Blueprints: A Novel (7 page)

The sense of safety was mutual. Jamie was Brad’s security, too. She felt it in the way he held her to his side as he returned to his clients and said, “You remember my fianc
é
e, Jamie MacAfee. Jamie, the Abbotts, David and John.”

The two rose to shake her hand and were still on their feet when Brad said, “Would you excuse us for a minute?” and led her out of the office. In the hall, he whispered, “How did it go?”

Her meeting with Roy. “Awful,” she whispered back. “They want me to take over as host of the show.”

Behind his glasses, his eyes came alive. “He told you?”

“You
knew
?”

“I don’t negotiate the contracts, since I’m not an entertainment lawyer, but Roy told me they wanted the change. This is so good, Jamie. You’ll make an amazing host.”

Jamie was startled because (A) he had known and hadn’t told her and because (B) he thought it was a good idea. “I can’t be the host. Not if it means kicking Mom out.” Brad should have
known
that. He should have argued with Roy when the issue first came up. “Oh God. Dad asked you to side with him.”

“He didn’t have to. I think it’s a good decision.”

“You think Mom’s not doing the best job?”

“She’s done a great job, but so will you.”

Jamie let out a discouraged breath. “I can’t do it, Brad. This is my mother. And I have a
wedding
to plan.” She squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry about this morning. My mind’s been on too many other things.”

He shrugged and, in the next breath, asked, “How’s Caroline’s wrist?”

“Better today.”

“Did you wish her Happy Birthday for me?”

“I was barely able to wish her Happy Birthday from me. Thanks to Dad, we didn’t have much time together. Can you and I talk later?” If Roy could enlist Brad to convince Jamie, Jamie could enlist Brad to unconvince Roy. Brad could also advise her on handling Brian and Claire. “What’s your schedule?”

“Lighter than yours. You tell me. What time is good?”

She had clients coming at eleven for a second-round consult on the design of their home, a budget discussion over lunch concerning renovation of a public library, and, when that was done, an on-site check of the construction of one of her banks. Between it all, she had to review her Revit schematic and send it to the plotter so that she would have two full sets to take with her to Atlanta tomorrow.

“Three?” She had a short break then. “Out back, maybe?” There was a large patio behind the office, created to showcase MacAfee landscape designers. Client meetings were sometimes held there, though more often it was where employees went for coffee or lunch. It would be hot today, but there was shade. More important, there was privacy.

“Three, out back,” he whispered. He kissed her lightly, raised a brow and grinned with a touch of mischief that said she was his, and returned to his office.

Jamie should have been reassured by his kiss, his grin, his conviction that she would make a great host. As she headed for the stairwell, though, she was uneasy. She wanted him to side with her from the get-go. He knew what her life was like, and he knew what she felt for her mother. He should have considered all that.

Shouldn’t he have?

four

Caroline hadn’t moved from the porch swing. Granted, it was her favorite spot, but she had never spent the whole morning here. She’d never spent the whole morning off her feet, period—or hadn’t since she’d had the flu, what, four years ago? She was the healthiest person around, and she wasn’t exactly sick now. Her wrist ached, but had it not been her right one, she would have been in the garage working.
Gut It!
might be done for the season, but other work went on. Most of it involved intricate carving, which was better done here. She had her best tools in the garage, plus ideal lighting and her own music. The guys she worked with liked hard rock. Her sound was more mellow.

Mellow was an apt description for what she felt now, she decided, eyes still closed through a stretch. She had fallen asleep sprawled on the swing after Annie had left, and though she felt sweaty, she didn’t rush to sit up. The birds were quieter, either tired of socializing or silenced by the midday heat. Not so the MacAfee crew that was framing the new addition to a house two streets over. As muted as the hammering was, it was a tapping she knew well.

Then came a closer sound, a human one, and her eyes flew open.

Dean. He was leaning against the front rail, hands braced on either side, ankles crossed as long, bare legs settled in with a brush of hair on skin.

