Restored (The Walsh Series Book 5) (11 page)

F
ebruary

I
sprinted
to the attic conference room on the thin hope that I'd bought myself a few minutes with the tribe before Riley caught up with me.

"Listen up," I said when I reached the landing. Patrick, Matt, and Shannon turned toward me. "I hid Riley's hot sauce on Tom's desk. We have three or four minutes, max."

"Yeah, that's exactly what we need," Matt said. "He's a pissy bitch if he doesn't have hot sauce with his breakfast burrito."

"I'm aware of that," I said. "Seriously though, he's freaking out about Turlan. He's not going to ask for help, but he needs all of us, all week."

"Is this intended as new information?" Patrick gestured to the color-coded project management spreadsheet. "I've already planned for everyone to be on site, supporting the wrap-up work at that property."

"That's not the point," I said. "It's that he doesn't need to think we're expecting him to fail. We need to show up for him, and not give him any shit about it, either."

Riley's voice boomed from the stairwell. "Fuck you very much, Thomas. How'd you like it if I borrowed your almond milk? No? You wouldn't enjoy it if I decided to help myself to that creamy nut water you call milk? Then don't kidnap my sriracha, sir."

He stomped up the stairs, grumbling as he made his way to his chair, a bottle of sriracha and a foil-wrapped burrito cradled in the crook of one arm, his laptop, notebook, and water jug in the other.

"How's it going, RISD?" Matt asked easily.

"Fantastic, Jugger, fuckin' fantastic," he said. "The Bruins lost last night. I dropped my coffee on the goddamn sidewalk just now. Your assistant stole my sauce, Mrs. Halsted." He pointed at Shannon with his burrito. We were all still miffed about her no-invites wedding. "That's punishable by death in some parts of the world."

"Probably not," Shannon said.

"Where's Andy?" Riley asked. He clutched the bottle to his chest like a security blanket. "She'd agree with me on this."

"Home," Patrick said, his eyes cutting to the iPhone beside his laptop. He tapped it to life. "Stomach flu."

"Is that code for pregnant?" Matt asked. "I mean, half of us are married now, and even if you haven't sacked up and made it legit with her, it wouldn't be illogical to expect some babies around here soon. You know, mathematically speaking."

"Tryin' to tell us something, Jugger?" Riley asked as he tore into the burrito.

Matt shook his head as a chunk of scrambled egg broke free from the tortilla and tumbled to Riley's leg. "No, dude. Just…a question," Matt said, staring at the fallen clump of egg.

"And your attempt to dismiss my question raises my suspicions," Riley said.

"Focus on your food," Matt said, gesturing to Riley's trousers.

It was a sore spot, that I knew, but a shamefully envious part of me roused to life at the thought of Patrick and Andy or Matt and Lauren having babies before me and Tiel. We'd been trying, and that no longer included the simple pleasure of lots of sex. Now it was tracking her vagina's moods—that was what she called it; she hated the term 'cervical fluid' and with good reason—and triangulating her most fertile days and abstaining on her less fertile days in order to jack my sperm into a frenzy.

I could abide any quantity of cervical fluid and peeing on ovulation monitoring tests, but I wasn't fond of the abstinence. I'd now taken to giving my sac pep talks when it was go-time, ordering my swimmers to do their fucking job.

"No." Patrick glanced at his phone again, swallowing. He cleared his throat. "Moving on. The only priority that we have this week is Turlan. It goes without saying" —he pinned me with a purposeful gaze— "that we are all hands on deck until the open house and media showcase on Saturday. Walk me through your issues and priorities, Riley."

Last night, Riley and I'd inventoried the Turlan jobsite and jotted down all the action items we needed to hit this week. I'd prepped him on how to present that property's status, but he was hesitant. There was something about discussing delays and problematic new developments that stung of failure and inferiority, and he was a pro at avoidance.

But this time, he paged through his notebook and launched into an accounting of every paint smudge and loose hinge on the site, all while devouring a burrito the size of my forearm. That boy knew how to eat.

