By Design (12 page)

She stood, and Graham stood up as well. He wasn’t going anywhere, but instead was doing the old-fashioned stand-when-a-woman-stands thing. More wibbles, which made it difficult for her to cross the room, grab a spare putty knife, and make it upstairs without having to sit on the steps to regroup. She almost—
almost
—considered it a relief to be alone for a few minutes in the master bedroom.

The workers hadn’t gotten to the room yet; it was still a dusty mess. Before Emmie hunted for a loose corner of wallpaper to pull on, she spent a minute gazing down at the lawn, which was now encrusted with a thin layer of snow. She rested her head against one of the window frames, not caring if some of the peeling paint chips lodged in her hair. Damn, she had it bad. She couldn’t even manage to keep some emotional distance by remembering Graham’s questionable morals. Really, none of it added up. He was so gentle and kind, not to mention funny, polite, and intelligent. She kept trying to find something about him that was objectionable, less than perfect—a telltale sign that his gallant manners were a front for something more sinister, and someday his mask would slip and she’d be able to say, Scooby-like, “Ah-hah!”—that she knew it all along. But so far—nothing.

She tore her gaze away from the window. If she didn’t get back soon, Wilma would have her head (again). She looked around the room and spotted a panel of wallpaper that seemed looser than the others, about three feet above the floor, by the door frame. A narrow air bubble ran down the middle—that’d be a good place to work loose a piece big enough for the wallpaper company to use to replicate the pattern.

Emmie sliced through the bubble with the corner of the putty knife, then slipped the tool under the edge and started to wiggle the paper free. It came away fairly easily, old as it was, the glue completely shot. Emmie frowned and looked closer. She nudged more of the paper loose, this time on the other side of the cut she had made. Then she started pulling at it with her fingernails. Stunned, she sat back on her heels. Then she called Graham.

 

“You’re kidding me.” Graham crouched down and peered into the open door Emmie had found behind the wallpaper.

A low, narrow hallway ran parallel with the landing on the other side of the wall and ended in a small area only a little wider than the passage. There was a door on that end that would have opened onto the landing, but at some point the opening must have been plastered or drywalled over, because there was no trace of it now.

He thought a moment, then said, “I know what this is.”

“What, a bedroom for hunchback mice?” Emmie muttered.

“Servant’s quarters. The lady’s maid slept in a cot there at the far end. If the lady of the house—she in the big bedroom here—needed anything, she would ring a bell, and the maid would scoot down this tiny passageway and pop out next to the bed.”

Good grief, there really had been a lady’s maid,
Emmie said to herself. “That is completely weird.”

“Yeah? How does your lady’s maid attend to you when you summon her in the middle of the night?”

“I take care of my own chamber pot, thank you very much.” Then she couldn’t resist teasing, “And you didn’t know this was here, Mister Big-time Architect? I mean, the bathroom ends there”—she pointed around the corner—“and then you’ve got ten, twelve feet of nothing till you get to the bedroom?”

He stood up and stretched. “Well, I didn’t think to investigate, Miss Smartypants. With all these additions, sometimes they just left empty spaces behind the wall.”

“This could have been where they hid their gold!”

“You think the original owners were leprechauns?”

“That would explain the height of the hideaway.” She peeked out onto the landing again. “Well, that solves your bathroom problem, anyway. Raise the ceiling here, and widen the empty space behind it thataway. Extend the bathroom and put in a proper door, and voilà—an en suite bathroom. They’re all the rage these days, I hear.”

“Let’s do it.”

“Can you raise the ceiling?”

“I dunno. Might have to call an architect. Oh, wait.” Graham winked. Then he made a face and scratched his head. “Yeah, how come I didn’t see this before?”

“Well, you’re looking down at foundations and drainage. But I’m looking up at walls and ceilings.”

“That proves we make a good team, then.”

Emmie’s ever-present butterflies switched from their usual light capering to retro slam dancing in steel-toed Dr. Martens.

He tilted his head and studied her. “You are very good at this,” he said. “And John really has never let you work on other jobs?” She shook her head. “How do you know all this stuff, then? I mean, where do you get your hands-on experience?”

“Oh.” Emmie took a breath. “I have an old Craftsman cottage. I—I did a lot of work on it over the past few years. Refinishing and remodeling and . . . stuff.”
Stuff ?
she berated herself.

But Graham was saying, “I’d love to see it sometime.”

And Emmie nearly fainted dead away right there.

 

“One more. Come on, just one more.”

“No!”

