Then, as she looked down to collect the scattered papers, Emmie saw why he was staring at her cleavage: because suddenly there was too much of it on display. Somehow, in her frantic rushing about, the next button on her ivory satin blouse had come undone, her bra had shifted, and she was perilously close to giving Plasma TV Guy a nip-slip of Hollywood starlet proportions.
Blushing furiously, she crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Thanks for the help,” she muttered, getting to her feet. “Excuse me one moment, won’t you?” And she ran for the bathroom.
Emmie slammed the door shut and flicked on the light. She felt a slight stab under her left breast. Was she having a heart attack? What did that feel like, anyway? But on further investigation she found that—“Dammit!”—the crescent-shaped strip of plastic that had once buoyed her left breast had snapped in two, and the jagged edges were poking mercilessly at the underside of her boob through the underwire’s fabric sleeve. She tried wiggling it around, but that just made it worse. She had two options: ignore the pain of the stabbing underwire and tough it out, or take off the bra and release her . . . inner hippie. Neither choice sounded ideal.
She decided to keep her boobs contained and ignore the pain. How bad could it be? She’d talk to the Hudsons, give them coffee, figure out which of Wilma’s concepts they wanted. Then, when Wilma came back, he could create more detailed sketches and plans, draw up a contract, and hit them with a monetary amount. Yes, she could deal with that—half an hour to reel them in, then get them the heck out. She could take the jabs till then.
Emmie examined her face in the mirror—makeup was still intact, but her hair was all over the place. “Good grief,” she murmured, reaching up to adjust her hair clip. Jab. “Ow.”
Ignore it.
She rearranged her ’do, trying for a more severe spinster-schoolmarm look to deter Plasma TV Guy. Jab. “Ow.”
Ignore it.
She moved to button up her blouse, and at the third jab, she lost her temper completely.
She reached behind her and frantically undid the bra through her blouse. Two shrugs later, she yanked the offending garment through her shirt sleeve and deposited it in the trash. There it sat, the cups jutting up provocatively from the tiny wastebasket. She couldn’t leave it there, on display. What if Plasma TV Guy used the bathroom? He might think it was some sort of message for him. She grabbed the bra and stowed it in the vanity, behind several rolls of toilet paper.
She opened the bathroom door and bolted for the front of the office, arms crossed again, keenly aware of the Hudsons watching her. In a flash (so to speak) Emmie pulled on a brown, shapeless cardigan that was draped on the back of her chair and wrapped it tightly around her. She turned back to the Hudsons. “Chilly in here, isn’t it?”
The husband and wife eyed her with a little trepidation, but Scrapbooking Wife mustered a nervous smiled and stepped back from the table. “You seem to be having a busy morning,” she said tactfully. “So I hope you don’t mind if I took the liberty of starting the coffee, and I sorted your papers out as best I could. I collected what looked like ours; the rest are over there on the sideboard. We took a look at the drawings while you were . . . indisposed. There’s one sketch we really like . . .”
“Okay,” Emmie answered as brightly as she could. “Let’s get the coffee poured and get started, then, shall we?”
She scooted into the kitchenette and, holding the sweater closed with one hand, picked up the carafe of coffee with the other. She turned around—only to run smack into Plasma TV Guy.
“Can I help?” he offered/leered.
“Step back, Jack,” Emmie hissed, narrowing her eyes. “My wardrobe malfunction was an accident, not an invitation! You got that?”
Emmie must have been channeling the fury of Kali, because his face turned beet red and he tripped backward not one step, but several.
She thrust the coffeepot at him. “Take this. Start pouring. And watch where your eyes go.”
Plasma TV Guy cast his eyes at the floor as he scuttled back to the meeting table, while Emmie grabbed the tray and started plopping coffee cups, plates, and utensils on it.
When they were all seated and the coffee and kuchen handed out, Scrapbooking Wife eagerly pushed a sketch toward Emmie. “This is the one I—we—were thinking about. It’s so different from the others, and more like what we were thinking of ourselves, but
so
much nicer than we could ever come up with on our own.”
