“What do you need?” he asked quietly.
Loaded question. She swallowed. “The—breaker box.”
“I’ll get it.”
“Where the hell did you come from?” Emmie found herself whispering, although she had no idea why.
He gestured behind him at a doorway that revealed a set of dusty stairs going up. “I left some plans upstairs earlier.” He patted some papers sticking up out of the pocket of his black peacoat.
“Oh.” Emmie didn’t want to think about what else was on the second floor, nor why Graham, and likely Juliet, were up there earlier tonight. She knew that these kinds of places had apartments above them where the shop owners used to live; had they found a cozy bedroom for a hot little clinch?
Graham groped his way toward a closet on the side wall. As he pulled open the door, its bottom scraping on the floor, he said something to Emmie that she couldn’t make out. She moved closer and saw that Graham had wedged himself in sideways, among a pile of junk, to reach the electrical panel.
She kept her distance and said, “Sorry—what was that?”
He stuck his head out of the closet. “I said, ‘Nice guy, that Avery.’”
“Oh. Yes, he is.”
“Special to you?”
Emmie felt a little thrill at his words. Did Graham care? Wait. Why did she care if Graham cared? Still, she answered a little smugly, “Yes, he is.
Very.
He’s a
great
guy.”
Graham paused. When he spoke again, he sounded highly amused. “Okay.”
Emmie edged a little closer. “What’s
that
supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. He
is
a great guy.” Graham bent his knees and leaned back against the door frame, looking for all the world as though he were sitting in an easy chair instead of crammed in a dusty closet. “You know what I liked best about him? He never took himself too seriously. Get enough beers down him at the Rathskellar, and he’d start calling himself Bill.” He chuckled as he pried open the metal door of the electrical panel.
“Bill?” Emmie was puzzled. “Why in the world would he call himself Bill if his name is—oh.”
“Yeah.”
“As in ‘three dollar’?”
“The same.”
Emmie could tell by the tone of his voice that he was grinning ear to ear, and she became even more annoyed. “Okay, so I’m not exactly his type. Big deal.”
From behind the metal door of the breaker box, Graham uttered a cartoonish little, “Hee hee.”
“Shut up,” Emmie snapped. “And in case you were wondering, I was not implying he was my boyfriend for your benefit. Or—or Juliet’s,” she added hurriedly.
“Never said you were.” Graham pushed at something with a bit of effort, and a resounding
thunk
echoed in the room. He straightened up, turned around, and leaned in the doorway of the closet, crossing his arms in front of him and studying Emmie in the dim light. Neither of them made an effort to find a light switch. “You seem sort of . . . upset with me for some reason.”
She was blindsided by his statement and could only stammer, “What? Whatever gave you—”
“That idea? Oh, I don’t know. You seem a little frosty tonight. But I admit it could be my imagination.” He looked at her steadily, maybe hoping she’d say his fears were unfounded.
Emmie wasn’t about to tell him that she was stupid in love with him and furious that he was with Juliet. She knew now that she couldn’t bear to be friendly with him in any way—it’d hurt too much. So she said, “It’s not your imagination.”
And for the first time since she’d clapped eyes on him when he had first stood before her in Wilman Designs, Graham didn’t seem so confident. “What did I ever do to you?” he asked.
How could she tell him that he had let her down? That she had thought he was the perfect man, and he wasn’t? That he wasn’t available when she had wanted him to be single, unattached—and interested in her? She couldn’t say any of that. So she said nothing.
“I’ve been nice to you, haven’t I? And we seemed to get along all right when we talked about my project. Speaking of which, that job is quite a feather in your cap, you have to admit. I’m giving you an extensive, complicated assignment—”
“Only because Juliet asked you to,” she spat out.
“Is that what you think?”
“Oh, quit it. We both know what this is about, really.”
“We do?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it just so happens that I don’t,” Graham said impatiently. “Please enlighten me. What is this about,
really
?”
“Come on. I’m not stupid. I get it. Juliet already said—I keep your secrets, the two of you give me work. Nice exchange. Thanks a lot.”
He frowned. “What?”
“Please. Don’t act all shocked. Personally I think the whole thing is reprehensible and repulsive, but that’s your own business. Just don’t drag me into it.”
Graham seemed stunned. “What in the world did she tell you?”
“Hey! Do we have light?”
