Nine

Megan

“I need you to do an install over at Mrs. Fowler’s today.” Vera Craig shoved a design notebook toward Megan on Monday morning with an exasperated expression.

“By myself?” Megan set aside the notebook to hang up her coat. So far neither of her bosses at the design firm had expected Megan to do a complete installation by herself. She had helped them numerous times, and she’d been their gofer dozens of times, but to do a complete installation on her own … “Are you sure?” she asked Vera.

“Is that a problem?” demanded Vera.

“No. I mean I don’t think so. But I’ve never done an install by myself. Usually we go—”

“Look, Megan, it’s time to be a big girl, okay?” Vera was obviously in one of her moods. “Sometimes we do installations together, sometimes we don’t. If it’s a problem for you, we can always look for another line of—”

“No,” said Megan quickly. “It’s fine. I just wasn’t sure I understood.”

“Good.” Vera tapped a blood-red nail on the thick design folder. “Here’s the plan. It’s all in there. Most of the accessories are in the van, but there’s a box by the back door that just came yesterday. You’re only doing one room, a parlor of sorts, and the larger pieces of furniture should be arriving at the house around two, I believe. The movers will help you get them into place.”

Megan nodded. She really wanted to ask why Vera wasn’t coming along, but she also knew that questions would probably get her lambasted. So she kept her mouth shut.

“I’ll have my cell phone if you need to reach me.” Vera grabbed her coat and bag, then hurried out of the design shop.

Ellen chuckled from where she was sitting at the receptionist desk. Megan hadn’t even noticed her come in, but she suspected that Ellen had been lying low and listening to Vera’s spiel. “Good luck,” she said.

“Good luck?” Megan went over to Ellen’s desk.

“Yeah. Mrs. Fowler is, uh, well, different.”

“What kind of different?”

“She’s old for one thing.”

Megan shrugged. “So?”

“And I guess you’d call her eccentric.”

“Is that why Vera isn’t doing this herself?” asked Megan.

Ellen pressed her lips together, and when the phone rang, she eagerly reached for it. Megan suspected that was all the information she was going to get from the receptionist. She wished that Cynthia were in so she could ask for some advice.

Well, maybe this would be an adventure. She loaded the large box into the already full van. Even if Mrs. Fowler was old and eccentric, why should that be a problem? If anything, it would probably be interesting.

Mrs. Fowler’s house, a Queen Anne–style Victorian, was in the historic section of town. When Megan drove through the narrow alley, hoping to park in the back, she discovered that the only available spot was filled with a large black Lincoln. So she went back around and parked in the front. The steps up to the front door were narrow and steep, and Megan knew this would pose a problem for all the things she needed to carry into the house. She rang the doorbell and waited. And waited and waited.

So she knocked loudly on the door. After a few more minutes went by, she rang the doorbell again, several times.

“Good grief!” screeched a tiny, wrinkled woman as she jerked open the heavy front door. She wore a blue bathrobe, and her white hair was sticking out in every direction in a slightly frightening way. Glaring at Megan, she asked, “What do you think you’re doing, making enough racket to raise the dead like that?”

“I’m sorry, but I—”

“Who in the world are you, and why are you waking me up at this hour of the morning?”

“I’m terribly sorry to wake you up, Mrs. Fowler. I’m Megan Abernathy and I’m from—”

“I don’t know any Abernathys.” She was starting to close the door now.

“Wait,” said Megan, actually putting her foot in the door. “I’m from Sawyer & Craig.”

“I don’t know any Sawyer Craig and I want you to leave at—”

“The interior-design firm,” insisted Megan. “Vera Craig is—”

“Vera, you say?” The woman opened the door just a bit more, looking at Megan curiously.

“Yes. Vera Craig sent me. I’m an assistant at the design firm and Vera asked me to come here and put your—”

“Where is Vera?”

“I, uh, she couldn’t be here and she asked—”

“But Vera is supposed to finish my parlor for me,” said the old woman with uncertainty. “All the old furnishings are gone now.”

“Yes,” agreed Megan. “I have all the things that Vera ordered for you, and more furniture will be coming this afternoon. I’m here to put your parlor back together.”

Mrs. Fowler frowned. “But how will you know what to do?”

Megan smiled, hoping to exude confidence. “Because I have the design plan. Vera wrote it all out, and by the end of the day, I should have everything in place for you.”

“You’re sure?”

Megan nodded. “Yes. But it would be helpful if I could park my van in back of the house so that—”

“That’s impossible.”

“But why?”

“My car is back there.”

“I could move your car for you.”

“No.” She firmly shook her head. “No one is allowed to drive that car except me. And I do not drive.”

“But how am I—”

“Don’t be bothering me with your foolish nonsense, young lady, you are most certainly not going to drive my car. Of all things!”

