home sweet home.”
“Nice.”
“On the outside.” He gestured for me to follow him outdoors. “Come and meet the missus. I told her I’d let her know when we’re starting work. She seems to think she can help, but the woman’s all thumbs. Taylor had better not let her near his power tools, or she’ll likely cut one of those thumbs of hers clean off.” He chuckled at his gruesome imagery.
Curious to see the house that, if I won this inane competition, I could soon be redecorating�
�and keenly aware that our excursion would allow me to suck up to the judge a little—I replied, “Sure. Thanks,” and headed across the street with Randy.
He let me inside his home, allowing the storm door to bang shut behind us. I took in my surroundings without making it obvious that I was doing so. As a designer, I’m voraciously curious about people’s homes, but I’ve found that if I make it even the slightest bit evident that I’m checking out a room, the homeowners become nervous. This small living room could be made cozy, but at the moment, it was far too cluttered. The walls were a cave-like gunmetal gray and sported small pictures with a hodgepodge selection of frames. The fabric patterns were all over the map, with no consistent color palette. These were common problems that were easy to rectify, and it struck me as odd that this man edited an interior-design magazine.
“Randy? Is that you?” a woman’s voice called.
“Last time I checked.”
“I caught Taylor Duncan poking around in our refrigerator a couple of minutes ago! You need to go out back and—” A trim, fifty-something woman in a Waverly floral print cotton dress rounded the corner. Spotting me, she froze and stared slack-jawed at me.
Assuming she was simply caught off guard at suddenly finding herself face-to-face with an unexpected guest, I smiled and said, “Your husband suggested I come over and meet you. I’m Erin Gilbert. I’m going to be redecorating the Hendersons’ bedroom.”
“Pleased to meet you, Erin,” she said, and stepped forward to shake my hand. She let her grip linger an instant longer than necessary, studying my features all the while. “My name’s Myra. Myra Axelrod.”
“Have we met before? If so, I’m sorry, but I—”
“No, no. You just remind me of somebody. My, uh, sister. When she was your age. I—”
“Erin’s got to get cracking,” Randy told his wife before she could say more.
“I’m all set, too,” Myra said, grabbing a tan cardigan from the arm of the sofa. Her piercing gray eyes stayed on my face. “I’ll come with you, Erin, and be your personal assistant for the weekend.”
Before I could respond, Randy decreed, “No way, Myra. We need to start at the McBrides’ house.”
“But I—”
“No, Myra.” He shook his head.
They held each other’s gaze. Or rather, they held each other’s glare. All things considered, I decided, this was my worst-ever send-off for a new job. “It was nice meeting you, Myra, but I do need to get cracking. . . .” My voice faded as I pondered the expression. When it comes to interior design, cracking is rarely a good thing.
“We’ll catch up to you later, Erin,” Myra replied with a warm smile.
The moment the door shut behind me, I could hear the bass and contralto rumblings of their argument. From my vantage point across the street, I got a good look at the McBrides’ house and could see that it was half again as large as the Hendersons’ place. Subtle clues in the roofline—now adorned with icicle-light strings— and weathering of the cedar shingles indicated that the McBrides, or maybe the house’s previous owners, had made two significant additions to the original structure. Odd that homeowners who could afford to put that kind of money into their property would hire a designer for a surprise one-weekend makeover. Then again, everything in this neighborhood felt slightly odd.
Making a mental note to never again let mercenary concerns override my instincts, I returned to the Hendersons’ bedroom. Taylor was there, helping Carl clear out the room. I stole a moment to scan the bedroom, both as it existed and as I envisioned it, which was an ability that I considered one of my most precious gifts. My spirits soared at the notion of how, in just one weekend, I’d be able to take this space from blah to wow.
Carl had told me that his wife was a voracious reader, and there were books stacked like the Leaning Tower of Pisa along the wall beside her side of the bed. I planned to convert the small closet by the entrance into a floor-to-ceiling bookcase that would be hidden behind the closet door. Despite the richness that neatly arranged books bring to any room, “neatly arranged” was the operative phrase, which obviously wasn’t Debbie’s strong point.
The Hendersons already owned an exquisite eight-drawer alder chest with a lightly distressed stained exterior. That one piece was worth several thousand dollars—roughly ten times the value of all their other furniture in the room combined. When I was done, Debbie Henderson would have a fabulous custom-designed alder bed with maple accents in a light finish that complemented the showpiece chest. Curtains would hang between the bedposts and hide the new headboard’s shelves so that she could keep them in whatever state she wished and not spoil the visuals of the room.
