Blueprints: A Novel (4 page)

She heard Roy’s fork scrabbling into the last of his omelet. She imagined he was regrouping and steeled herself.

Finally, sounding puzzled, he asked, “Don’t you want to be a star, even a little?”

“Of
course
I want to be a star,” she cried. She had done it in tennis—USTA junior champ for two years, ITF second seed in Paris—and had the trophies to prove it. When it came to architecture, she had won local awards. To be recognized for her work on a larger scale would be special.

The problem was Caroline. Jamie would rather die than hurt her mother, and this would hurt.

She gave it a final shot. “And even aside from the Mom issue, I don’t have
time.
The host of the show does a ton of behind-the-scenes work, but I’m already in over my head.” There were currently three licensed architects in MacAfee’s design department, but their head architect, Jamie’s mentor, was finally retiring after threatening it for years and had bequeathed his major projects to Jamie. “We’re talking ten private homes, a library, two office buildings, two banks, the
spring Gut It!
project, for goodness sake, and that’s not counting anything the Weymouth property may produce—and then there’s planning what
I’m
supposed to be saying on air this fall about the design plans alone.”

“You always do great on tape days.”

“Because Mom leads. She sets the tone and asks the questions. Mom is
perfect
for this job. I am not.”

Roy drained his coffee, set down the mug, and sat back. “If it’s not you, it’ll be someone else. Like I said, it’s a done deal.”

“For
fall
? Can’t they wait another season or two?”

“Ratings don’t wait. Consider that redheaded Barth over there. If he ratchets up the competition, we may need all the help we can get. Do you want MacAfee Homes to fall behind?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “Claire’s calling Caroline later to arrange a meeting.”

Jamie sat back. “Please, not today.”

“It has to be soon. Brian and Claire want this sewn up so that they can start putting together promo material. You know your mother best. What approach should Claire take?”

Jamie also knew her father. When his sentences came short and as fast as they did now, he was immoveable. Oh yes, the decision had been made, and it infuriated her.

She wasn’t impulsive. She was a thinker, a studier, a strategizer. But her parents were her weakness, and what he proposed was untenable.

That was why, without thinking beyond the moment, she said something she would come to regret.

two

“
I’ll
tell Mom. Claire can be abrasive, and this’ll be hard enough on her without that.”

Too late, Jamie saw his slow smile and realized that she had played into his hands. This was what he had wanted all along. It fit the image of a MacAfee family that was united and strong. To Roy, Caroline’s age was dirty laundry that should stay in the bin, handled quietly and in private.

But two could play the game, Jamie decided in a moment’s defiance. If she was the one telling Caroline, then she could do it in her own words and her own time. That gave her an element of control, which, given the anxiety she felt, helped her sit through Roy’s prattle about how wonderful she was and what a great host she would make. The little voice in her head was answering each line with a sarcasm she hated, until finally the head of the local Lions Club appeared at their table. Thinking that the interruption hadn’t come a moment too soon, she slid out of the booth, gestured the man into her seat, gave Roy a quick peck on the cheek, and left.

*   *   *

Back in her car in Fiona’s lot, she was hit by the heat and a wave of second thoughts. She jacked up the AC as she turned onto the street, but those second thoughts weren’t as easily fixed.

What have I done? Did I seriously
agree
to host the show? How can I
ever
tell Mom?

Brad would know how. Diplomacy was his thing. But he still hadn’t texted or tried to call, and she couldn’t very well call him without mentioning their own issues, which seemed small by comparison.

She left Fiona’s upset. By the time she’d driven two blocks, though, she was angry. She didn’t want to think that Roy had put the bug in Brian’s ear, though it wouldn’t have been out of character. Roy saw Caroline as his aging ex-wife. He was constantly making little digs about her hair or her face, and when Jamie told him Caroline was having surgery on her wrist, he sighed and said, “That’s what happens…”

Like there weren’t crow’s-feet at the corners of
his
eyes?

Like
he
didn’t wear orthotics in his running shoes to help a bum knee?

Like she hadn’t caught him
napping
in the office after a late night out with Jess?

