Rusty Nailed (28 page)

“What’s this?” I asked, setting it on the desk.

“Presents, of course. France, Switzerland—you name it, you got a trinket.”

“Is this the part where I say, Oh, Jillian, you shouldn’t have?” I said, spying a box at the top. It said . . . No. It surely didn’t.
Hermès?

“Oh, Jillian, you
really
shouldn’t have,” I breathed, opening it carefully. A silk scarf. Salmon pink and bloodred, swirled through with buttercup yellow. “But I am
so
freaking glad you did!” I squealed, jumping up and down.

“It’s the least I could do,” she said. “Now come show me the third floor. After we get that over with, we can go to lunch and you can bring me up to speed.”

•  •  •

W
e sat in our favorite booth at our favorite restaurant in Chinatown, eating sizzling rice soup. I delighted in just having her here again. She told me stories from their trip abroad, and I drank them
up as quickly as I did the green tea. Palaces, castles, yachts, grand restaurants, and tiny bistros. The romance, the adventure—all of it just sounded magical.

“And Nerja—oh my goodness, I can’t even tell you! You know how enchanting it is; I never wanted to leave,” she gushed.

“I know, it was like a little slice of heaven,” I sighed, remembering the trip I’d taken with Simon. I went there already a little bit in love with him, and that trip solidified everything for me. Watching him work, discovering a new locale with him, experiencing everything this tiny corner of the globe had to offer, immersing ourselves completely in a moment. I’d fallen 100 percent in love with him there. It would always hold a special place in my heart.

“And the food! I can’t believe I’m not as big as house, the way we ate,” she exclaimed, and I looked her over from stem to stern.

“You look fantastic, as always. Who are you kidding?”

“Speaking of fantastic, when do I get to see this new house? I can’t believe we’re neighbors!” she asked.

“Oh, it’s a wreck right now. But you know what that’s like, you lived through it.”

“Blech—worst thing ever is living through a renovation. But it’s worth it in the end.”

“I’m trying to keep that in mind.”

“I was surprised when you told me. I thought Simon loved the city,” she said, eyeing me carefully.

“Believe me, no one was more surprised than me when he came up with this crazy idea. But he took to Sausalito quicker than I thought he would; he really loves it over there,” I answered. “I do too.”

“And Benjamin told me he’s taken some time off work?”

“A little; he canceled a few jobs. He really wants to be here when the renovation gets going. But when he sees how boring it can be, he’ll hightail it for Bali or Madagascar.” I laughed, paying special attention to the bottom of my soup bowl. And not at all
to Jillian’s knowing gaze. “So, after lunch you want to stop by the Claremont and see how it’s coming along?”

•  •  •

“H
oly Christ, this place is sick.”

“Sick is right. How much did she pay for the baby-puke-green stove?”

“Obviously she’s getting rid of those, and besides, she didn’t pay for it. Simon did.”

“No shit, must be nice to have Mr. Moneybags for a feller. Why such a big house, though?”

“Oh, use your imagination! There’s two of them now, but down the road . . .”

“Just because you plan on being pregnant within the year doesn’t mean anyone else wants to be.”

“Don’t be such a downer, you big stick-in-the-mud. Just look at that view!”

“All I see are weeds.”

“Honestly, I can’t even believe that you—”

“Now look, Pollyanna, I just call it like I see it, and I think that—”

I stood in the doorway, watching my two best friends with amusement. I cleared my throat, and they both broke off, midtiff.

“Sorry, Caroline, we were just saying that—” Mimi started, and I waved my hand.

“I heard what you were saying; you two carry on. Let me know when you want me to give you the full tour—or I can just leave and let you two make out. I’m familiar with your foreplay.”

Sophia snorted and set her bag down on one of the sawhorses. “Okay, Reynolds, show us your new digs.”

I did indeed give them the full tour of the new house. My new house.
Our
new house. Which was, at this point, a war zone.

Besides the aforementioned sawhorses, we also had ladders,
Sheetrock, buffing machines, paint cans, several tarps, and yes, baby-puke-green appliances. To be fair, when they were initially manufactured, they were called avocado. Which was just insulting to avocados.

