EIGHT

CLAIRE

The painters’ van is blocking the street in front of Jesse’s when I arrive with coffee. Even after an early morning rain shower, the air is thick with humidity, and, as I cross the lawn, my heels sinking into the grass with every step, I can’t imagine one hundred and fifty guests traipsing through this yard. Should we experience an all too common afternoon thunderstorm the day of the wedding, we might as well kiss the front porch and foyer goodbye. I may have to suggest putting in some pavers.

The front door is ajar, so I let myself inside. Cloth and plastic cover the floors and furniture, and the air is heavy with the smell of paint, though windows are open and portable fans are whirling. A team is at work in the front living area, the room completely primed and more than half painted.

“Knock, knock!” I call.

Jesse enters the foyer from the kitchen, cell phone to his ear. He lifts a finger to tell me “just a minute.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “But it’s not ready. I mean, I’ve got painters camped out in my living room.”

While he pauses, listening to whoever is on the other end of that call, I hand him his cup of coffee. He takes it and mouths a “thank you.”

“I just wish they could wait another couple of days. It’s technically not even on the market, yet,” he continues.

I head into the living area to give him some privacy. The light gray color already brightens the room. I make a quick pass around the perimeter, dodging ladders and buckets of paint. “Is this Site Wite?” I ask one of the workers.

“Site Wite. Yes,” he replies.

Another group is working in the formal dining room. They’re priming the walls, prepping for the first coat. Jesse meets me by the stairs in the foyer.

“Hey. I wasn’t expecting to see you this morning,” he says.

“I was on my way to the jewelry store to pick up some monogrammed bracelets for a rehearsal dinner this Friday and thought I’d pop in to see how everything is going.”

“It’s going,” he says, looking around. “I’ll probably have to sleep with the windows open tonight, but I like the color.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “Site Wite was a good choice.”

“Thank you for this, by the way,” he says, lifting the coffee. “It’s like you were reading my mind or something.”

“Everything okay?” I ask, remembering his phone call—his tone—how hesitant he seemed.

“Cathy has a couple who wants to preview the house. The fact that it’s full of painters didn’t seem to sway them.”

“Wow. When are they coming?” I ask.

Jesse checks the time on his phone. “Thirty minutes. They’re only in town today, apparently. The guy is relocating for work and they’re in a hurry to buy.”

“So the price tag didn’t sway them, either,” I point out.

“Cathy said they’re vetted.”

“It could be good,” I offer. “Maybe they’ll love it and you won’t even have to worry about the house being on the market.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Maybe.”

He doesn’t seem convinced, and as his eyes dull around the edges I wonder if this is about more than painters and an unexpected showing—if maybe he’s having mixed feelings about selling the house. Second thoughts. That the more he gets the house ready to sell, the less ready he feels to let it go.

“We should have painted this place sooner,” he continues, watching the men work.

“It’s going to look like a completely different house by the time everything is done,” I say. And then, after a few quiet moments: “I know we talked about it, but thank you again for being so great about this whole renovation slash reception thing.”

“It’s all good,” he replies. “This place has sat empty for so long. It’ll be a nice send-off. Facelift. Big party.”

I use the segue to my advantage, to ask how he really feels about selling his family home. “Are you okay with that, though? The send-off?”

He considers this for a beat or two. “I have to be. I can’t afford to keep this place running while I’m in Haleford.”

“It’s paid for, though. Right?”

“Yeah.”

“So, call me crazy, but what if you rented it out for a year or two?”

He groans. “The mental burden. I’m not sure I can handle renters.”

“Then let a property management company deal with it. They’ll take a small percentage to cover their fees, but the market value on this place is more than enough to cover expenses and put money in your pocket, especially since the renters would take care of the bills associated with it. Plus the management company would handle any issues.”

“I’m trying to be realistic.”

I stifle a laugh. “You always were the more sensible brother.”

A hint of a smile plays at his lips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, Jesse, if you’re having second thoughts about selling this place, there are other options.”

“Selling is the easiest thing, to do,” he says.

“But is it the best thing?” I counter.