So Jamie was angry at Roy, who at the very least hadn’t argued when mention was made of removing Caroline as host. And she was angry at Brian Levitt, who was behaving like a chauvinist. And she was
furious
at Claire Howe, who was a woman, for God’s sake, and should understand a female audience better than Brian.

Another two blocks, though, and her heart was breaking for her mother. Caroline’s self-esteem was higher than it had been at any time since the divorce. This would be a terrible blow.

How to deliver it?

One thing was for sure. Jamie wasn’t breathing a word to Caroline today, not on her birthday, and likely not tomorrow, since she would be gone from dawn to dusk. And if she could convince Brian and Claire that this was a bad move, she might not have to tell Caroline at all.

*   *   *

She tried calling Brian, then Claire, but both calls went to voice mail. Vowing to try again later, she dashed into the bakery, then the grocery store for orders she had called in the day before. Back in her car, she sped through a world that was a myriad lush shades of green, with historic houses on every block and the scent of fresh-baked goods rising from the seat beside her. Habit had her waving at a MacAfee truck, then again when she passed a neighbor from her condo complex, and as she crossed through the little shopping area that marked the center of Williston, random townsfolk acknowledged her with a chin or a hand.

The closer she got to Caroline’s, the better she felt.
Forever the child?
she wondered again. She hadn’t lived at home since before college, and never at Caroline’s current house, yet she was soothed simply turning onto her mother’s street. It was one of the most untouched in Williston, which was why, in a preemptive strike that only a town insider could make, Caroline had snapped up the house before anyone else could make a bid. MacAfee Homes would have renovated; Barth Brothers would have torn down and rebuilt. And wouldn’t that have been a crime? There was no place for new construction here, certainly not of the mega size the Barths would build on this kind of lot. A McMansion would change the entire character of a street where shade trees were old and luxuriant, lawns were thick with meandering roots, and drives were dirt or stone. The houses themselves were vibrantly painted Victorians, and while Caroline’s was smaller than most, its Queen Anne style heightened its charm. Teal clapboard was below, mint shingle above, all of it framed by intricately carved trim in pale blue with navy accents. Asymmetrically designed, it had a scrolled eave, a big bay window, a handsome turret, and a modest play of steep-sloped roofs, but it was the encircling veranda that Caroline claimed had sparked love at first sight. Rounding out into an open turret at the corner to allow for a wrought-iron table and vintage chairs, it was a fresh-air parlor ringed with hanging petunias in a riot of pinks. In good weather, this was where Caroline spent her free time.

Sure enough, there she was as Jamie drove up, lounging in a wicker love seat that swung from a thick chain. Her bare feet were crossed on the front rail. A smile lit her face.

With a popping of tires on gravel, Jamie turned into the driveway. Her convertible was red, the same color as the pickup parked at the garage, but while Caroline’s truck was the epitome of practical, with tools under its bed cover, dirt on its tires, and the logo of MacAfee Homes on its dusty flanks, Jamie’s car was pure indulgence.

Gathering bags from the passenger’s seat, she climbed out. Those feet on the rail twitched in a little wave as she started up the walk. Her mother’s toenails were orange; she had seen them the day before. Pedicures were one of Caroline’s weaknesses, and bright toenails were only the start. She had been wearing jeans that were yellow, purple, or green long before they became a fad. When she coordinated those jeans with shirts that were striped or plaid, she was a standout.
Gut It!
addicts also loved the bright sweaters she wore in cool weather and the hot-red parka she wore in snow. When the executive producer once suggested that she try for sophistication with black, the Facebook uproar had been fierce. Viewers wanted boldness, and her mother gave them that. There was nothing stodgy about her. Too old? No way!

Jamie swallowed her dismay
.

Caroline was pink and braless today, her soft tank and shorts a tribute to heat and a well-earned hiatus. Her hair was a messy knot of waves at her crown, her face bare of makeup and gorgeous in a totally natural way.

Less gorgeous was the thick bandage around her right hand and wrist, but the absence of last night’s sling was a relief. More reassuring, though, was Caroline’s face, which was back to its natural glow. Her recovery-room pallor yesterday had terrified Jamie.

Carrying the bags, she bypassed newly budding roses and climbed the front steps. “Is it better or worse now that you can feel the pain?”

