Death by Inferior Design (27 page)

“I . . . wish I knew what to say. I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to say anything. But I do need a couple of hours to sort this through. Myra suggested we return at four this afternoon. Can you make it back here then?”

“I
can, but what about you? Are you really sure you want to go ahead with this job?”

“I’m not sure about a single thing right now. Except that I need to be alone for a while. Unless I call and cancel, let’s just meet here at four.”

“Erin,” he said softly, and touched my shoulder.

I shrank away, not looking at him, and headed for my van, saying over my shoulder, “Thanks, Sullivan. I’ll see you at four, then.” No way was I going to let myself break down in front of him; if I decided later that I needed company, this was strictly girlfriend-commiseration territory, after all.

I drove to Audrey’s house, parked, and sat in the van, lost in thought. Given any choice, I never would have looked for Myra and Randy, but
they’d
found
me.
Had I unconsciously hoped for some sort of reunion? Otherwise, as my father had said to me over the phone, I wouldn’t have chosen to move to Crestview, Colorado, in the first place.

Now I had to face up to the simple fact that I was inexorably
myself—
that I wanted and needed to know the answers even to painful, soul-baring questions and to make peace with whatever happened next. I had to know who had murdered my birth father, or at least the man who’d apparently taken me into his home and served as my father for the first eighteen months of my life. I had to know, too, why the Axelrods had allowed their young, unmarried live-in nanny to adopt me.

Furthermore, I had to prove to my birth mother—the woman who had hired me—that I was one hell of a designer. I was going to squeeze every iota of experience and creativity out of myself and Steve and give Myra Axelrod’s house a stunningly brilliant design.

A little less than three hours later, just as I’d pulled
into Myra’s driveway, my cell phone rang. I answered, and Steve said, “Hey, Gilbert. It’s Sullivan. I’m almost at Myra’s. It’s not too late to cancel the job at Myra’s, you know. Are we in or out?”

“In. So let’s be brilliant.”

He chuckled and said, “If you insist. And I’m right behind you.” I glanced in the rearview mirror: he was. We hung up.

I took a deep breath and imagined myself dispelling all the bad thoughts from my body as I exhaled—a self-help technique I’d picked up someplace. I had to admit, to myself at least, that on this particular job, I was glad to have a partner.

Despite some obvious awkwardness between Myra and
me, the first half hour of our information-gathering meeting went very well. Debbie, Myra, Steve, and I checked out the repaired beam, and the carpenters had done a good job. Although retracing my steps put me on edge—I refused to stand underneath the beam—the experience was somewhat cathartic. Debbie then excused herself to do some writing on her notebook computer in her bedroom.

Myra told us what her budget for redoing the entire house was, and it was a workable figure—enough that we would be able to make significant improvements, but not so much that we would be tempted to gut the place and rebuild from scratch. We signed the contracts and received our retainer, and listened to Myra’s requirements and preferences for her new design. The three of us then attempted to get some ideas flowing in earnest.

There are trade-offs in all interior design decisions; otherwise, there wouldn’t be a need for more than one designer in the entire world, who could answer everyone’s questions from an 800 number. Question: what’s the best floor plan for a thousand-square-foot main floor that includes a kitchen, living room, family room, and dining area? Answer: a great room with a kitchen island, Berber carpeting in the combination living/family room, hardwood floors in the dining room and kitchen. One large great room can prevent multiple, claustrophobic rooms and utilize space efficiently.

But what if the clients object to being able to see the dirty dishes on the kitchen counter when they’re relaxing or entertaining in their living room? Also, kitchen islands can cut into floor space that might otherwise provide for a table large enough to seat eight diners in elegance and comfort. Hardwood floors are durable but have poor acoustic qualities. And they’re grueling on the legs when, for example, a gourmet cook spends long stretches at the stove. Rugs wear out faster and are harder to maintain than other floor coverings but are much more comfortable on the feet and to sit on, as I’d seen for myself that Myra liked to do.