Emmie took a look, and a little gasp escaped her. She recognized this concept—it was the one she had drawn up in the middle of the night, what felt like ages ago. How had it gotten into the Hudsons’ folder? Then she realized it must have been buried in her bag—it was sort of wrinkled—and when Scrapbooking Wife organized all the papers that had mixed with the folder’s contents, she assumed it belonged in their file.
This was bad. Really bad. If Wilma even got a whiff this, he’d see it as her attempt to stage a coup—another coup, that is—and she’d be out on the street for sure. She had to nip this (so to speak) in the bud immediately.
“Oh, Mrs. Hudson—”
“Stacey, please.”
“S-Stacey,” she stammered. “You . . . you don’t want this design.”
Stacey put a hand to her bosom. “Why ever not?”
“Well . . . because.” She paused.
Think, Emmaline, think!
“Be-because . . . the other designs are so much more dramatic . . . and innovative . . . and . . .”
Stacey frowned delicately behind her overlarge pink-framed glasses. “We’re not really dramatic people, Miss Brewster.”
“Call me Emmie, please.”
“We want something we can actually live with . . . and live
in
.” She brightened as she pointed out the things she liked on Emmie’s drawing. “See here—it’s the storage areas we asked for, and here’s the craft corner. Everything we talked about! And it looks so warm and inviting—the colors, and the woodwork. This”—she indicated one of Wilma’s sketches—“is just . . . A white carpet? Seriously?” She shook her head disapprovingly. “That’s just not realistic. Emmie, do you have children?” Emmie shook her head. “Neither do we, but we’re planning on it. And children and a white carpet do not mix.”
“Well, it doesn’t have to be a
white
carpet,” Emmie said desperately, even though she knew Wilma brooked no messing with his “vision.”
“Well, now, that’s not the point, is it?” Stacey smiled patronizingly. “Look at this . . . thing.” She pointed out a giant wall hanging that filled nearly an entire section of what was currently a vast blank expanse in the living room. “What is this? Metal?”
“Er . . . yes?”
“Little fingers can get cut on that. And besides, it’s so . . . cold.”
“It’s very . . . European . . .”
“Emmie, this is America,” Stacey said, slowly and clearly, as though she were talking to a three-year-old. “
We
are
Americans.
I’d be more willing to drape something decent across that space, like a nice dried floral wreath, or a tapestry of
The Last Supper
, rather than put up with a nasty piece of recycling that somebody thinks they can call art.”
Emmie bit her lip. “I understand what you’re saying . . .”
“Do you? Do you really?”
“Yes, of course—”
“Then you’ll understand that we want this.” And she tapped Emmie’s drawing with one finely manicured, pink-nail-polished finger.
“Well, there’s something else . . .” How in the world was she going to tell them that she had come up with it, and according to Wilma’s rules, that was forbidden?
“
What
else?” Stacey looked at her suspiciously.
“I’m . . . I’m afraid that this isn’t . . . available. It wasn’t in your folder. It was—”
Stacey narrowed her eyes. “Was this done for one of our neighbors? Did the Mackenzies contact you as well? It would be just like them—we mention Wilman Designs, and then they go running to the same place. Such copycats!”
“I’m really not at liberty to say who the sketch is for.”
“Well, we want this. And we’ll pay you extra to get it, if we have to,” Stacey declared. Her husband choked on a bite of pastry. “So please draw up the contract to complete this design here.” Stacey covered Wilma’s design with Emmie’s. “And we will be more than happy to write you a check for the deposit. Won’t we, Matthew?”
Matthew, his mouth full, merely nodded at his wife.
“I don’t have the authority to draw up a contract, I’m afraid,” Emmie said quickly, spying an escape route. “Only John can do that. And he can hammer out the details with you at that time. However, I can schedule an appointment. I’m sure he can see you as soon as he gets back.”
Scrapbooking Wife looked disappointed—perhaps she thought that as soon as they signed the papers, a team of contractors would show up at their house and start working—but she put on the steely yet sad look of a martyr who would wait as long as necessary to get the living room she wanted. “Fine. But don’t you go giving this design to anyone else. I want it that much.”
Not bloody likely that would happen,
Emmie thought. “Let’s get you on the calendar, then,” she said, rising. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Plasma TV Guy morosely down the rest of his coffee and stuff the last bite of pastry into his mouth. She sort of felt sorry for him, so she said, “How about if I wrap up the rest of that kuchen and you can take it home?”