“Look at you. Coming in here and taking over my house. Redecorating and telling me what to do,” he teases.

“What’s right isn’t always what’s easy. Sometimes the hardest thing and the right thing are the same thing,” I say.

“That is way too philosophical for me this early in the morning,” he mutters, taking a sip of his coffee.

“You’re avoiding the topic,” I point out. “And you’re using humor and flirtation to deflect.”

“I’m not flirting,” he says. “Am I flirting?”

“You’re definitely deflecting,” I say. “ Look, I just want you to be happy. Whatever you decide.”

An eyebrow lifts. “Really?”

“Yes. No regrets.”

“No regrets,” he repeats, tapping his coffee cup against mine.

* * *

“I’m back!”

I step into my office, turn on the light, and immediately head for the cardigan draped across my desk chair, since Lynette keeps the office at least five degrees cooler than it needs to be.

“Updates?” she calls.

I place the bag from the jewelers into the bottom drawer of my desk and shut and lock it, then step across the hall to Lynette’s office, slipping my arms into the sleeves of my cardigan as I go. “I picked up the bracelets from Linds and Sparrow for the Pratt wedding.”

“Did you—”

“Verify?” I finish. “Triple checked. Each bracelet was accounted for, the monograms were correct, and I have a copy of the invoice stating they are paid in full. They go with you to the rehearsal dinner on Friday night.”

“What about wrapping?”

“Angela did it while I was waiting.”

“Perfect. What else?” she asks.

“I’ve touched base with the caterer and florist. Everything is a go. The cake will be delivered to the reception site no later than two o’clock on Saturday. Miles said he would provide the server—someone to cut and distribute. Apparently, it’s going to be very delicate and he trusts no one. I’m waiting to hear back from Ella about an alteration for Genevieve Naruka. I got a phone call from her mother saying she fainted while getting her bridal portraits made. She kept complaining about the waist being too tight. They could barely get her zipped. One second she was up, and the next she was down.”

“Great. They’re going to love telling that story at every event between now and their first anniversary,” Lynette says.

“They can’t. If the paternal grandmother finds out she’ll consider it a ‘bad omen’ and refuse to attend the wedding. We were instructed not to breathe a word about this to anyone. Anyway, I told Ella if she couldn’t fit the adjustment into her schedule I’d call Hans.”

“There is no way Ella is going to let Hans near one of her dresses.”

“Exactly,” I reply. “Ritchie said he can do the Town Cars for the Porter wedding. He’s emailing the contracts this afternoon. And I stopped by Jesse’s this morning. The painters were there. The light gray is going to look absolutely fantastic. The space already feels twice as big.”

“I love it,” Lynette says.

“So does he. In fact, it was almost like he was having second thoughts about putting it on the market.”

“Yeah, so what’s the scoop on that?” she asks. “He just graduated college, right? So how is he the sole owner of a million-dollar home in the Hamilton historic district?”

“It’s his family home. I don’t know how far back, but his grandfather owned it, then it went to his dad, and, when his dad died a couple of years ago, it was left to him. So it’s kind of a sentimental thing, but he doesn’t think he can handle the upkeep. Not when he’ll be working more than four hours away.”

“Sentimental or not, he should cash in before the market tanks again.”

I manufacture a polite smile. Lynette eats, sleeps, and breathes an industry where money is no object. People come to her solely because they know she can give them the wedding of their dreams. They show up with plans, ideas, and a preliminary budget, and she makes it happen. A minimum spending requirement is stipulated in the contract. If the bride and groom can’t meet it, Lynette won’t plan it. So I don’t exactly take offense when Lynette says he should sell. It’s hard to explain that some things aren’t about the money.

“I don’t know. Jesse’s not like that. I feel like if he could find a way to hang on to it, he would.”

“You said you knew him in high school?” she asks.

“Since junior high, actually. He was my first friend when my family moved here. We spent a lot of time hanging out that summer. We kind of drifted in and out of proximity, but junior year I started dating his brother. Sean.”

A look of recognition crosses her face. “Oh. So Sean was Jesse’s brother,” she says. “That makes sense.”

