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My permits came in today. A week earlier than the city said they’d be ready, which never, ever happens. This has to be a sign of how this project will go.
I do a little happy dance in my bathroom as I get dressed, and that’s as far as celebrating will go until tonight, because today is a big day for another reason—I’m going to meet a new client.
Mrs. Morrow needs help decorating her new-construction custom home. There was something about her disliking the designer who did all the structural aspects, which means she already has an issue with designers. She wants a fresh set of eyes on the finishing touches and she chose me after interviewing twelve different designers. I appreciate what that means, too, but I’m still thrilled she hired me. I’ve worked with hard clients before and understand how to massage their egos enough to get them to bend to my vision and make it seem like it was theirs all along.
I give my long hair one last fluff and apply a coat of bright pink lip gloss. I spin around to look in the full-length mirror swinging on the bathroom door. Like my design choices, I pay close attention to what I wear for my clients. With this one being as picky as she is, I must ensure my choice is spot-on.
Today, I look sharp in my light grey, tapered pantsuit with a minimalist, three-quarter length sleeve jacket over a white blouse. There are no buttons on the jacket so it parts slightly in the middle, but it’s fitted so it won’t drag against dusty surfaces. Beaded hoop earrings and a necklace that sits right below my collarbone are the details that finish the outfit. I slip on my ballet flats—nice shoes but still suitable for a construction site—and throw my reflection an air kiss, telling myself I’m going to kill it today, then head downstairs ready to show that confidence to the world.
I pull my SUV to the curb in front of the house. From the outside, it’s stunning. Windows are always the first thing I acknowledge as sunlight is so important for design and for living. Generous, vertical rectangular windows with thick horizontal dividers compliment the overall square shape of the structure. I can tell the main floor boasts ten-foot ceilings from the sheer size of the windows.
Peering in as I walk the pathway of large concrete slabs placed in an offset geometric pattern, I notice two separate rooms on the left and right sides of the house. I assume one will become an office and the other a formal dining room or living room. There’s space for a couple of small chairs and a table outside the front door, which sits underneath a much larger balcony that, presumably, comes off the primary suite.
I step up to the all-glass door, which matches the windows, and knock gently since a silhouette is visible inside. My client waves as she approaches the door and opens it with an excited smile. I file away a mental snapshot of her face. Clients always start out thrilled then lose their enthusiasm as the process goes on. Sometimes I need to return to this initial moment to remind myself how she will look when it’s complete.
I extend my hand and she uses it to pull me inside.
“Ms. Holt, welcome to our new home.”
“Mrs. Morrow, it’s nice to see you again. Thank you for trusting me to bring the vision of your dream home to life.” She drops my hand and ushers me down the wide hallway into the central living space.
Standing next to an eight-foot Caesarstone kitchen island is a man about my age and twice my width. Kelsey would go mad over his bodybuilder’s frame of broad shoulders and tight waist. I’ll be sure to grab his card before he leaves. For as long as Gran played matchmaker with me, I’ve done the same for Kelse.
We reach out to clasp hands.
“Ms. Holt,” Mrs. Morrow starts.
I interrupt her with a smile in her direction. “Please, call me Izzy.” The man’s hand tightens around mine and gives an extra sharp squeeze, causing me to flinch and return my look to him. I stop short of verbalising my displeasure when Mrs. Morrow introduces him to me.
“Izzy, this is Scott Preston—”
“Of Black Ladder Developments.” I squeeze his hand back, registering the reason behind his sudden death grip. Owen has obviously mentioned my name to his partner in crime.
How did I miss the Black Ladder sign out front?
Mrs. Morrow claps her hands, highlighting her pleasure. “Oh, wonderful, you two know each other.”
At the same time, we both say, “No,” although he says it with a teasing tone while I bark out the single syllable.
I follow that with, “I’ve heard a lot about Black Ladder.”
“Well, I have nothing but good things to say about the company. Except for that designer of theirs. I don’t understand what he was doing on the Black Ladder team.”
Given their business standards, I don’t have a hard time guessing.
His missteps may have got me this job, but it never pleases me to hear that someone has had a bad design experience. Clients build walls and it hardens them to new ideas, no matter how perfect they are.
“Maybe Black Ladder will hire you as their in-house designer. I’ll be sure to put in a kind word if I’m satisfied.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Morrow. I hope you will be satisfied too.” Even if I were living hand-to-mouth, I wouldn’t stoop so low as to work exclusively with this bunch of tormentors. “Why don’t we begin with a tour?”
We walk through the kitchen towards the back of the house. “Scott, will you join us?”
“No thank you, Mrs. Morrow. I have a call to make.” Yeah, I bet you do. Call my friendly neighbour and tell him his life is about to get a whole lot worse. “Izzy.” He nods goodbye.
“Scott.” I respond with cool indifference. Our two subtle gestures are missed by our mutual client as she finds a spot on the wall to rub clean.
The construction is much further along than Mrs. Morrow let on during our phone calls. Now that I see the house, I get the impression she’s the type of person who’s never one hundred per cent satisfied with anything. In her mind, the place isn’t close to move-in ready. In reality, she should have ordered light fixtures and furniture three months ago.
We spend a couple hours together and I leave her after organising several shopping dates where we will go to lighting, hardware, and furniture stores. Her husband wants nothing to do with this part of the project, so I have one person to please, making my job easier. It would be close to the ideal job if Black Ladder wasn’t involved.
***
THE ASBESTOS GUYS ARE coming next week to test Gran’s house.