As for color schemes, the walls were now bone white. When my work was complete, they would be fauxfinished with a gold base and a burgundy top coat, which would create a warm, romantic hue reminiscent of a Tuscan sunset. Floor-length honey-gold raw silk draperies would really pop against the wall’s dark color. Crown molding, which echoed the lines of the chest, would enhance the height of the room.
Now that my cruddy send-off was behind me, I suddenly relished the chance to sink my teeth into this job. And if I got to force Sullivan to eat some humble pie in the process, all the better.
The three of us had soon moved the furniture into the guest room, and while the two men carried out armloads of paperbacks, I removed the corner bead from the aspen paneling on the accent wall. The sensation of ripping out boards has always greatly appealed to me. For one thing, it marks the no-turning-back-now portion of the journey, just like breaking a bottle of champagne on a ship’s bow. For another thing, the nails as they’re wrenched free make a really cool noise.
This paneling, which the Hendersons faced from their bed, was on a short wall that they had to round in order to reach their dressing area and bathroom. The floor plan necessitated that the large chest remain against this south wall, but placing wood furniture against a wood wall in nearly identical tones is a mistake. My remedy was yummy wallpaper with an elegant pattern that had a light burgundy—claret—background and champagne gold as the accent color.
I began my demolition on one side of wall, Carl and Taylor on the other. They were making short work of the task and had about half of the boards removed when Taylor asked, “Hey, Carl? Mind if I keep these boards and use ’em in my trailer? I’ll burn the cracked ones in the fireplace ’n’ install one of those kinds of decorating thingamajigs where the paneling comes halfway up the wall.”
“Wainscoting,” I couldn’t help but interject, alarmed that a supposed first-rate carpenter wouldn’t immediately know that term.
“You may as well, Taylor,” Carl answered. “Might make Debbie feel better to know someone was getting some use out of it. This paneling was her favorite thing in the room.”
“Wait a minute, Carl!” I cried. “Why didn’t you tell me that when I was asking you what your wife might want?”
He shrugged. “You’re the designer. I didn’t want to cramp your style. ’Specially not when there’s a Super Bowl ticket riding on it.”
“But this is your and your wife’s room! I’d have been happy to forgo the wallpaper and work the paneling into my design.” Horrified, I looked at the pile of thin tongue-and-groove boards we’d made. Most were cracked and dented. “Now it’s too late. . . .”
“Then there’s no sense sweating about it now, Gilbert,” Taylor said with a sneer.
I glared at him and almost sniped, Thanks for the advice, Einstein, but for once kept my mouth shut, realizing it wasn’t in my best interest to antagonize my time-share carpenter. “Please call me Erin, not Gilbert.”
I went back to ripping out boards with a vengeance. One short board suddenly fell off the wall before I’d even touched it.
“Uh-oh,” I said. “This had better not be a dry-rot problem.” I knelt to take a close look.
“What’s that?” Taylor asked, leaning down to look over my shoulder.
“Looks like a secret compartment,” Car
l replied.
“Weird,” Taylor muttered.
I reached inside the small cubbyhole, which looked as though someone had punched through the drywall and then chipped at its edges. The opening was roughly eighteen inches above the floor and was large enough for me to reach my arm through past the elbow and touch the floorboards. The first thing my fingertips brushed against felt like a delicate chain, and I managed to pinch it between my fingers and lift it out. It was a necklace— a lovely onyx cameo on an old-fashioned chain of gold links. The intricate carving of a woman’s face in profile against a pink coral background was stunning. With the delicacy of Belgian lace, the gold setting framed the petite carving beautifully. This cameo appeared to be a family heirloom, as opposed to a priceless possession. Why would someone hide such a beautiful personal item inside a wall?
“Is this Debbie’s?” I asked Carl.
He shook his head, but his cheeks had gone crimson and his jaw looked tight enough to crack his teeth. I reached inside again and pulled out a sheaf of folded papers. They were tied with a red satin ribbon. Love letters, no doubt. I set the stack on the floor near my feet and reached one more time into the cubbyhole to determine if there was anything else behind the drywall, but the letters and necklace were everything.
“ ‘My dearest,’ ” Taylor read, crouching down by the pile of letters, “ ‘You were constantly on my mind today—’ ”
“Stop!” I cried. “You have no right to read those letters, Taylor! They belong to somebody else.”
He ignored me but did at least read silently. After he flipped over the first page, he said, “It’s boring anyway. Signed, ‘Love always,’ and the letter M.”
“I don’t know any M people,” Carl muttered.
“Unless it’s really H for Henderson.” Taylor’s voice was mocking.
Carl grabbed the letters from Taylor’s hands. “That’s an M. And even if it is an H, it’s not my love note. I’d remember if I’d been stashing love notes inside my bedroom wall, for God’s sake!” The muscles in his jaw were working.