Patrick blew through each of the issues, deftly delegating them around the table until the only remaining items involved the PR and event planning, and that was Shannon's ballgame.

"Here's the final attendee list for Saturday," she said, handing a folder to Riley. "Give it one more look. Make sure we're not missing any important vendors. I haven't been able to keep up with which ones you've fired. You're worse than Patrick with that itchy trigger finger of yours, RISD."

Patrick rolled his eyes at that, and launched into a status review our other properties, Riley paged through the list, and his expression shifted from indifferent to confused. Project talk quieted and all attention tracked toward Riley as his otherwise easygoing demeanor turned
furious
.

He tossed the folder to the center of the table and sat back in his chair, his arms folded over his broad chest. "Why the fuck is one of the lead designers on this project not on this list?"

Here we go.

Shannon grabbed the file and scanned the list. "I've been over this list forty-seven times. Who are you talking about?"

"Magnolia is the principal landscape architect, and she designed and installed the roof garden, but since we're a band of assholes who won't forgive mistakes, she's not coming." He pushed away from the table, his scowl deepening. "If assholes could fly, this place would be an airport."

"I'm not sure what you want me to say." Shannon stared at the file, frowning. "We haven't told her not to come."

Riley turned an irritable glare in her direction, his head shaking slowly. "Maybe not, but she slaved over the motherfucking roof garden and she obviously doesn't feel welcome at the fucking showcase because we're fucking dickholes, and that shit needs to stop."

I was the fucking dickhole. It was all me.

The problem was that I liked Magnolia. And yes, I cared about her in the most professional manner possible. She was talented and imaginative, and I admired her work. Our relationship was one of mentoring, and that was based on my desire to see her succeed. I didn't mind offering her constructive feedback on her designs, but I hated informing her that her advances toward me were unwanted and inappropriate, and we couldn't work together if she had romantic feelings for me. I didn't want to sit down over coffee and revisit her unrequited affections for me or how those affections led to me and Tiel hurling the most hurtful words at each other that we could find. I didn't want to put her in an embarrassing situation like that.

"That was an exceptional quantity of profanity," Matt said. "Impressive."

Riley responded with a fist bump across the table. "I'm serious," he said. "This needs to be solved, and it needs to be solved right fucking now. This thing that we're doing—where we're blowing Magnolia off because she had some weirdness with Sam—is bad business. To be honest with you cuntcakes, I thought we were better than this. I didn't think we operated this way. It's petty and immature, and this isn't the kind of business we do."

They weren't the cuntcakes. I was the cuntcake.

"Cuntcakes aside," Matt said, "maybe we should reevaluate. I'm not involved in the day-to-day with this project, but showcasing without the landscape architect doesn't sound right to me."

"Can I ask whether your concern for Roof Garden Girl is more than professional?" Patrick shrugged. "To be clear, I agree with Matt, but your pleas are quite impassioned."

Riley dropped his head to his hands, muttering something about being the only sane one in this family. He looked ready to chuck that bottle of hot sauce straight at Patrick's head.

"Do I understand this correctly—I'm only allowed to treat a partner with respect if I want to fuck her?" Riley asked. "And not that it matters, but Gigi has a boyfriend who is not me."

"That's not what I said," Patrick replied.

Riley shook his head, unconvinced. "It sure as shit sounded like what you said."

"All right," Shannon interrupted, her palms extended between Patrick and Riley, "I'll handle it."

He pointed at me but kept his gaze on Shannon. "
Sam
should handle it, but at least you're not going to pussyfoot around the situation until shit's gone sour."

F
ebruary

T
his media showcase
wasn't fancy, it was
elegant
. Tuxedos, formal dresses, valet outside, champagne and crystal stemware inside, and punk-rock-royalty-turned-eco-conscious-hipsters in every corner.

The dress I was wearing cost more than the monthly rent on my old apartment, and I was standing statue-still with my hands knotted in front of me because I was convinced I'd trip and cause a series of red-wine-spilling events otherwise.