Megan sighed. “Okay. Then I’ll need to bring everything through the front door. Can you leave it unlocked for me?”

“Unlocked?”

“Yes. So that I can bring in the boxes and things.”

Mrs. Fowler’s hand was on her chest as if she was truly shocked. “I cannot leave my front door unlocked. Someone from the street might walk in and murder me.”

“But—”

“Most certainly not.”

“Then do you want me to knock every time I bring a load of things up? Or shall I simply ring the doorbell?” Megan knew impatience was creeping into her voice, but she didn’t really care. No wonder Vera had passed this cantankerous client off onto her!

“I most certainly do not want you banging on my door or ringing my doorbell.”

“Then I guess your parlor will have to remain like it is,” said Megan.

“Do you have any identification?”

“Identification?”

“Yes. To prove that you are really who you say you are.”

Megan held up the folder with Mrs. Fowler’s name on it. “Look, this is Vera’s plan for your parlor, would you like to see it?”

Mrs. Fowler squinted as Megan flipped through the pages of drawings and photocopies of various furnishings. “I suppose that looks right,” she finally said. “Come inside and I will give you a key.”

“A key?”

“So you can let yourself in and out. But you must give it back to me.”

“Of course.”

Mrs. Fowler opened the door wider now. “Come in. Wipe your feet first.”

Megan wiped her feet, which were not dirty, then followed the little woman inside. The house seemed to have all its original woodwork and floors intact. In fact, Megan suspected that little had changed in this house over the years. The worn oriental carpets looked old. The heavy, carved wooden furnishings looked old. In fact, Megan was curious why Mrs. Fowler wanted to change anything.

“Here is the key,” said Mrs. Fowler. “Don’t lose it.”

“No, of course not.”

“The parlor is in there,” said Mrs. Fowler, pointing to a set of French doors off to the right.

“Thank you.”

“Do not break anything,” warned Mrs. Fowler as she paused to look in a large, smoky mirror that hung above a marble-topped table.

“I’ll be very careful.”

Mrs. Fowler frowned at her reflection, attempting to smooth down her wild hair. “Now, if you will excuse me, I will return to my morning routine. And I do not wish to be disturbed.”

“I’ll be as quiet as possible,” promised Megan. The truth was, she hoped Mrs. Fowler would not disturb her. The sooner she could finish this installment, the happier they both would be. Still, Megan wanted to throttle Vera!

After several trips from the van to the house, Megan wished she’d worn more comfortable shoes. High heels and steep steps were a painful combination, to say the least. She had decided to use the hallway outside the parlor as the staging area. But as she was opening a carton, she heard Mrs. Fowler cry out. “What is all this?”

Megan went out to the hallway to see Mrs. Fowler neatly dressed in a pale pink pantsuit, and her hair was somewhat in place, but her hands covered her mouth as if she’d just walked in on a crime in progress.

“I need to stage—”

“Get this garbage out of my hall at once!”

“It’ll all be gone by the end of the day.”

“At once!”

“But I need to—”

“If it is not removed, I will be forced to call the police,” cried Mrs. Fowler.

Megan walked over to stand by her. “You don’t understand. I can’t put all these boxes in the parlor and have enough room to work in there.”

“I understand that you have created a big mess.”

Megan wanted to scream. Instead, she remembered last year, when she did her student teaching in a first-grade classroom. Perhaps some of those skills would come in handy now. “Do you ever cook, Mrs. Fowler?”

“Cook?”

“Yes. Do you bake cakes or pies or—”

“I’m an excellent baker.”

“Okay.” Megan took in a deep breath. “When you’re getting ready to bake a cake, you have to get out all the ingredients, like the flour and sugar and butter and eggs and—”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“Well, it sort of makes a mess, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose.”

“And that’s like what I’m doing now. I need to make a little bit of a mess, but when I’m finished, it’ll all be cleaned up and gone.”

“You’re certain of this?”

“Yes, of course.”

She sighed loudly. “Well, then …”

“Perhaps if you stayed in another part of the house,” suggested Megan.

“Perhaps.” But something about the old woman’s expression hinted that this was not going to be the case.

“If you’ll excuse me,” said Megan, “I need to get back to work.” Megan went back into the parlor, where she’d been trying to get everything arranged for hanging the green velvet drapes. Fortunately, Vera had opted to use the original hardware, so that all Megan had to do was get them hung and then steamed. Of course, this was easier said than done. Fortunately the van, as usual, was equipped with a stepladder and steamer, as well as other tools of the trade. Still, Megan wished she could’ve had the help of Henry, the handyman often hired for larger jobs. Not that this was a large job. But doing it alone was a challenge.

It was nearly noon by the time Megan had the heavy drapes in place and steamed, and her arms were aching. She stepped back to admire her work. Not bad.

“What on earth!”