“What makes sense?” I ask.

“I mean, this has to be tough for him. And you.”

I can’t hide my smile. “That’s not what you meant.”

In addition to believing that money can, in fact, buy happiness (if not the perfect wedding), Lynette isn’t afraid of anyone or anything. She will fight to get her clients exactly what they need, which is why people in the industry respect her. She has an opinion about everything, and she isn’t afraid to express it.

“No. I don’t want to get into anyone’s business.”

“But?”

“But. . . .” She hesitates. “I happened to notice he was a very attractive young man, and I thought I might have sensed some chemistry between the two of you. You, at least, have been unnecessarily nervous around him since day one.”

I can’t help it. This time, I do laugh. “Lynette, no.”

“No, you’re not nervous around him? Or no, he’s not attractive and there is no chemistry?”

“No to all of the above. I’m not nervous. It’s just a really complicated situation that we’re working through. And there is no . . . chemistry. We’re friends. He’s Sean’s brother. Nolan’s uncle. My mother hates his family. . . .” I trail off, going through the litany of reasons why I could never consider Jesse as anything more than a friend.

“But you think he’s hot.”

My cheeks burn. “He’s . . . Jesse.”

“He’s a pretty hot Jesse,” Lynette says, “in the kindest and most unassuming way, and that, my friend, is always the sexiest.”

“He is not my type,” I insist.

“Why not? Is he gay?”

Another laugh. “No. He’s not.”

“So why are you laughing? Why isn’t this—you and him—within the realm of possibility?”

“You know, I think you’ve pointed out every single, marginally attractive male we’ve encountered in the last six months who was not resting on the arm of a fiancée,” I say, changing the subject.

“I’m just looking out for my best assistant’s best interests.”

“I’m your only assistant,” I remind her, “and I’m going back to my office now. Consider yourself updated.”

She ignores this. “You are young and free and should be dating!” she calls after me.

I poke my head back in her office. “Yeah, except most of my Friday nights and Saturdays are spent wrangling flower girls and ring bearers and monitoring alcohol consumption so that persons whose faculties are in question are not handed a microphone during toasts.”

“You are so good at that,” she muses. “And I still tell that story to anyone who’ll listen.”

“The Hernandez wedding.”

“Crazy ex was right, though,” Lynette says. “He wasn’t over her. They separated before the first year was up.”

“You don’t know that was the reason,” I say.

“No. But I know cold feet when I see it, and that guy was not interested in long-term commitment.”

My cell phone rings.

“Twenty bucks says that’s Ella telling you don’t let Hans touch her dress,” she says.

I check the screen. “I am not taking that bet.”

I answer the call and head to my office, shutting the door behind me.

* * *

I’m sending out an email blast to several of our favorite venues asking for updated event calendars when my cell phone dings. It’s a text message with a photo of Jesse’s dining room attached.

Looks great! I reply. I set the phone aside and finish my email. When it’s sent I check my phone again. No new texts. So I pick it up and ask:

How did the showing go?

Within a few seconds, I can see that he’s typing.

Fine. They loved the space but the kitchen isn’t up to her entertaining standards. She wants to gut it.

So they’re serious? I ask.

Seriously considering. Realtor and photographer are coming Thurs. Any conflicts?

I check my calendar and notebook. No renovations or meetings are scheduled with the Porters or Deb. Nope. You’re good.

Next time you get a break stop by. Pictures don’t do it justice.

It was a great color, and they were moving so quickly. I would actually love to see the finished product. I check my personal calendar. You free tonight?

I wait, watching while he types. It’s taking so long I think he must be saying no, typing an excuse, and I’m close to writing back that I can do another day if it’s too last-minute, but then the message dings.

Yes.

Yes.

That might have taken too long to say.

I have to get Nolan from karate at six, then we can stop by. Are you sure it’s okay?

It’s perfect.

Perfect.

Okay. See you then.

I set my phone down, biting back a smile.

* * *

End of the workday traffic is more congested than usual. There’s a concert at the amphitheater and delays coming into the city. It’s six-forty before I pull to the curb at Jesse’s.

