Chapter 22 - Scott
“How’d it go?”
Chelsea doesn’t look up. While she was wedding dress shopping, I spent the day on the project/set. George had to explain about an unanticipated problem with the plumbing. It wasn’t unanticipated, I was well aware of it. And replacing all of the pipes was always part of the plan.
I did what was asked. Pretended we didn’t know all the pipes were corroded. George—I’m still shocked he agreed to be on camera—pretended to be worried about telling me. And then I pretended to be pissed. In a strange way the whole thing was comical.
But Vivien wanted me to act aggravated, so I obliged. I should win an Oscar for that performance. Specifically for pulling it off while George was standing there—off camera, of course—with a very bemused expression on his face. I was looking forward to reenacting the whole thing for Chelsea. Figured we’d have a laugh together over it.
Right now, she doesn’t look like she’s in the mood to laugh. I’m not even sure she heard me. I stand up and wave.
“Chels!”
She looks up at me. I go down the steps of the brownstone. I’ve been sitting out here nursing a beer waiting for her. I texted my mom asking how it went. She said it was great and the dress Chelsea picked is amazing. From Chelsea, right now, however, silence.
“Hi,” she says finally.
“How’d it go?” I ask again.
She smiles. Not the big, ‘I’m so happy’ smile that lights up a room and makes me glad I’m alive. But it’s a smile, nonetheless.
“Actually, it was kind of fun. I mean, I never thought I’d get to pick out a wedding dress in a store like that.”
I sense a ‘but.’
“You want to come in? Have a glass of wine or a beer? You can tell me all about it.”
She nods and follows me up the stairs and inside.
In the kitchen I hold out a bottle of Moscato for her approval. I’ve been chilling it in the fridge for just the right occasion. I think it’s a little too sweet to have for a meal, but, right now, we are just having a drink.
“Thanks,” she says, settling into her stool at the counter.
I pour her a glass and hand it to her. Unfortunately, when I turn back even the small smile is gone.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, but I suspect I already know.
She shakes her head.
“Your mom? Was she…suspicious?”
“She’s worried. I told her you really are a nice guy—”
“Thanks.”
She looks at me and takes a long sip of her wine.
“I do mean that. I just hate lying to her. And, I’m sure she’s dreamed of going with me to pick out my wedding dress since I was a little girl. And it was fun. Just, you know…”
“Fake.”
“Exactly.”
She rubs the stem of her glass between her thumb and index finger.
“My mom said the dress you picked is amazing.”
“It is.” She shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
Okay.
“Sure. You want dinner?”
“I could go for one of those huge burritos.”
“We can go,” I say, reaching for my keys and wallet, but she shakes her head again.
“Do they do takeout?”
“Of course.”
We huddle over my phone and place the order. I almost put my arm around her, but stop myself. She seems really down so I offer to go by myself to get the food. I leave her sitting at the island staring into her wine.
When I get back, she’s set the small bistro table on my deck, including a wine glass for me.
“You’ll help me finish it, right?” she says, holding up the bottle. I nod and she empties the rest into my glass. “Thanks. If I drink the whole thing I’ll never be able to get up tomorrow.”
Halfway through the meal I decide that the Moscato pairs just fine with Mexican. Or maybe it’s just the fact that Chelsea is acting normal again. We go over the details for tomorrow’s show. One of the realtors I work with, Marta, is going to come by and do an appraisal for us. Maybe even start the listing.
I try to temp Chelsea with dessert or coffee, but she begs off saying she needs to get to bed.
“I have decaf.”
My weak—and possibly untruthful; Do I have any decaf? No idea—attempt to entice her to hang out with me doesn’t work. I have a beer, staring at the TV while not seeing it and then decide to call it a night.
The next morning when I wake up my resolve is steel. Business only. I text her.
Do you want a bagel?
Just a business question. She texts back a thumbs up which delights me way too much. Looks like another miserable day, for me. Hopefully not for her. My guilt over her guilt lying to her family and friends eats away at me constantly.
She seems better on the walk to get our breakfast. I want to confirm that, but I don’t want to mention the wedding, the wedding dress, or anything about the show.
“Did your mom and Sam get home okay?”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I hadn’t said them. She smiles.
“They did,” she says, touching my shoulder briefly. “Thanks for asking.”
I didn’t even get to meet them. The network’s offer didn’t include a hotel room. Chels and I talked about them staying with her, but she doesn’t have enough room, even though she presumably would have been staying with me. As soon as we got close to that topic, we both looked away.
She was sure whoever, her mom or Sam, if they stayed in her apartment, would have noticed all her stuff was still there. And then there was the whole her staying with me thing, which neither one of us wanted to broach.
In the end we decided not to push our luck. Or, as Chelsea put it, not risk going one deception too far.
“They must have got in late,” I say, figuring that is a relatively safe line of communication.
“My mom actually relented and took Sam up on the offer to stay at her place. Which she, Sam, that is, probably deeply regretted this morning when my dad showed up at the crack of dawn.”
When we get to the house, we find Marta waiting outside. I’m not sure why. It’s obviously the right one, from the permit on the building to the dumpster in what constitutes a front courtyard in a brownstone neighborhood. Not to mention she was the realtor for buying all the units.
“You could have gone in,” I say instead of hello.
“Scott, hi,” she says, giving me a hug.
“This is Chelsea. The designer and, um, my fiancée.”
“Fiancée? You dog, why didn’t you tell me you were seeing someone? Someone serious?”
“Hi,” Chelsea says. “Nice to meet you.”
As they shake hands her eyes widen. I know before I look away from her, over Marta’s head, exactly who just overheard this exchange.
“You don’t know the realtor,” Vivien says.
She smiles but like every other expression she has it doesn’t seem real. It’s her eyes, I realize. They never change. And right now her pupils look like lasers.
“It took years to buy all the units in this building,” I say evenly. “Started before I met Chelsea. Luckily, I had Marta on it, ready to snatch them up. She’s a shark.”
Chelsea looks startled by the comparison, but Marta is definitely flattered. And Vivien is back to looking bored, thankfully. She orders us to makeup.
As usual I’m done a lot quicker. Marta and Chelsea come back together.
“She’s fabulous, so sweet,” Marta says, squeezing my arm. “What’s she doing with you?”
“I have no idea.”
“You guys ready.”
We scurry into position, then wait while the lighting is checked.
“Action.”
“I pulled up the comps,” Marta says. She opens up a folder and points to something. “There’s your new estimate.”
“I…wow.”
“Dividing it into three units was genius. Perfect size and price point to max out the potential buyers.”
“That was Chelsea’s idea,” I say, wrapping my arm around her and showing her the new estimate.
She nods. She’s not completely stiff in my arms and that’s kind of thrilling. Maybe this could—
“Cut,” Vivien yells.
“What?”
Marta, Chelsea and I all look at each other. Marta turns to me, and I can see the question in her face. Chelsea, on the other hand, seems sure she’s the problem. As for me, I have no idea what Vivien’s exasperated about this time.
“Where’s the enthusiasm?”
“Sorry,” Chelsea says. She takes a deep breath. “On my gawd,” she squeals. “Better?”
I smile at her. I’m convinced.
“Don’t you think if you were going to make that much more money on the project you would, I don’t know, throw your arms around him and make out a little.”
“Maybe when we get home,” Chelsea says seriously.
For some reason that seems to please Vivien. We manage to finish the scene without anymore griping from her.
When that’s done and the crew is packing up for the day, Vivien says she needs a word.
“Now what?” Chelsea whispers.
“No idea.”