“Well, too late, because here it comes—”

With groans and mumbles, everyone leaned forward. Three hands plopped three drinks on the coffee table, and six hands covered six ears.

“Squeeee!”

A pause. Then, “Are you done?”

Emmie took a sip of her wine and thought about it a moment. “Mm, yeah. Okay, I’m done.”

“Thank goodness.”

Six hands came off six ears, and three hands reached for three drinks. Three hands nearly dropped three drinks when another “Squeeee!” rent the air.

“I thought you said you were done!” Trish snarled at Emmie.

Emmie curled up in the corner of Trish’s couch and giggled. “Sorry. That last one just slipped out.”

“And for the record?” Avery added, mopping up the wine that had spilled out of his glass when he was jolted by Emmie’s last squeal. “Nobody actually
says
‘squee’—you just text it or post it.”

“Is she always like this?” the third rattled person asked Avery.

This was Adam, he of the cute butt spotted at the town’s winter festival. Emmie learned from Avery that after he had taken her home, he had hurried back to the town center to see if he could locate the owner of the cute butt, and he had found him, said cute butt perched on a stool at the wine bar on Main Street. “Like he was just waiting for me!” Avery had exclaimed excitedly to Emmie when he called to tell her the news.

Now the new couple joined her and Trish to help her celebrate that she and Graham had had at least one “moment,” possibly two.

“Lookee here, newbie,” she said with a goofy grin. “I’ll have you know—”

“Yes, she’s always like this,” Trish interrupted. Emmie made a face, but Trish countered, “Well, you are!”

Emmie contemplated this. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

She didn’t mind getting ganged up on. Nothing could puncture her happy bubble—the one that had settled in her torso under her burgeoning heart, the one that was filled with those madly careening multicolored butterflies that were threatening to stage an all-night rave in her belly.

“What about Juliet?”

It was like somebody had put on a Michael Bolton tune in the middle of the dance party. The butterflies froze in horror and confusion, much the same way Avery and Adam did, which pleased Emmie. They might be new to the Emmie Club, but they were catching on quick. She gave Trish the hairy eyeball but said nothing.

“What?” Trish persisted. “Nothing’s changed. They’re still—”

“Out.”

“What?”

“Out, I say! There will be no sabotaging my good mood today. Not the same day Graham and I had a moment.”

“Maybe two,” Avery reminded her.

“Right. Maybe two. So begone, you who dare to pee in my Cheerios. Out!”

“It’s my house.”

“I don’t care,” Emmie said without missing a beat. “I will hear no mention of Juliet today, of all days.”

“But—”

“Nope!”

“But—”

“Wait,” Avery said. “We’re missing one important factor here.”

Adam nodded. “Yep. A ring.”

“What?”

“At the risk of sounding way too gay for my own good by paraphrasing old club tunes,” Adam said, “if there’s no ring on it . . .”

“You’re right,” Emmie said. “Juliet’s married to Kevin. Juliet hasn’t left Kevin for Graham—”

“Yet,” Trish muttered.

“Quit it,” Emmie growled.

“Right,” Avery agreed, refilling Emmie’s glass and gesturing to Trish to hand hers over as well. “All’s fair in the mad scramble for a decent man, and all that.”

Trish shook her head. “I don’t know. Juliet could invoke prior claim.”

“Bah.” Emmie took a healthy swallow of wine. “She has no prior claim when she’s stepping out on her husband.”

“Oh, yeah?” Trish asked, eyeing her best friend shrewdly. “You think you could intentionally break them up so you could steal him?”

Emmie smirked and let out a tipsy “pssshhht” that was meant to be a confident dismissal. “Hell yeah!”

“Really?”

“Yes!” Now Emmie was irked. “I am completely capable of playing hardball. This is Graham we’re talking about here! I just need to get him in some . . . social setting. Not work, you know?”

The side door to the garage slammed and Rick entered the kitchen, dropping his car keys onto the counter with a clatter. As he came through the doorway to the living room, Trish said, “You forget the little monsters at the hockey rink?”

“Justin’s learning
responsibility
—he’s putting away his own equipment this time. Logan’s, uh, ‘helping.’”

Sure enough, strident kid voices came from the garage as the boys wrestled with Justin’s hockey gear.

“It’ll be in a pile on the garage steps, blocking their way into the house,” Trish corrected. “That means they’ll have to sleep in the garage tonight. And, you know, I’m okay with that.”