Experience had taught me that no matter how much money a customer had, no matter how many workmen you had on the job, no matter how creative the architect or how skilled the designer (very), there were hiccups. Hiccups that I simply left at the end of the day.

Now I was living with the hiccups. Every single day. Along with Simon, who was taking it much more in stride. He’d never done anything like this before, but he was determined to help as much as he could. He even bought himself a tool belt, which he looked utterly fantastic wearing. Had I made him model it for me one night wearing nothing else? Maybe. A little.

The building inspection had turned up more issues than I thought possible. Under the surface, there was wood rot. And leaky pipes. And busted duct work. Floor joists needed to be replaced, a new concrete slab possibly poured in the basement—the hits just kept on coming. All of it was totally doable, just time consuming. And costly.

I hired an architect I’d worked with before, we worked up the plans, we brought in a contractor, and walls started coming down. We were reconfiguring the entire layout downstairs, letting in more light, opening up hallways, and creating a more open concept without sacrificing the original integrity of the house. There was nothing worse in my book than Victorian on the outside and ultramodern inside.

It was a pile of crazy at the moment, but I could see that it was going to be beautiful. And we were moving at a breakneck pace, using more workers than normal to get everything done more quickly.

It’s amazing what you can get done when you have deep pockets
and a sense of urgency. Which Simon really seemed to have lately when it came to the house. Getting back to his photography? Not so much. But we’ll pause on that particular pickle, and focus on this gorgeous old house.

Although “we” bought it, use of the word
we
here is stretching it considerably. There was no way I could have afforded a house like this, run down or not. It was in a prime area with killer views and a huge footprint in an established neighborhood. I wasn’t comfortable with Simon paying for everything, no matter how much money he had stashed away. So I’d insisted that the house would be in his name only, and I’d contribute to monthly household expenses. He gave me an enormous budget to work with for the design, and while I still felt a bit guilty when I saw the invoices, I had to admit I liked having a rich boyfriend.

There. I said it. Revoke my feminist card. Take away my—well, whatever you take away when a woman admits she likes nice things. I was getting the house of my dreams, with the man of my dreams. And I reminded myself of this each time I tripped over a bucket or brushed sawdust off my sammich or tensed up whenever I heard Simon turn a job down. . . . There’s that pickle again.

In addition to my own house renovations I was in the home stretch on the Claremont, which filled my days. Jillian had toured each job site I’d been working on in her absence, pored over the books with a fine-tooth comb, grilled Monica so thoroughly that I was scared for her, and then said I’d done an amazing job. I told her she could show me that in my end-of-the-quarter bonus, which she pretended not to hear. But she totally would.

Now she was spending some time meeting with her lawyers and her accountants, which freed me up for putting the finishing touches on the hotel. The launch party was getting closer and closer, and we’d be ready to show it off to all of Sausalito.

I focused on all the things that were on my plate at the moment, and not on the pickle on the side that was staring at me.
Because that was a pickle I was silly to even entertain. Who cared that he wasn’t working? He had plenty of money, he didn’t need to work. So why did this pickle prick at me so?

Pffft. Forget it—I had a fifty-cent tour to give right now.

I led my two best chickens through the house, explaining in great detail each finish and fixture that had been selected, painting a picture how it would all come together when it was complete. They made no comment on the fact that there was a toilet sitting in my dining room, which I greatly appreciated. I saved the best for last, and when I opened the French doors to the master suite,
I
saw gleaming furniture and polished oak floors. Mounds of pillows and the blue bay peeking through puddled curtains. What
they
actually saw were pine studs and yellow electrical wiring hanging from the ceiling, and that damn blow-up bed. But when they saw the claw-foot tub, even Sophia looked a bit wistful.

“This is kickass, Caroline,” she said, perching on the side. That’s her version of wistful.

“You gotta get in this tub, see how deep it really is,” I encouraged, sitting down in one end, and her eyes opened wider when she realized how luxurious it was. Wider still when I dangled my legs over one side, flashing my panties in the process.

“This is going to be so fantastic when it’s finished. How much longer until it’s all done?” Mimi asked.