“Better,” Caroline said with warm fern eyes, “but anything would be. There’s nothing more disconcerting than having a body part that feels like it belongs to someone else. You look beautiful.”

Jamie bent to kiss her cheek. It smelled woodsy, like lily-of-the-valley body wash, which meant Caroline had managed to bathe, another good sign. “Happy Birthday,” she sang and drew back. “How do you feel?”

“Lazy.”

“Lazy is good on a day like this. Warm, huh?”

“I’ve worked in worse.”

“Yeah, well, the doctor said not to do anything today,” Jamie warned and looked around. The laptop was blessedly absent.

Not so Master, Caroline’s cat. Shimmying its massive gray coat out from under the wicker chair beyond the swing, the Maine Coon gave Jamie’s leg a rub. “Poor baby must be roasting,” she murmured, before refocusing on her mother’s wrist. “Does it hurt?”

“Compared to raging tendonitis? Nope.”

“So yes, it hurts,” she deduced, because Caroline wasn’t a complainer. She saw wrist problems as an occupational hazard that couldn’t be helped. No one on the set had known she was in pain, and had that pain not grown progressively worse, she would never have agreed to surgery. Officially, now that taping was done, she was just “taking a few days off.”

She looked thoroughly pleased with herself, which made Jamie suspicious.

“What are you taking?”

“Tylenol.”

“You look too happy for just that.”

Caroline laughed. “I’m relieved. I hate surgery. So now it’s behind me, and here I am in my favorite place with my favorite person.” The sultry quiet of the front porch was a far cry from recent days on the set. The only sounds here were the buzz of bees in the roses, the hum of a Weedwacker several houses down, and the gentle creak of Caroline’s love seat as the chain moved to and fro. She eyed Jamie’s armload. “Whatcha got?”

Wedging a drained iced-tea glass between her bags, Jamie managed to open the screen door. Master scooted into the house so close to her legs that she nearly bobbled the glass. “Food!” she called back as the door slapped shut.

The air inside smelled of age in a hallowed way, and though it was marginally cooler after the night, Jamie knew that wouldn’t last. Her heels ticked along the dark hardwood of the hall as she passed a whitewashed grandfather clock and an L of stairs. The walls of both stairway and hall were navy, which should have closed in an already close space. But Caroline had known that between moldings, balusters, and newel posts, the white trim would bring the navy alive.

A window at the landing three steps up was open, with Master now frozen on the sill, stalking an invisible dove that cooed in the maple’s depth. The living room on her right was also navy, here over peach panels. It had originally been built in the old English style, with front and back parlors, but the walls between the two had long since come down, leaving only striking trim work to mark what had been. Caroline had accessorized the room in burgundy and placed a dining table at the far end. Large and round, it was a magnificent walnut piece—she had made it herself—and was the focal point of the room for many who entered. For Jamie, though, the pi
è
ce de r
é
sistance was the swatch of Victorian lace that hung in a frame on the wall. Taken from Caroline’s mother’s wedding dress, it was a Rorschach test of sorts. Jamie had grown up seeing her moods in the lace.

Rather than confirm turmoil there now, she simply checked to be sure the two ceiling fans were whirring at either end of the room and strode on.

The kitchen was a sage cubby at the back of the house. High wainscoting covered its modest wall space and was topped by a wide plate rail holding rescued antiques. Though Caroline had added a line of ceiling cabinets, the storage space was sparse.

Setting her bags on the lone counter, Jamie opened the fridge and stashed what needed chilling. The rest went on the stove simply for lack of space, not that any cooking would be done here today. The room was already warm, and the heat would only rise.

In anticipation, she turned on the ceiling fan. Then she took a small plate from a glass-front cabinet. The china was hand-painted, though sturdy enough to have survived her childhood with only a single small chip. The plate she held was blue-rimmed with an apple in the center; others beneath it in the stack had different colored rims, different fruits. And oh, the memories served up on these plates—of apple wedges sprouting in eighths from a slicer (
Let’s count, baby, one, two, three
) of pound cake topped with strawberries and whipped cream, of s’mores oozing marshmallow over chocolate over graham crackers.