Rick nodded to Avery. “Hey,” he said, enthusiastically friendly. “Good to see you. And you, Emmie,” he added pointedly. Emmie snickered. Neither she nor Trish had told him about Avery. Now was probably a good time, though, as Rick looked curiously at Adam and extended his hand. “Rick Campo.”

Adam rose halfway from the sofa. “Adam Lowery.”

“Nice to meet you.” He shook Adam’s hand, then gave Emmie the eye. “So! Picking ’em up two at a time now?”

Emmie snickered again. “Not quite, Rick. But Graham and I had a moment!”

“Maybe two,” Avery added again.

Rick was now completely befuddled. “Er . . .”

Trish decided to rescue him. She stood up, grabbed her husband’s arm, and steered him toward the kitchen. “Let’s open another bottle and get you a glass.”

“I’d rather have a beer,” Rick said, glancing back at the threesome on the sofa, trying to figure it all out.

“Fine,” Trish answered, still propelling him out of the room. “Now, there’s just one other thing . . .”

“Kill me.”

“And end up alone with . . .
this
? No way. Remember, Emmie darling, this was
your
idea. I’m just the saintly friend helping out. Now get this saint another glass of holy wine.”

Emmie and Trish were leaning in the doorway of Emmie’s kitchen. They, like the people who had arrived before them in the combined living room and dining room, were dressed in their best festive gear, backlit by strings of fairy lights and dozens of candles. What with the decorations, trays of hors d’oeuvres, and a side table groaning under the weight of every kind of alcohol Emmie could fling in her shopping cart à la Nicolas Cage in
Leaving Las Vegas
, her impromptu holiday party should have been a raging success.

As it was, however, the scene was more like a forced march. Emmie had invited every happy couple in her circle of friends, in a grand scheme to get Graham to her house and among stable relationships. Kind of as a hint that he belonged with her, in a normal setting, instead of slinking around dark alleys with Juliet.

It had started off promisingly, with Avery and Adam agreeing to attend as readily as Trish and Rick. In a paroxysm of holiday spirit, Emmie had even invited Wilma and Travis. Wilma had turned her down flat without so much as a moment to reflect, of course, but she had anticipated his Scrooge-like response and had sent an Evite to Travis as well. He had phoned her promptly, rumbling to her in his deep, honeyed voice that he would make sure they were there. And, true to his word, somehow he had managed to drag Wilma to the party.

Of course, that didn’t stop Wilma from sulking the entire night, hunkered down in her chair-and-a-half, arms crossed, muttering heatedly with Travis, who stood close by. They were in the middle of an argument—probably about being at the party, possibly not. Avery and Adam sat side by side on the sofa, casting apprehensive glances at the squabbling couple a few feet away. Rick, still trying to wrap his mind around the notion that Avery and Adam were a couple and his matchmaking hadn’t worked out in the slightest, perched on the ottoman in front of them, awkwardly trying to make small talk.

The other guests, which included Annette and Martie and their husbands, were still to arrive. Emmie had been surprised to find that getting the foursome to her party was more of a challenge than she had expected.

Annette had called and asked abruptly, “Will John be there, honey?”

“Well, yes. Why?”

Annette hesitated—something she didn’t normally do,
ever
—then blurted out, “Because I don’t like him.”

Emmie’s first inclination had been to burst out laughing and tell her to join the (large) club, but instead she asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Well, he . . . he’s making a mess of things! I’m sorry, but he is!” Annette had exclaimed in a rush. “I thought
you
were going to be redoing Michael’s room, and then he just . . . took over . . . and he isn’t using any of your ideas and I don’t like it! I want you to fix it.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want you to fix it. He’s almost done, so I’ll try to keep quiet for now. But after, I want you to come in and do it the way we planned. He never has to know.”

“Annette, I can’t—”

“I’ll pay you under the table. Cash. Now promise me you’ll do it.”

Emmie thought for a second. “Only if you promise to come to my party.”

There had been silence on the other end of the line, then Emmie lost a few decibels of hearing when Annette’s peal of laughter pummeled her eardrum. “You drive a hard bargain, lady. All right, all right. We’ll come.”

But they weren’t there yet, and Emmie’s group was looking pretty skimpy. Graham hadn’t arrived yet, either, and maybe that was a good thing. Maybe she should have canceled the whole thing, as she nearly did when she received the Worst Text Message Ever. Several days after she had sent out her Evites, she’d been thrilled to see a text from Graham. Emmie had toyed with the idea of asking him face-to-face, but instead had decided to play it cool and send him the same Evite as everyone else.