“Nolan, I asked you to keep your shoes on,” I say, grabbing them from the floorboard and slipping them back on his feet.

“Where are we?” he asks as I unbuckle him from his car seat.

“This is Jesse’s house. I told you we were going to stop by to say hi for a minute.”

I set him down on the street and close and lock the doors.

“It’s a giant house.”

“It is a giant house,” I agree. “Do you want to look inside?” He nods and takes my hand and we cross the street together. Jesse is already at the door, waiting for us.

“Hey, Nolan! Nice karategi,” he says.

Nolan looks at me, confused. “He likes your karate uniform,” I explain. “What do you say?”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. What did you learn today?”

Nolan lets go of my hand, spreads his legs on the porch, and gives a couple of one-two punches and a block.

“Excellent. Come on in. How was the rest of your day?” he asks me as we step inside. The house still smells of paint. The windows are still open and the painters left the fans to circulate the air.

“Mostly uneventful, thank goodness,” I reply, and I can’t help but think how nice it is to have someone ask—someone other than my parents or coworkers or the vendors I come into contact with. Someone who actually asks and means it and cares to know the answer, good or bad. “What about yours?”

“I made some headway in the attic.”

“How bad is it?”

“Not too bad,” he says. “It’s hot, and there are a lot of decorations, but most of the stuff is old and falling apart. I’m saving a few things, but it looks like almost everything will either be donated or trashed.”

“What about the furniture?”

“Cathy has a stager coming before they take photos, but my goal is to get what I can out of here. I’m going to tag the pieces I want to sell and have a yard sale.”

“That sounds like a lot of work.”

“Yeah, but I have a lot of free time,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “No, it’s good,” he adds. “Keeps me busy.”

Busy. Meaning it keeps him from thinking about selling the place. Of his family. A silence falls between us.

“So check out the rooms,” he finally says. We follow him into the formal living room. He turns on the light.

“Wow,” I say. “It looks great!”

“I know. I told them to go ahead and do the entire first floor.”

“Did you? The kitchen and everything?”

“Yeah. Come and see.”

We head to the kitchen. “Oh my gosh. I know I said this before, but I can’t believe how much it brightens this space.” I take the room in. How warm and open it feels. “You know, I don’t know why they’d want to gut the kitchen,” I continue, thinking of the couple who’d toured the house earlier. “The cabinets are in good condition. Just paint them white and get new hardware.”

“She hated the appliances. She wanted stainless steel everything.”

“Still, it’s not a gut job,” I say.

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“What do you think Nolan? Do you like the new color?”

“I’m hungry,” he whines.

“I know you are, baby. We’re heading out in just a minute.”

“I’m hungry, too,” Jesse says. “What do you like to eat besides carrots?”

“Chicken nuggets,” Nolan tells him. “Pizza.”

Jesse checks his refrigerator and freezer. “Nope. None of that here. But I know a place where we can go to get some pizza. What do you think?” He looks at me.

“Well, GiGi was cooking tonight,” I remind Nolan.

“I want pizza. Please? Please? Please?” He tugs at the hem of my shirt.

“We can walk to Renato’s. And if they’re busy, then Becker’s isn’t too far,” Jesse suggests.

I do appreciate that my mom cooks our meals at night, and I like that Nolan gets to have dinner with family, but Jesse is family, too, and in a few short weeks he’ll be moving. I want Nolan to get to know him as much he can before that happens. Plus, Renato’s pizza is the best in the city. “All right. Let me text my mom and let her know.”

Hey. Ran into Jesse. We’re taking Nolan to get pizza.

Within a few seconds a reply appears, and it isn’t exactly favorable.

Why?

The single word sends a quick shiver up my spine. I’ll have to answer for this later—not missing dinner, necessarily, but my mother has made it more than clear she isn’t interested in anything having to do with Jesse. She washed her hands of the Bryant family a long time ago. She’s never going to understand why I want—why I need—to make this time we spend with him matter.

I turn off my phone and force a smile. “We’re good! Let’s do this.”