They both jumped at the sound of Juliet’s voice calling from the front room. Graham regrouped quickly and called back, “Yep! Go ahead.”
There was the loud click of an old Bakelite light switch, and Juliet said, “That’s better! Emmie, come see now.”
Graham closed the closet door and turned to go. The back room was still dark, but she got the sense that he was glowering at her. She realized she was shaking a little bit. As he passed her, he paused, his arm brushing her shoulder. She froze, her heart hammering against her ribs.
He said quietly, his mouth close to her ear, “I don’t know why you would think that I would entrust my project to you just to—what was it?—‘keep my secrets’? For what it’s worth”—and here he paused, and his shadowed gaze locked on hers—“I would still choose you.”
Emmie tried to speak, but her mouth was dry. She could only manage to lick her lips nervously before Graham spoke again.
“You’re good,” he said. “I can tell already. So let’s knock that chip off your shoulder and get to work. All right?”
Dumbly, she nodded and, with difficulty, looked away. When she looked back, he was gone.
Chapter 8
Emmie awoke early the next morning with Graham’s words still echoing in her head. “I would still choose you.” And in such a sexy voice . . . She curled up tight under her quilt.
No, no, no!
Professionally—he had been talking
professionally.
Nothing else . . . although she couldn’t seem to stop those little fluttery feelings that started up inside her whenever she remembered how he had looked at her—so confidently, so steadily. She wanted to euthanize those damned multicolored butterflies. Her feelings for him were useless. There was no room for Emmie in Graham’s life—none at all. Juliet had gotten there first.
And she was going to be reminded of that on a regular basis, apparently, because in addition to working on Graham’s project, now it seemed that she was drafted into working on Juliet’s shop as well. The woman had kept her in the cold storefront for the better part of an hour last night, picking her brain about how she would renovate the place. It didn’t take long for Emmie to realize Juliet was an energy vampire, sucking the life out of a person when she wanted something. Emmie scrambled to come up with ideas, all the while feeling not only Graham’s, but also Avery’s eyes on her as she was put on the spot. Neither one had offered to help—they just looked on, highly amused. But damn, Graham had looked so good when he smiled . . .
Disgusted with herself for even entertaining the idea of pining for a man like some pathetic heroine in a Victorian novel (who, invariably, died in the end, destitute, alone, and unloved), Emmie threw back the bedcovers. She had things to do, dammit. She would make a big pot of coffee, maybe start a fire in the fireplace, and get down to business. She would work all day on ideas for Graham’s project—brush up on her knowledge of 1820s architecture, look up color schemes, choose some period furniture, find some good vintage wallpaper options.
And then she would work on ideas for Juliet’s store, she decided, as she clipped her hair up on top of her head and brushed her teeth. After all, a job was a job—and she couldn’t throw away her first solo assignment. Despite the drama behind it, this was the key to a Wilma-free future—and she
needed
to know there was the possibility of a Wilma-free future, for her own sanity.
Besides, she told herself, as she pulled on her softest fleece pants and a nubby sweater, lots of people had dubious starts to their careers. What about people who took startup money from less-than-reputable sources? Sold their bosses up the river and took their places? Shared information with their company’s competition? It happened all the time. So she should just grow up and stop pretending she was pure as the driven snow. If she wanted to get anywhere in life, she’d have to take the leg up that she was offered and stop criticizing the ugly shoe it was sporting.
And, she said to herself as she scuffed into her kitchen, she had to plain old forget about Graham. Not another thought about his beautiful blue eyes, not another sniff of her coat trying to catch his clean scent on the fabric where he had leaned close to her last night. She didn’t need Graham. She didn’t need any man. She was going to focus on her career from this moment forward. Starting now. Yeah.
She pulled the ceramic container of coffee out of the cupboard and pried off the lid. Two lonely little coffee beans slid around the bottom.
And the very next moment she was in tears.
She watched her ambitious plans skid all over the place like freight cars in a train derailment.
There was no coffee.
If she didn’t have coffee, she couldn’t function. If she couldn’t function, she wouldn’t be able to make a fire in the fireplace. If she couldn’t have a fire in the fireplace, she wouldn’t be able to work on her two new jobs all day. If she couldn’t work on her two new jobs all day, she would never escape Wilma and start her own business. And she would never impress Graham with her artistic insight and professional expertise. And he’d never fall in love with her.