When she saw the text with his name on it, she scrambled to open it up. Her stomach went into freefall when she read, Graham & I wd LOVE to come 2 ur party! C u then!—and then it collided with her coccyx when she saw XOXO, Juliet.

Damn her,
Emmie thought, offended for Graham. That woman was snooping on his phone! Of course, as Trish, Ms. Voice of Reason, had pointed out later, Graham might have asked Juliet to reply for him, but Emmie preferred her own version of the story, so she could remain indignant. She had most certainly
not
invited Juliet, but Juliet had managed to worm her way in anyway. And now Emmie was going to be the only single person at her own party. Well, along with her dad (also not there yet), whom she had invited in order to show Graham that she was big on family . . . and because she couldn’t think of anybody else to invite. But being her dad’s “date”? Ugh. That smacked of middle-school father-daughter dances. No doubt about it, this night was a disaster already.

“Where’s my wine, woman?” Trish prompted with an elbow to Emmie’s ribs, adding with a snicker, “Or are you saving some for Kyle?”

Emmie glared at her. “Just for that, you can get your own.” And she shoved herself off the doorjamb and went back into the kitchen.

Yes, what was even worse was that Kyle had called—that very afternoon, in fact, while Emmie was sitting around, unshowered and still in her pajamas well after lunchtime, in a funk because of the text message from Graham/Juliet. She groaned aloud when Kyle’s name came up on the screen.

“
What
, Kyle?”

“‘Kyle! Nice to hear from you! It’s been a long time. How are you? I’ve missed you.’”

“What do you want? I’m busy.”

“Heck, I was just calling to see how you were.” Emmie remained silent. Kyle
never
called just to see how she was, not even when they were dating. And soon enough he drawled, “Well . . . you know that stuff I left at your house?”

“That crap? I boxed it up and put it in the garage. Except for your beer. I drank it.”

Kyle chuckled. “That’s okay.”

“I wasn’t asking your forgiveness.”

“Anyway, I was thinking I could come by and pick it up.”

“When?”

“I dunno. Now?”

Emmie flopped her head back against the couch cushions. What, he needed his chicken-wing-eating trophy
right then
? “Not today, Kyle. I’m busy.”

“Yeah, you said. C’mon, it’s Saturday! What’re you doing, painting your toenails?”

“As a matter of fact,” Emmie burst out, irritated at his guffaw that implied she had no life without him around, “I’m cleaning and decorating. I’m having a party tonight.” As soon as the words were out, she winced. She knew what was coming next.

“Oh, yeah?” Suddenly Kyle sounded quite intrigued.

“No, Kyle, you are not invited.”

“Aw, c’mon, Emmaline, for old time’s sake?”

“Absolutely not. And you’re not coming over here today to get your stuff, you got that?”

“But—”

“
No.
I will call you and let you know a day when I’ll be out—I’ll leave the garage unlocked and you can get it then.”

“You hold a mean grudge, girl.”

“Gee, I wonder why.” And she had clicked off, longing for the days when phones had nice, heavy receivers that could be slammed down on cradles, eliciting a satisfying
ding
from deep within the rattled phone base.

But she had to give him credit—the threat of him coming over even when she had told him he couldn’t, likely during the party so he could snag some free food and booze, had gotten her up off the couch and out of her flannels. By the time Trish had come over with extra cookie sheets for heating up the frozen hors d’oeuvres, Emmie had finished decorating and was working on making herself look halfway decent.

She had been tempted to do the bare minimum and just look presentable, but Trish had somehow convinced her that she had the chops to combat Juliet’s Power of the Über-cute if she just made a bit of extra effort. So Emmie had decided to fight Über-cute with Soft and Cuddly. She dug out her black velvet miniskirt (but not too mini—no need to be trashy) and her softest, clingiest cashmere boat-neck sweater in a warm, subdued shade of deep cranberry. A pair of black tights and some suede heels later, Emmie almost—almost!—had herself convinced that she might just have her own particular talents in the attraction department.

And now they were going to be put to the test. The doorbell rang, and Emmie practically knocked over Rick, who was making a move for the door, most likely to escape from the conundrum that was Avery and Adam, to get there herself. This had to be Graham. It
had
to be. She opened the door, a bright smile on her face . . . but it was Juliet, bundled up in a pale shearling coat, collar turned up to her rosy cheeks while fine, sparkling grains of snow whirled around her head. Emmie felt her best foot forward take a step back, overwhelmed by All That Was Juliet.