Eye candy,
Jamie called him, no small compliment since he was close to Caroline’s age, but her daughter was right. Everything about Dean worked: the dark hair that spiked over his forehead, the silver tips of his sideburns, the just-there scruff on his jaw, the muscled shoulders, the lean waist. Had he come from work, he’d have been wearing jeans and boots, but with the taping of
Gut It!
done, he was taking off for a week. He still wore black from the waist up, always black, but today in the form of a button-down rather than a T-shirt. His sleeves were rolled, his khaki shorts pressed, his eyes amused.

She tried to muster anger but was too logy. Besides, he was so much like a brother—why waste the energy? The best she could do was to chide, “That isn’t very polite, Dean.”

“What?” he asked innocently.

“Watching someone sleep without her knowing. How long have you been here?”

“Not long. How do you feel?”

“Great.”

“Which is why you were sleeping just now.”

“I was just sleeping off the last of the anesthesia. They called it a local block, but there was enough sedation in that IV to last a week.” She eyed the mass of gauze and tape on her wrist, rolled it one way, then the other. It felt heavier in the rising heat. “This is just a gimmick to keep me from working. The incision is tiny.” She eyed his knee. “Much neater than that.” The scar there ran a jagged eight inches, the upshot of a hand saw misused by an apprentice carpenter several years before. It was usually hidden by jeans. “That still looks mean.”

“It adds to my appeal, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” she mocked, though there was some truth to it. The scar fit the image of the rugged outdoorsman, and it wasn’t alone. He had a white line over one eyebrow, a pinkie that didn’t quite work, and numerous scars in other places habitually exposed to his work. Most people wouldn’t notice; a man’s skin wasn’t smooth to begin with. But he and Caroline had a running competition. He showed her his; she showed him hers.

“I’m still ahead,” he said.

“Only because you’re reckless. I get credit for caution.”

“Reckless has nothing to do with it. I learned the trade through trial and error. You learned it from a father who was not only a master at carpentry but totally protective of you.”

She had been fortunate in that, and not only when it came to learning. Much as she loved both of her parents, she and her father had shared something special.

“Thinking of them?” Dean asked kindly.

Her parents, on her birthday? Of course. She had been a late-in-life child, “our little miracle,” her mother always claimed. As though to prove themselves worthy of that, both had lived well into their eighties.

“They were proud of you. They loved watching the show.”

“On some level,” Caroline said with a sad smile, remembering the phone calls during the early
Gut It!
years. “Mom thought it was an ad, and Dad, well, Dad recognized me the first year or two, but after that he was too far gone. His mind just…” She flicked her hand toward nothingness and then, needing a regrounding, ran her eyes down Dean from head to foot. He was wearing flip-flops. Her eyes shot to the street. From where she lay, only the top of his truck rose over the porch rail. “No bike?” His passion was a Harley. He rarely skipped work without it.

“It’s too hot.”

Too hot. Definitely. Pushing up, she lowered her legs to the floor and stretched her back, then wiped sweat from her forehead with her good arm. She wasn’t the only one sweating. Dean’s tanned skin held a sheen. Naturally, it looked fine on him, which wasn’t fair at all.

“I nearly brought you flowers. Good thing I didn’t,” he said with a glance at the porch table. “That is funereal.”

Four arrangements had come, two from people who shouldn’t have known about Caroline’s hand. “My daughter has loose lips. But her intentions are good. Same with yours, though I told you not to cancel your trip.” He was going fly-fishing in Montana, or so he claimed.

“I didn’t cancel it. I just put it off a day.”

“So who are you really going out there to see?” she teased as she always did, and as he always did, he smirked.

“No one you know.”

“Meaning, a craggy old man who owns a fly-fishing business.”

“Don’t knock him. He’s a find. He’s fished the Big Hole River all his life and knows where the trout are best. He boats me in each morning and picks me up at the end of the day.” His phone dinged. Taking it from his pocket, he studied the text. “Hick Weston underestimated the amount of piping he needs for the house on Smithfield. On. Its. Way,” he said as he typed, then repocketed the phone. “Anyway, it’s a solitary week.”

Caroline actually believed him. He had been married for many of those Montana years and would never have cheated. In the three years since his divorce, those fishing trips had been pure escape from thinking about the woman who had rejected him, taken their then-eleven-year-old son back to her hometown, and reconnected a little too quickly with the childhood sweetheart to whom she was now married.