Megan turned to see Mrs. Fowler standing in the doorway and frowning up at the drapes.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” asked Megan, although she could tell by the old woman’s expression that this was not her sentiment.

“They are green!”

Megan nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“They are not supposed to be green.”

“What?”

“They are supposed to be red.”

“Red?”

“Yes!”

Megan went to look in the file, searching until she found the color sketch, which clearly depicted the drapes as green. “See?” she showed it to Mrs. Fowler.

“See what?”

“Vera’s sketch. The drapes are green.”

“I do not care about this silly drawing. The parlor drapes are meant to be red.”

Megan didn’t know what to say. And so she decided it was high time to call Vera. Let her come over and sort this out. But, naturally, Vera was not answering her phone. Megan tried Cynthia’s cell phone, and to her relief, Cynthia answered.

“Sorry to bother you,” said Megan quickly. Then she explained, with Mrs. Fowler listening, about the problem.

“Oh, dear,” said Cynthia.

“What?”

“Oh, I can’t believe that Vera sent you there by yourself.”

“You’re telling me.”

“And I really can’t help you. I’m at Serenity Spa, not getting a treatment, but I’m about to make a big presentation for redecorating the whole place.”

“What should I do?”

“Please, Megan, do what you can to handle it.”

“Right.” Megan closed her phone and looked at Mrs. Fowler and forced a smile. “I can see that you’re frustrated,” she said. “So, you don’t like the color green?”

Mrs. Fowler seemed to consider this. “No, I like green.”

“But you don’t like green drapes?”

She frowned slightly. “No, I do like green drapes.”

Okay, Megan became even more confused. “Do you mind if I ask you something, Mrs. Fowler?”

“What?”

“Well, I’ve noticed that your home is lovely. Really, really beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“And everything in it almost looks original to the house. It’s like a wonderful piece of history.”

Mrs. Fowler smiled proudly. “It is, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It’s amazing. All your beautiful antique pieces and amazing rugs and lamps—it’s really incredible.”

“The house has been in my family since it was built in 1894. My parents gave it to my husband and me for a wedding present back in 1938.”

“So I’m curious as to why you decided to redecorate your parlor. It must’ve been very nice before.”

Mrs. Fowler frowned now. “Yes, it was lovely.”

“But you wanted to change it?”

“My husband died in this room.”

Megan nodded. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Yes. I am too. Harold was a dear man. He died in here about a year ago, shortly before Christmas. And I couldn’t come in here after that.”

“I understand.”

“But this is where our family always celebrated Christmas.” She pointed to one of the big bay windows. “The tree always went right there.”

“I see. And what color were the drapes before?”

“Red.”

Megan considered this. “But if you want the room to be different, why would you want the drapes to be red again?”

Mrs. Fowler began to cry. Megan stepped closer to her and put an arm around her frail shoulders. “I want it to be the same,” she sobbed, “the same as before …”

“You mean when your husband was alive?”

“Yes.”

Megan didn’t know what to say. And so she just stood with Mrs. Fowler as she cried. And finally, Mrs. Fowler stepped back, removed a lace-trimmed handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her nose and eyes, then looked back at the drapes. “I suppose green will be fine.”

The rest of the day wasn’t without its complications, but Megan and Mrs. Fowler seemed to have made it past a crossroads of sorts. And each time Mrs. Fowler came into the parlor suggesting a lamp be changed to a different spot or the rug repositioned, Megan did not argue. After all, it was the old woman’s house. Finally, just past five, all the furnishings were in place, all the boxes had been hauled away by the movers, and it seemed Mrs. Fowler was happy. Or as happy as she was going to be.

“And do you have plans for Christmas?” asked Megan as she handed Mrs. Fowler the house key. “I mean now that your parlor is back together?”

Mrs. Fowler shook her head. “No, my children live too far away. Most of my friends are in nursing homes or dead. I will probably be alone this year.”

“My roommates and I are having a Christmas party,” said Megan. Okay, it was a crazy idea. “Would you like me to send you an invitation?”

Mrs. Fowler looked surprised, but then she smiled. “Why, yes, dear. That would be very nice.”

“Great,” said Megan. “And I already have your address.”

“Thank you for helping with my parlor,” said Mrs. Fowler as she slowly walked Megan to the front door. “I know I’m not a very pleasant person anymore, but I wasn’t always this way. It’s not easy being old and alone.”

Megan reached out and took one of Mrs. Fowler’s small, wrinkled hands. “You know, it’s not easy being young and alone either.” She told Mrs. Fowler about how her father died last summer, and how she was still getting over it.

“You are a dear child,” said Mrs. Fowler as Megan was finally saying good-bye. “I hope you will come visit me again.”

“I will,” promised Megan.

“Maybe I’ll redecorate my bedroom.”

Megan nodded and waved, but she really hoped that Mrs. Fowler wasn’t serious about any more decorating projects.