Juliet bustled in, shivering, and Emmie tried hard not to peer past her, looking for Graham. She caught a glimpse of Juliet’s Land Rover parked on the street.

“Graham’s coming later,” her unwanted guest explained cheerfully, as she took off her coat and fluffed her hair.

“Oh, of course!” Emmie responded, matching her nemesis cheer for cheer. Well, sure—what did she expect? That Graham had driven to Juliet’s house and said to her husband, “Hi, I’m here to take Juliet out on a date”?

Emmie directed Juliet to the food and drinks—she noticed Rick was standing by the alcohol, eager to serve, and she wanted to slap that goofy look off his face. Judging by the glare his wife was delivering from across the room, so did Trish.

But instead, Juliet gravitated toward the sofa; she had spotted two young, good-looking men. Emmie fought down a snicker. If Graham hadn’t told her about Avery, Juliet could just figure it out for herself.

Trish came up beside Emmie and gave Juliet the once-over. The Über-cute was out in full force. She was playing the petite darling for all she was worth, clad in tight white pants and a clingy cherry-red top, like a life-sized lickable candy cane.

“Where’s the guest of honor?” Trish murmured.

“‘Coming later,’” Emmie muttered as the doorbell rang again. She trudged back to the foyer, not really caring who was behind it at this point.

Through the triple-paned window across the top of the door she saw a familiar snow-white head—her dad.
Oh well.
At least now she could check out just how tan he’d gotten, as this was the first time she’d actually seen him since he got back from his Thanksgiving cruise. Dad knew how to lie low when he figured he was in hot water with her, she had to admit. Emmie fought the urge to dig out her color fan before opening the door so she could greet him by holding up one of the beige-to-brown cards alongside his face to check his shade. Instead, she just yanked open the door with a smile pasted onto her face . . . and then stopped. Yes, there was her father . . . and in front of him, shielded from the wind and snow by her father’s tall frame, was a tiny, birdlike woman with a sleek auburn bob and bright, glittering eyes.

“Hello, Emmaline,” her father boomed. “You going to let us in? Getting pretty nasty out here.”

Emmie jumped a little. “Uh—sure, Dad. Come on in.”

Bob Brewster ushered his delicate companion into the foyer and helped her take off her coat while Emmie stared, open-mouthed, at the woman. Her father handed her both their coats, which Emmie accepted automatically. Then she bugged her eyes at him, silently demanding an explanation.

“This is Concetta,” he said in a warm voice, his hand on the woman’s shoulder.

“. . . Nice to meet you?” Emmie didn’t mean to sound like she wasn’t sure, but heck, she
wasn’t.
Her father had brought a
date
to her party?

“Hello, dear,” this Concetta woman said with a gentle smile, the lines around her mouth deepening. Emmie shook her hand, which was cold despite the fact that she had been wearing gloves and felt so fragile. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. Your father has told me so much about you!”

“Has he?” Emmie returned the smile, although hers was forced. She wasn’t angry at the tiny woman before her, but she was going to have a few choice words for her father when she could corner him. How long had this been going on? And where—

“Concetta and I met at the senior center,” Bob said as if he could read his daughter’s mind. “She’s a mean euchre player.”

“I’ll bet,” Emmie murmured.

Bob looked around. “Well, Emmaline, this is quite nice.”

Still with his hand on Concetta’s shoulder, he gently steered her across the room while Emmie hung up their coats. She leaned into the closet and closed her eyes. Where was a doorway to Narnia when you needed one? Her dad. Had brought. A date. To her party. Even her dad had somebody. Somebody he obviously knew well and had been seeing for a while, by the looks of things. And he hadn’t even told her. Not that she expected him to ask permission, but . . . maybe she did. But he hadn’t. So now it was, “Hello, Emmie—meet your new mommy.” She didn’t like surprises like that. Not at all.

Of course, she realized, she was behaving exactly how an adult child of a single parent should not, under any circumstances, behave: like a petulant, self-centered brat who expected her parental unit to remain frozen in time, perpetually alone and missing his spouse, just because the child preferred him that way. She knew darn right well that widowed people—yes, even her father—had every right to move on. But so quickly? And so . . . abruptly? And in time for her party?

No matter the timing, though—emotionally, she couldn’t get past the belief that the only woman who should be by Bob Brewster’s side was her mother. If that was because it was what she was used to, so be it. She just always pictured her parents as an indivisible unit, and she was going to have a hard time dealing with a different woman in her mother’s place.