I hadn't wanted a new, spendy dress that I'd only wear once, and initially thought one of Ellie's would work for the grand unveiling event at the Turlan restoration, but that idea didn't fly with Sam. He sent me to Neiman Marcus, and dispatched Shannon to assist in my shopping.

Interestingly, that endeavor wasn't awful. The most complicated part was looking at the prices without throwing up in my mouth. And hanging out with Shannon—just the two of us, for once—was fun. The last time we'd been together without some other wife, girlfriend, or Walsh within arm's reach was that afternoon when Sam was on his wilderness adventure and we'd squared off in the coffee shop. Almost a full year had passed us by, and in that time, everything had changed, even us.

In a sense, we were different people now: her Shannon Halsted, and me Tiel Walsh.

Shannon had badgered me into selecting a long, full-skirted dress with a bright, abstract floral pattern. It was the most wonderful thing I'd ever seen, but the price tag was terrifying.

In addition to my not-causing-mayhem project, I was also working hard at keeping an open, neutral expression on my face while Sam chatted with a reporter about this home's sustainability features. That wouldn't have been too difficult if I didn't have to watch one legendary musician after another move through the brownstone and not glom all over them or squeal like a crazed fangirl.

"Do you want some wine? Champagne?" Sam asked when his interview wrapped. His fingers ghosted down my back, and without thinking, I sighed into his touch.

"No," I said, laughing. "I'm not risking it. I'd twitch and you'd be dripping wet, and that wouldn't be good for anyone. And bad things happen with me and fancy champagne."

"Great things happen with you and champagne." Sam leaned into me, laughing. "I love your misplaced anxiety. You're not clumsy, but put you in a spiffy dress and an upmarket house, and you make it seem like you routinely cause catastrophes."

I spared him a glance, one that I hoped said
I cause plenty of catastrophes, thank you
, but he was staring at my cleavage. He was looking hard, his eyes moving as if he was working through something complicated in his head, and his tongue darted out, painting his upper lip.

I knew that look. It was the one that usually led to shredded panties and reddened, tender bums, and often involved a request to come on my tits. It wasn't completely unwelcome. I loved knowing that my husband was addicted to me, and anyone who complained their husband's sexual appetites were bothersome was either lying or working with a man who didn't know how to use the tools.

Mine was real good with the tools.

But we had at least another hour at this shindig, and we weren't sneaking off to a dark corner of this house. Not with more than one hundred people here and a swarm of media.

Glancing around the room for a diversion, I spotted Shannon and her new husband, Will. He was smirking at her while she spoke, and that took a special edition set of brass balls. But that wasn't the most fascinating thing I noticed.

"Your sister," I murmured, nudging Sam with my elbow. "She has pregnant boobs."

Sam's head was still bowed toward my breasts as if exercising his right to public worship, and he grimaced before leaning into my ear. "First, I don't want to talk about that. Second, she's devout when it comes to the pill, and I only know that because she used to set an alarm to take it during morning meetings. But that meant she was running downstairs to get her bag, or snoozing the alarm only for it to go off every five fucking minutes until the meeting ended. We put it to a vote last year, and made her reschedule the thing. And finally, what constitutes
pregnant boobs
?"

I shrugged. "I can't explain it but I just
know
, Sam. It's a gift. Some people can pick race horses, I can spot pregnant boobs."

"You're sure it's not a push-up bra or something?" He kept his gaze fixed on me.

I glanced at Shannon again, and noticed the rosy glow high on her cheekbones despite the wintry chill in the air tonight. She looked good. Healthy. And her otherwise small breasts were busting out of her dark plum dress.

"She's pregnant," I said, turning my attention to Will. "Look at those two. They don't even need to have sex. There's a cloud of hormones around them. All he needs to do is give her a hard look.
Boom
. Pregnant. I guess some guys are gifted like that."