“We’re on track to finish ahead of schedule, but I hate to even say that out loud. Who knows what else we might find?” Like the original knob-and-tube wiring that had to be ripped out, and the rotten subfloor downstairs, and the ghost that was living in the basement. Technically the ghost was a family of raccoons that had been relocated to a nearby nature preserve, but that was neither here nor there.

“I admit it, I never thought you two would be the first to get the house out in the burbs. How’s Simon doing with all this change?” asked Sophia, now in the tub with me.

“Oh, he’s having a grand old time. Yesterday he spent an hour examining the difference using a sandpaper with a forty grit versus eighty grit would make on the kitchen banquette. And don’t even get me started on how much fun he had with the chalk lines the crew used to ensure the sightlines were even on the new kitchen pass-through. There was blue chalk everywhere; I finally found him by following his blue footsteps,” I said flatly.

I couldn’t complain though, could I? Who wouldn’t want a boyfriend who was determined to create the most perfect home imaginable? And besides, once I found him, he quickly made me forget about the footprints. He showed me his tool belt, you see.

However, even the tool belt wasn’t enough to bring my O out of temporary hiding. It
was
temporary, right? Admittedly, it was hard to get down to the sexy times when there was a thin veil of drywall dust coating everything that would stand still, but still. Even the tool belt wasn’t making a dent.

If I ever saw Cory Weinstein again, I’d castrate him.

But seriously, it was just temporary. Right? I’d avoided sex with Simon for days now, something I’d never done. He was getting suspicious. I was getting frustrated. Even right now, I could feel the tension building up in my body.

Why wasn’t he booking jobs?

Wow, wrong tension.

This was why I needed to stop picking at this particular pickle.

“I’m glad we decided to wait until after we get married to look for a house. Too stressful while planning the wedding. Plus, I don’t want to live in sin. You know you’re hellbound, Caroline,” Mimi said with a wicked glint in her eye.

“Where do you think you’ll look for a house?” I asked, settling deeper into the tub while Mimi sat cross-legged on the window seat (a window seat in a bathroom? I can’t even) and looked out at the view.

“I think we’ll stay in the city for now, although I can really see the appeal of moving out here,” she said. The lot was wooded on either side of the house, and some of the trees in back had been cleared to see the water down below. It felt secluded, even though we weren’t far from our neighbors. Golden light streamed in, and it was so quiet. “I bet Sophia would never want to leave the city though, right?” she asked, turning back toward us.

Sophia didn’t answer right away, and that was the first time we noticed the tears.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

“It’s nothing,” she whispered, rolling her eyes as Mimi immediately crossed over to us in the tub.

“Don’t give us that. What’s going on?” I asked, struggling to sit back up and flashing her more thoroughly this time. This tub was really quite deep.

Sophia laughed, then two more tears fell. “I want a claw-foot tub, dammit!” she cried.

Mimi pushed her forward and slid in behind her, wrapping her tiny arms around her. “You sure it’s just the tub you want?”

“Yes. No. Fuck. Do I have to say it?”

“You want Neil in the claw-foot tub with you?” I asked, pulling a tissue from my purse for her.

She blew her nose loudly. “I do. I hate myself for saying it, but I do.” She looked around at the tub, then chuckled. “What’s funny is he wouldn’t even fit in here, the stupid lug. He’s so tall.” She blew her nose again. “I miss him so fucking much. Did I tell you he doesn’t even call me anymore? He stopped.”

She sniffed a great sniff, then looked up with determination. “I think—I think I need to call him. I’m going to call him,” she said, reaching for her purse as I met Mimi’s eyes.

“Sweetie, you sure you want to do that?” I asked, snatching up her purse and holding it just out of her reach. Impulse + Ex = Not Always a Good Thing.

“Why the hell not? You’re the one who’s been saying I should talk to him all this time.” She sniffled.

“Yeah, Sophia! Go! Go! Go!” Mimi chanted, always the Disney princess.

I gave her the purse and crossed my fingers. Sophia rarely made concessions like this. If it didn’t work, even after she’d put her butt on the line? I not only crossed my fingers, I crossed my toes too.