Stop,
Emmie commanded herself, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. She pushed the empty coffee container aside. Crying because there was no coffee . . . in this, the Age of Starbucks? Phooey. She hitched up her pants and squared her shoulders. Change of plans. The new, improved
, in command
Emmie was on the case.
Emmie frowned and tried to focus on her sketch pad. She was at a Starbucks up the street from her house, her butt planted in a nice, work-oriented, straight-backed, hard-bottomed chair—perfect for her newly developed self-discipline. She had her laptop, her sketch pad, her colored pencils, a paint color fan, and a booklet of wallpaper styles and stencil patterns, all carefully arranged on the table beside her nearly empty venti mocha (
yes
, with whipped cream and proudly so) and the remains of her scone—and she was about to lick her finger to mop up the crumbs as well. She had been there an hour and a half, and she had produced one drawing—okay, half finished—of a sitting room that might or might not exist in the house Graham was working on.
She sighed heavily, her eyes glazing over. She thought about calling Trish just for a diversion, but she didn’t really feel like it—not even to laugh about the unfortunate outcome of the date with Avery. She would tell Trish the story soon, but right now she just wanted to be alone with her inadequacies. Maybe she had no self-discipline, she thought.
Maybe
, the wicked little self-confidence-destroying gnome who lived deep inside her suggested, she had no talent. Maybe, no matter what her problem, it was all going to come down to the same thing: She would be doomed to be Wilma’s slave forever.
She sighed again. This wasn’t working. She decided to give up, maybe go grocery shopping—woo, what an exciting way to spend a Sunday afternoon—and try again another day.
As she packed up her things, a pair of women thumped down in the leather chairs behind her.
“Okay, I’m totally out of my league,” one of the women grunted as she got settled. “I’m not afraid of much—except this kind of thing.”
“We’ll figure it out,” said the second woman.
“I don’t even know where to start.”
Emmie closed her paint color fan, flipped the cover of her sketch pad, and shut down her laptop, then leaned down and started dropping items into her bag one by one.
“That’s why we’re sitting here instead.”
Laughter. “Well, what in the world do you start with?”
“A cranberry orange muffin, in my opinion.”
“With the
room
, nitwit. Honestly. Why did I drag you along today, again?”
“Because I paid for the coffee and muffins?”
Emmie stood and put on her coat. The first woman said with heavy sigh, “Okay, we can at least decide where we’re going next—the paint store, the antique store, or the furniture store.”
“The paint store. No, the furniture—oh, hell, Walmart has all that stuff. And I need some laundry detergent and a bag of cat litter. Let’s just go there.”
“I told you, a place like that isn’t going to have what I’m looking for. I want something different, a little old fashioned . . . sort of . . . oh, I don’t know . . . maybe plaid . . . like that woman’s coat over there. Excuse me!”
It took Emmie several seconds before she realized that the woman was calling to her. She turned around before she gave the impression that she was rude or stupid. “Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you,” the woman said, “but—Emmie?” Emmie blinked. How did this woman know her? Then she realized, just as the woman pointed to herself and said, “Annette Polschuk! Class of ’95! Go Panthers!”
Emmie smiled and echoed, a little more sedately, “Go Panthers. Weren’t you at—”
“Juliet Winslow’s cookie party! That’s right. I can
not
tell you how happy I am to see you, darlin’.” Annette turned to her companion. “This is Emmie Brewster—we went to high school together. And she’s exactly who I needed to run into right now. She’s a fantastic interior designer!”
“Oh, I don’t know about that . . .” Emmie demurred.
But Annette plowed on. “If you have a minute, I want to pick your brain. You mind?”
“N-No, I don’t mind.”
“Well, then, pull up a chair, darlin’—and let’s see your coat.”
“Why—”
“I was admiring the plaid. Wait—let me start from the beginning. I’m redoing my son’s bedroom. I don’t want anything babyish, but I don’t want anything too popular, you know?”
“Yes, sure. How old is he?”
“He’s eleven. If I redo his room with, oh, I don’t know, some superhero character, then—bang—couple more years, he’s outgrown it. Plus we have an older home, and I was thinking something to fit the age of the house. Maybe something like the pattern of your coat for wallpaper.”
Emmie looked down at her navy wool car coat. It was nice, lightweight but warm, with wide lapels and a sash that cinched her waist. She loved it dearly, but she highly doubted the dark plaid would look good on an eleven-year-old’s bedroom walls.