The key to doing my job well was being able to get inside the client’s head—to learn what she most valued, what activities made her the happiest. By asking Myra about her daily routine and listening as she described how she loved to sit every morning with her coffee and pore over the
Crestview Sentinel
for up to two hours, it was obvious that she needed a large sitting area at the kitchen counter. The space needed to be opened up somewhat; hence the proposed half wall that had led to Steve’s nearly crashing through the floor on top of me.

Steve and I determined that the new wall would be three feet high and feature an oak shelf and an elegant, simple oak post for structural support. This compromise between a full wall and no wall would give Myra’s public areas definition, yet a more open feel than its current design.

After grinning at each other about how smoothly our programming phase was going, Steve then said, “Now let’s talk about the front room—Randy’s office. There I’d like to consider removing the wall entirely and incorporating the space into the family room. You’d be able to make good use of the bay window in the former office, maybe build a window seat and turn it into your own private nook.”

Much as I personally agreed with Steve’s proposal, Myra’s face was not lighting up at the idea. In fact, her upper lip was curling the way Hildi’s did just before she coughed up a hairball. My hunch was that Myra wanted to transform her overbearing late husband’s room into
her
space. “Or,” I interposed, “you could get some of that same spaciousness and openness with French doors. You’d be able to turn that room into a sewing room and close it off from the public spaces of the house whenever you wished, yet still be able to look through the doorway from nearly every spot in the living room and see that terrific bay window.”

“Oh, I love that, Erin!” Myra cried. “That would just be
wonderful
for that room. Thank you so much for suggesting it.”

“You’re welcome.”

Steve’s features had tightened almost imperceptibly, and he said, “Or we could convert your guest room upstairs into a sewing room. Then you’d have enough floor space in your living room for a grand piano, even.”

“I don’t play the piano, Mr. Sullivan, and my guest room is currently occupied.” Decisively, she pointed at the closed door to the office. “French doors. Sewing room.”

He flashed an unwavering smile at her. “That will look fantastic.” The smile turned to a glare the moment she looked away and his eyes shifted to mine. Drat! I’d flubbed an obvious rule of working in tandem—never show up your partner. I should have said that Steve and I would gladly entertain other ideas from her if she wanted to keep that room intact, and then steered the conversation so that the sewing-room idea seemed to be
her
suggestion. “Should we talk about the upstairs bedrooms now, or—”

Myra shook her head. “Why don’t you two just surprise me with what you work up on your own? After all, Erin, you know how much I’d like to see something similar to what you did for Debbie and Carl.”

“Yes, and thank you. But we’re not going to repeat it exactly. For one thing, the floor plans are very different. Did you like the bed best, or the faux finish . . . the fabrics . . . ?”

“It would be impossible to choose, so you decide for me. I trust your taste and judgment implicitly.” She rose and turned her attention to Steve. “And you’re very good, too. Thank you both so much for coming.”

As Steve and I gathered our belongings to leave, the tension between us was palpable.

“How soon until we can get started?” Myra asked, looking directly at me.

Steve replied, “We’ll need a few days to develop our presentation plans for the rooms. We’ll have a better idea of the overall time frame by then, after we talk to the contractors that we hire.”

She furrowed her brow. “You mean you won’t be doing the work yourselves, like you did for the McBrides and the Hendersons?”

“No, that was an exception, for both of us,” I said.

“And you aren’t willing to make an exception in my case?” Myra asked, staring directly into my eyes.

I was caught off guard, but Steve said with a gracious smile, “We can discuss that later on in the week as well.”

We thanked her and left. On our way to our vans, I stammered, “I’m not used to working with a partner. That was really bogus of me to just blurt out the idea about—”

“Forget about it, Gilbert,” he said icily. “We were gathering information about Myra’s likes and dislikes, and you just got the jump on me. Good for you.”

He opened the door of his van with more gusto than was required. I hesitated, mulling over whether I should apologize again and offer to buy him a beer, or leave him alone to fume for a while. Before I could decide, I was distracted by something in the Hendersons’ driveway. “Huh. There’s a car in Carl’s driveway that I haven’t seen before,” I told Steve. “Maybe I should go over there right now to repair his wall. If he’s got company, he’ll be on his best behavior.”

“What do you mean? What’s the matter with the wall? And when
wasn’t
he on good behavior?”