As soon as she retreated to the kitchenette, Emmie could hear heated whispers coming from the outer office. She took her time reboxing the pastry. She’d been witness to couples arguing over plans and costs more times than she could count, and she knew how to stay out of the way while they tussled. The whispering got louder, so Emmie wasted more time washing the coffee cups and carafe.
When she turned off the sink, the office was quiet. She plastered on a smile and brought out the pastry box. The Plasma-Scrapbookers were at opposite sides of the room, Stacey messing around in her purse, Plasma TV Guy carefully scrutinizing the photos of Wilma’s previous projects on the wall by the meeting table. They followed Emmie to her desk, and she turned on her computer to pull up Wilma’s calendar. When the meeting was set, Emmie wrote the day and time for them on one of Wilma’s business cards (she didn’t have any of her own, of course), and sent the Hudsons on their way.
As soon as they were out of sight, Emmie raced to the folder that was still on the table and rifled through it. She was afraid Scrapbooking Wife might have stolen her sketch—for “safekeeping”—but it was still there. Not for long, though. Her plan: make the sketch go missing and hint to Wilma that Stacey the Scrapbooker was completely delusional and had imagined the whole alternate, homey-design thing. Wilma would have to recreate what Stacey saw—er, thought she saw—and he would put his own spin on it. Everybody’d win. Emmie slipped her design out of the folder and buried it in her voluminous bag once again. Where it belonged. Before it got her ass fired.
“So you’re not wearing a bra
right now
?”
Emmie rolled her eyes at Avery. “A little louder there, pal. I don’t think the fry cook down at Johnny Rockets heard you.”
Avery and Trish had met up with Emmie at the mall for lunch, but first she had pulled them into the post-holiday, tomblike silence of a department store for a quick bra purchase.
“And why are we in the old-fart support-hose department, here?”
A salesclerk, as dusty as the racks of sturdy, full-coverage undergarments she tended, frowned at him from behind the cash register.
“Where else am I supposed to go?”
“You mean, you just can’t resist buying more of . . . these . . . because they’re so darned sexy?” And he flicked the bras she had in her hand—industrial strength and unadorned, one white and one beige.
“What’s the matter with these?”
Avery groaned and looked over at Trish for help. She shrugged, grinning. Avery tried, “Sweetheart, you have a hot boyfriend—one that you actually
like
—now. Do you want to make him happy or”—he flicked the bras again—“punish him?”
“And what do you wear for Adam?”
It was Avery’s turn to roll his eyes. “First of all, we’re not cross-dressers. But . . . doesn’t matter. We broke up.”
“What?” Emmie gasped.
Avery shrugged. “It just . . . happened. Not a big deal.”
“
What
happened? You guys were perfect for each other!”
“Maybe we weren’t as perfect for each other as you and Graham are.”
“Don’t try to change the subject!”
“I’m not!”
“When did this happen? You were fine Christmas Eve.”
Trish gasped. “It was the curse of Emmie’s party, wasn’t it?”
Avery winced, not disagreeing, while Emmie demanded, “What curse, if you don’t mind? Somebody else’s house burn down?”
“Well, no, but you’ve gotta admit, things haven’t been pretty since that night. We ended up with a dead washing machine—”
“That was your spawn’s doing.”
Trish ignored her and continued, “Annette came to blows with Wilma, Juliet’s a wreck—”
“I’m starting to think Juliet’s always a wreck.”
“And Adam and Avery got an eyeful of their future—Wilma and Travis going toe-to-toe all night. No wonder the poor kids freaked out.”
“I’m not buying it. But it does suck, Avery.”
“You know what sucks worse? Standing around in this depressing dump talking about it.” Ignoring the steady glare from the clerk, Avery took the bras from Emmie, hung them on the nearest rack, and grabbed her arm. “Let’s go somewhere a little more . . . interesting.”
Avery marched her straight to Victoria’s Secret, which didn’t surprise her, but did embarrass her. “I don’t know . . .”
Trish laughed. “Nobody’s making you buy the red lace see-through stuff. It wouldn’t look good with your skin tone—you’re too pale—but you can get something a little more attractive in here.”