There had been anger, and when it came to his son, there was an ongoing sense of loss, though Caroline was one of the few to know about either. She might not be wild over things like his preference for dogs over cats and black over color, but Dean was a good man. If fly-fishing gave him a buzz, she was all for it.

Sitting forward, she pushed herself up. By the time she was standing, he had reached for her arm. “Where are you going?”

“The bathroom,” she said drolly, “and no, I do not need help.”

Hands up, he backed off. “Ooo-kay. How about I plate our lunch?”

Spotting the telltale bag on the floor by the door, Caroline’s eyes lit. “Is it what I hope it is?” That would be a marinated chicken breast on focaccia, with Boursin, sliced tomato, and Bibb lettuce. It was Fiona’s lunchtime specialty. Caroline could eat it every day, which Dean well knew, since they went there often enough. Not that he ate chicken breast with Boursin. His choice would be roast beef or ham topped with aged cheddar, hard and sharp.

Now he said, “Would I bring anything else on your birthday?” and shooed her off. When she came out of the bathroom, he was leaving the kitchen juggling plates, napkins, and drinks. His mouth was filled with something from the bakery stash Jamie had brought.

“Ah. You found the minis.”

“Um-hmm.” He finished off the mouthful. “I’d ask where you want to eat, except the front porch is the coolest place right now. You need AC, sweetheart.”

Ignoring the remark, she took one of the bottled waters he carried and washed down a pair of Tylenol before following him out. After she’d set the water on the arm of the swing, she left-handedly peeled wisps of damp hair from her neck and pushed them into the knot above. Then she sank into the swing and took the plate he offered.

The side chair he pulled up was white wicker matching the swing, but large enough so that he didn’t look silly in it. He had actually been with her when she bought both pieces, and had tried it on for size then. Now he sat back and sprawled his legs.

Content that he was content, Caroline closed her eyes as she took a bite of her sandwich. The first hit of flavor to her taste buds was always the best. “This is amazing.
Gracias,
amigo
.”

“
De nada
.” He passed her a napkin. “So who else came by?”

“Allison. She brought roses from Theo. Then Rob and Diana.” The LaValles, whose Cape
Gut It!
had just transformed. “Recognize the azaleas? They’re from the shrubs Annie replanted. And Jamie was here.”

“Are she and Brad getting away now that the taping’s done?”

“I doubt it. She’s backed up with work. Besides, she needs to plan the wedding.”

In the silence that followed, Caroline felt a throb in her wrist. It was a quick jab, here and gone, but she feared it reflected a pang in her thoughts.

“How’re you feelin’ about that?” Dean asked quietly, surprisingly. Of all the things they shared, she had not told him her qualms.

She gave a little smile, a little shrug, a little look that said it wasn’t her place to tell her grown daughter what to do. Again she wondered what her own problem was with Brad. Jamie certainly could have done a lot worse.

“Want me to get the Harley? It’d take your mind off things.”

“Thank you, no.” The Harley terrified her. “My mind is fine right where it is. Trust me, I am not obsessing about Jamie and Brad.” She only thought about it when issues like wedding planning arose. The rest of the time she was fine.

Dean’s phone dinged again. This time it was the foreman on one of his jobs calling about a problem with defective skylights, but it was nothing Dean hadn’t dealt with before. His voice remained low, the phone was soon stowed, and stillness returned.

Then came the rumble of an approaching engine, and a van pulled up with another delivery. Caroline moaned. “Who all did she
tell
?” This arrangement was beautiful, though—white callas, blue delphinium, and the deepest of green herbs. She read the card.
“Heal well. You’re still our carpenter.”
She frowned at Dean. “Well, duh. That’s weird. From our cameraman. See, this is why I didn’t want anyone to know. Tell one person, and the whole world knows.” He was suddenly looking a little too sheepish. “Oh, Dean, who did you tell?”

“Just Mike.” Michael O’Shay was one of MacAfee’s electrical contractors.

Her shoulders slumped.

“What’s wrong with people knowing?” he asked.