“Didn’t I tell you about that?” I asked, then realized that, obviously, I hadn’t. The thought of Carl Henderson smashing holes in the walls of a room that had come out so superbly still rankled. “On Thursday, after Randy’s funeral service, I went over to repair damage the police caused while searching for evidence. But Carl had been drinking and punched more holes in the wall, and he accused me of ruining his life. I’m sure he’s calmed down by now, though, and I need to see if he wants me to arrange to have the drywall replaced.” Over my shoulder, I said to Steve, “I’ll talk to you later,” and crossed the street.

Sullivan slammed his van door shut. “Gilbert! Wait up a second. It’d be a good idea if I came with you.”

“Why? He’s not going to go berserk and kill me on his front porch, for God’s sake.”

“Probably not, but if he was punching holes in a wall, it’s possible that he might greet you with a right cross.”

“Nah. There’s no chance of that. He’s got a cast on his right hand, so it’d have to be a left cross.”

“That cements it. I’m coming with you.”

“How very gallant of you, Sullivan. Just don’t get any ideas about keeping this up for long. I’m an only child. I need my space.”

He bowed slightly. “Lead on, O independent one.”

I rolled my eyes but allowed him to accompany me to Carl’s house. “Don’t you think this will look weird to Carl? Your shadowing me, I mean?”

“Not at all. I’ll explain that I didn’t get the chance to see the completed room, albeit with a few holes in the wall, and that I’d like to see it now. Which happens to be true, by the way.”

“Are you just curious? Or are you checking out your competition?”

“Both, I guess,” he replied with a shrug.

I rang the doorbell. The door was swept open by a woman I’d never met. My jaw dropped slightly as our eyes met. She was in her forties and was my exact height and coloring. We had the same long neck, even.

I fought to collect myself. This was merely a product of stress, playing weird psychological games with me. Myra had just now told me that I was her daughter. I’d dragged the information out of her, after happening across a well-hidden photograph. She would have had no reason to lie.

“Hello. My name is Erin Gilbert, and I—”

“Your name is Erin?” The woman’s face paled. She stared at me.

“Erin Gilbert, yes, and I—”

She relaxed and interjected, “Oh! you’re the interior designer Carl hired.”

“That’s right. And this is Steve Sullivan, a colleague. Is Carl here?”

“Who is it?” Carl called. He came limping up on crutches, his foot in what looked like a removable cast. He frowned as he spotted me.
“You
again? Haven’t you taken your pound of flesh already? You cost me an arm and a leg! Literally!”

“Carl,” the woman chastised, “stop it! It’s hardly her fault that you’re such a hot-tempered ignoramus that you’ve broken some bones by pounding on a wall!”

“It may or may not be her fault, but I sure as hell am not letting her back inside my house. I might break my
neck
next time!”

“Come in,” the woman told us, swinging the door wider.

“Hey! This is
my
house, not yours!”

“Point taken.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll come outside, then.” She stepped onto the porch beside us. With a jerk of her head, she indicated Carl and explained, “I’m playing temporary nursemaid and was about to leave. He has a hard time driving his car in that cast.”

“Which doesn’t give you the right to invite people off the street into my house!” he called indignantly through the glass door.

She again rolled her dark brown eyes. “I’m Carl’s first wife. Emily Blaire.”

“Nice to meet you. This is a fellow designer, Steve Sullivan,” I said, introducing him, I belatedly realized, for the second time.

They shook hands, Steve turning on the charm as they exchanged pleasantries. I returned my attention to Carl, leaning on his crutches as he glared at us through the glass. “I just wanted to see if you wanted me to hire someone for you to repair the drywall,” I called to him.

“No! I’m paying Taylor to do it tomorrow. Emily! You coming in or going home?”

“Going home,” she growled as she trotted down the steps. She got into her car and started the engine.

Jaw agape, Carl watched her leave as if unable to believe she wasn’t going to change her mind and come back inside. As she drove away, he yelled, “Fine! Goodbye!” Carl attempted to slam the door by whacking it with one crutch, but lost his balance. He toppled to the floor.