“Well,” she started slowly, “sure. You could do that. But is the room small?”
“It’s a little small, yeah.”
“Okay. A dark pattern would make it seem more confined. It’s still a possibility, maybe just not floor to ceiling on all the walls. And, you know, you can still incorporate something that he does like—it doesn’t have to be a superhero character . . .”
“He likes airplanes,” the other woman offered. “Old ones. Warplanes, you know? From World War II and stuff. Oh—I’m Martie, his aunt, this one’s sister-in-law.” She jerked her thumb at Annette. Emmie was a little surprised; they looked more like sisters. They were heavyset, both wearing holiday-themed sweatshirts—Annette’s was bright red, with little ornaments dangling off a Christmas tree appliqué in the middle of her chest, and Martie’s was white, with a reindeer appliqué, red bulbs dangling from its antlers. Both women looked profoundly middle-aged, even though Annette, at least, was the same age as Emmie. But then, if she remembered correctly, Annette had looked middle-aged even as a teenager.
“That’s a great suggestion. And it probably could fit in with your decor. What kind of house is it?”
“What
kind
. . . ?” Annette looked puzzled.
“Yes. You said it was older—do you know the style?”
“Oh, hell no.”
Emmie smiled patiently. “When was it built?”
“Um, twenties? Thirties? Forties?”
“Never mind. What if you do a retro theme of old airplanes? I know a company that specializes in reproducing old wallpaper, and I’m almost positive they have an airplane pattern.”
Annette brightened. “Oh, I want to see that! Where is it? The paint store?”
“N-No, I’m afraid it’s mail-order only.” Then Emmie had an idea. “Annette, what are you doing tomorrow morning?”
Emmie had never gotten up so early for a day at her job in all her years with Wilma. She was ready and waiting for Annette and Martie in the office, coffee and a basket of warm pastries on the table, precisely at eight
A.M
.
When the women arrived, Emmie was friendly but all business and was able to present a few ideas she thought Annette might like. They lit up when she suggested a color scheme of blues and grays with bright green for an accent color, loved the idea of incorporating a dark blue plaid like Emmie’s coat as a duvet cover, and cackled delightedly when she suggested hanging model airplanes from the ceiling with plastic fishing line. The minute they saw the wallpaper Emmie had talked about yesterday, they happily agreed to the whole concept on the spot.
By the time Wilma entered the office an hour later, the women had drifted off the topic of remodeling and were chatting, Annette and Martie laughing loudly. When Emmie saw him frozen in the doorway, she stood up, drunk with success, and beckoned him over. “John! Good morning! Come meet some new clients.” Wilma edged over to the conference table, looking suspicious. Emmie said breezily, “This is Annette Polschuk and her sister-in-law, Martie. Annette wants to remodel her son’s room. I told her we’d be happy to help her out . . . What?”
Wilma was giving her the stink-eye, and for the life of her, Emmie couldn’t figure out why. She had gotten him a client without his having to lift a finger. What more could the man want? Wilma jerked his head toward the kitchenette and said, “Emmaline, may I have a word, please? Excuse us, ladies.” He smiled politely at the two women, who waved and helped themselves to more pastries.
Emmie followed a stiff-backed Wilma into the small room, her heart sinking. What the hell was his problem now?
“Emmaline,” he whispered, his lips tight, “what are you doing?”
“Getting you some new business,” she whispered back, annoyed.
“Did you say that . . . woman . . . wants to redo her son’s bedroom?”
“So?”
“That is
hardly
the type of project Wilman Designs is known for!”
“We’ve done kids’ bedrooms before . . .”
Wilma sniffed disdainfully and looked past Emmie at the two women in the outer office. “I suppose she wants
Star Wars
bedsheets and the
Enterprise
painted on his wall.”
“That’s
Star Trek
, John.”
“What?”
“
Star Wars
,
Star Trek
—two different things. The
Enterprise
isn’t
Star Wars
, it’s
Star Trek
—”
“That is not the point!” he snapped impatiently. “Just . . . tell them we can’t do the job.”
“What?”
she spluttered.
“Get rid of them. Now.” He looked past her again, and Emmie followed his gaze.
And then she realized. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“You would throw these women out just because they’re wearing sweatpants? Because you can’t pick up the scent of money oozing out of their pores? Because you think they’re not
good enough
for you? Is
that
what this is all about?”