I realized the impact of my words as Sam stiffened. A muscle in his jaw flexed while he absently stared over my shoulder and silence choked the air around us.

"Sam, I—" I stopped.

"I know what you meant," he said quietly. "It's fine."

If it was fine, he would have laughed and offered a quick comment about Shannon and Will's inseparability, or their thoroughly entertaining love-hate. The Walsh kids rarely articulated the things that rubbed them the wrong way, instead pelting each other with sarcasm and quippy remarks like a take-no-prisoners game of paintball. Shannon's whiz-bang relationship was the preferred playing field at the moment.

The boys were all feeling a bit pouty over their lack of involvement in Shannon's personal life of late. It was precious how they handled the turn of these tables.

"Maybe we should…" My voice trailed off as I saw Shannon and Lauren moving toward us. "We should talk about all of that. In the trust tree."

"We should," Sam said. "Let's see what happens this month, and then we'll go tree climbing."

"I
am
sorry," I whispered as Shannon and Lauren were steps away. "You have big, beastly, hearty lumberjack sperm."

"Do lumberjacks swim well?" he asked, his lips pressed to my temple. "Sure, they can demolish your forest but they might not be swimming across your bay."

"Hey," Lauren said, pointing at me before I could respond to Sam. I was biting my tongue to keep all the filthy lumberjack comments to myself. "I need to talk to you."

Confused, I glanced around. "Me? Why? What did I do?"

Shannon—with her totally pregnant boobs—pointed at Sam and then gestured across the hall. "The reporter from
Estates
wants a few minutes with all of us."

"Be good," Sam whispered, kissing my temple again.

"I need advice," Lauren said when Shannon and Sam were out of the room. "Music education advice, for my school. I want to get some time with you. When can we have a conversation about that?"

"Um…" I didn't know what to say.

"I'm sorry," Lauren said, touching her fingertips to her forehead. "That was really formal and strange considering you're one of my best friends. I'm in super-crazy-fundraising mode, and keep forgetting to turn it off. Let me start again. I want to hear everything you have to say about kids and music education, and I have tons of questions. Would that be okay? Like, you and me, not during drunken pedicures, not during lunch where everyone's talking at once."

It didn't matter how many journals published my research or how many degrees I earned, I didn’t think I'd ever feel like an expert on anything other than the best bagel shops in town.

"Yeah, sure. Anytime you want," I said, still not convinced that I'd be terribly helpful. "Give me an idea of what you need so I can pull together the right research and resources. I'm more useful when I have some time to prepare."

In other words, I rambled like the town fool when I was put on the spot. There was a reason I spent four hours preparing lecture notes for one hour of class.

She lifted her shoulders, her face pulled tight in uncertainty. "Big picture: I think I want to run an early strings program."

I sucked in a breath and pressed my hands to my cheeks. "Oh, my God. Early strings changed my life. That's no exaggeration. I would be the grumpiest waitress in New Jersey if it wasn't for learning the violin when I was little, and no, it's not for everyone but it taught my brain how to listen and think, and I'll do anything you need."

"I want to find a way to make it happen," she said. "I need to figure out the logistics, and I need your wisdom. When would work for you?"

We toggled through our calendars to find the best day to meet. I couldn't look at my calendar without a stir of dread in my belly. It was a buffet of meetings and more meetings, and I hated every one of them. They never offered new information that wasn't also common sense (
à la
don't fuck your students), and they rarely resolved any of the ongoing issues (the curious case of whiteboard markers vanishing from the classrooms). Add to that some heavy-duty contempt for any music therapy methods that deviated from academia's directives, and downright condescension when it came to pop music in therapeutic settings, and I rolled my eyes hard enough to give myself headaches in these meetings.

And calendars did a splendid job at reminding me when we'd know if that hearty lumberjack sperm took down the forest, crossed the bay,
and
yelled "Timber!"

I'd given up on the tea—and good grief, that stuff was horrid—but now I was all over vitamins, supplements, essential oils, and charting. Ellie instituted a forever-long ban on discussing fertility and baby-making with her, and she was known to hang up immediately if I brought up the particulars. Apparently, I was making vaginas unappealing to her.