My house.
I have a memory of Gran doing some interior work when I was young, but I have no idea if the toxic insulation was taken out then. Judging from the colour of the linoleum and its implied vintage, I’m guessing the place is packed full of the cancer-causing crap. I want to do the demolition myself—for fun and for budgetary reasons—but if the walls are full of asbestos and it has to be abated, I won’t be able to do that.
“Does that mean you’ll be moving into my place right away?” Kelsey asks after we clink glasses in cheers. It’s Saturday night and we’re checking out the Headless Horseman pub a few blocks from the house. I nod in response. “You sure you don’t want to camp in your backyard for a couple weeks? You know, to keep an eye on things next-door.”
“I would, except I have a couple very busy weeks with Mrs. Morrow, which means I can’t shower from the garden hose.”
Kelsey squints at me, wondering if it’s something I would really consider. We both love the outdoors, if in two vastly different ways. Kelsey is a fitness fiend and will run, bike, or hike any trail out there. I take it to a level that she can’t handle, even if I am joking about showering from the hose. She’s good with a weekend in a tent, but beyond the forty-eight-hour mark, she gets crabby with the warmish showers and public outhouses.
“If you get to do the work on your own, can I swing the sledgehammer with you?”
“If I say yes, will you want my Evolve Award when the job is done?”
“Probably.” She winks at me.
While Kelsey is giving me the rundown of her week at work as a physiotherapist and the crazy ways people have injured themselves, the door to the pub swings open. A group of four men, two-by-two, parade in. They seem to be known in here and a few tables of people, including all the female servers, wave at them. One practically swoons. I roll my eyes in revulsion at the obvious show the two men in front put on, but Kelsey is too busy gawking like everyone else to catch my reaction.
While her tongue drags on the tabletop, she also fails to see my shock when I notice Owen is part of the posse. An unwanted quiver tugs in my gut as I watch him acknowledge people in his own silent way. I tell the butterflies in my stomach to knock it off, but like Kelsey’s eyelashes, they don’t stop fluttering.
That’s fine. Assholes can be good looking. Especially when they wear muscle-hugging shirts and polished black work boots that have clearly never seen a day of work. I’m not too proud to admit that he’s physically attractive. I am, however, smart enough to know that a strong jaw and broad shoulders aren’t enough to be the complete package.
I don’t recognise the two men who lead the way to the rear of the pub, with Owen and Scott following closely behind. One is slightly slimmer than the others and looks less like a guy who carries a wrench and more like the guy who pays for the work to be done. He’s wearing tailored, mid-wash designer jeans and a nautical t-shirt that probably costs as much as my kitchen sink will. A grotesquely large watch adorns one wrist, while a simple leather bracelet with a single silver bead graces the other. If I were to stereotype him, I’d say he’s a salesman, albeit for luxury items. I’ve never seen a guy so well-dressed before, and it’s not only compared to his monochromatic friend.
The other guy is the middle ground of the bunch. Muscular but not huge, well-dressed but not in top-end labels. He wears dark, fitted jeans and a light denim button-down shirt rolled to the elbows. He looks like the type who keeps everyone together; the one who maintains the peace by staying neutral.
The foursome has a spot picked out in the pub and makes their way there with purpose. I kick Kelsey’s shin under the table and she yelps. I didn’t mean to kick her so hard—it was literally a knee-jerk reaction. I get her attention, as well as that of the people I was hoping to avoid. All eight eyes square on us.
“Oh, shit,” Kelsey says in a low whisper when understanding sets in. I meet her declaration with a low growl, then order her out of her seat so that I can sit with my back to them.
“Owen hangs out with some good-looking guys, Iz. Are you sure you don’t want to be friends?”
“Kelse!” I slam my palms on the table.
She watches them over my shoulder and licks her lips.
“Don’t even think about it. They are off-limits.” I punch her arm to show her how serious I am. She doesn’t flinch, but she does shoot me pleading eyes. To avoid misunderstanding, I spell it out for her: “O-F-F-L-I-M-I-T-S.”
She shrugs and begrudgingly turns her focus away from them. “Owen is off-limits. There are three other guys there who haven’t harassed a single member of our family yet.” She mentions them all but only looks at Scott, showing her attraction like I knew she would. “Look at all those muscles. I wonder how much he can bench press.”
“She was your grandmother too,” I remind her. “How can you look at them without contempt?”
“Easy.” Her shoulders lift and drop in a quick second. “I’m less emotional than you.”
I prefer rational with a bent for sentimentality.
She reads my displeased expression. “It’s not a slight against you. It rounds you out and softens you a little.”
Softens me—like I’m hard and bitchy? After a mocking laugh, she qualifies her comment.
“Izzy,” she says pointedly, “you can swing a hammer with better precision than any woman I know. If I were to get lost in the woods, you’re the only person I’d want to be lost with because I wouldn’t starve or freeze to death. But you’re emotional. You cry at the opera even though you don’t understand a word that’s being sung, you drag me to the zoo every time a baby is born, and you hold a grudge like nobody’s business. You. Are. Emotional.” She stands and places a peck on my cheek. “And I love you for it.”
“Where are you going?” I jump off my stool.
She moves behind me, backing away from our hightop table.
“To the washroom.”
“You’re lying.” I point a finger at her.
She looks down her nose at me. “Add astute to your list of qualities, cousin. You’re right, I’m going to make this better for you.”
“You’re going to ruin our night.”
A devious smile plays on her lips. “Define ruin.”