"Huh," I murmured, casting a quick glance around the room when I finished blocking the time on my calendar. "There's free food and alcohol. Sounds like something Nick would enjoy, right? Is he stuck at the hospital tonight?"

She nodded. "Nick would be all over this. He'd probably bring a baggie or two to save some snacks for later. He does that every time he eats at my house. I don't think that boy has a single pot, pan, or plate in his apartment. But…he's in Ghana," Lauren said with a hint of awe. "It's a Doctors Without Borders gig. He's there for a couple of months, and then he's up for another brief tour over the summer. That one's in Central America, I think."

"Wow," I said. "That's…amazing. I don't think I could ever pick up my life and move to a foreign country for a few months like that, and do all kinds of incredible work. If you told me I needed to teach violin to kids in Ghana, I'd be a disaster. I'd be more harm than help, and spend all my time looking for some decent coffee and bagels."

Lauren murmured in agreement. "All the creature comforts." She took a sip of her drink. "He's been talking about doing it for as long as I've known him. It didn't work for his fellowship schedule until now, but I also think the travel bug jumped up and bit him. He's spending a few days in Morocco and southern Spain before heading back home."

I wanted to ask if she knew anything about him and Erin. I couldn't be the only one who'd seen them arguing—yelling, storming off, chasing after, and repeating the process—at the wedding, and I knew others had seen him scoop her up and carry her out of the firehouse when the party was winding down.

But there was one thing I knew to be true from the short time I spent talking with Erin last December: when she was ready to invite me in and share her side of things, she would. There was no rushing this girl.

"Okay, we know where Nick is, but where's Andy? Shouldn't she be here?" I asked. "Or did I miss her somehow?"

Will was walking our way, and he shared a quick chin lift greeting with Lauren before nodding at me. "Tiel," he said.

"It's always disconcerting to see you in clothes," I mused, surveying his dark blue suit. To me, he'd always be the dripping wet guy with an inadequate scrap of terrycloth covering his bits and bobs who'd answered Shannon's door months ago. "I just assume you only wear towels."

"So wrong," Lauren muttered. "Andy has food poisoning." She shook her head, grimacing. "It's been pretty rough for her. She hasn't been to work all week, and she's
never
sick. I went over there this morning, to their apartment. We talked for a couple of minutes, and we watched
Fixer Upper
, but she fell asleep halfway through. She hasn't kept anything down in days."

"Oh, God," I murmured. "That's awful."

"Yeah but she's tough," Lauren said. "I'm slightly more worried about Patrick, actually. He had a tiny nervous breakdown when I was leaving. I don't think he's slept much this week."

"That's no fun," I said. "I'll have to bring them some orzo. That always settled my stomach when I was a kid, and at the very least, Patrick will eat it."

Will muttered something under his breath, and Lauren drove her elbow into his side.

"Judy is still pissed," Lauren said to Will. "You're ranking below Wes right now."

He stared into his beer bottle, his ring finger tapping against the glass. "Judy will be fine," he said.

"Oh really? Did you see the blog post?" Lauren held up her phone. She glanced at me as she navigated her browser. "Our mother has a travel blog, and it's turned into a really big deal. After she heard that Will and Shannon got married without inviting
anyone
, she reposted all of her photos from the trip she and our father took to Montauk a few years ago."

Lauren handed me her phone as Will rolled his eyes. The post featured beautiful photos of the village and beaches, and sassy captions.

"See that?" Lauren pointed to a block of text at the bottom. "That's where she sweetly slams Will for eloping in the Hamptons. 'The closest thing I have to priceless memories of Sailor 1's wedding are these old sunny shoreline snaps. The Commodore and I can only hope we're invited to visit Sailor 1 and our new daughter-in-law—we'll call her Ginger—someday soon.'"

Will squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his forehead. "Motherfuck," he rasped.