Chapter 2
I’m still beside the begonias when I feel a set of seven-year-old fingers wrap themselves into mine. I look down, and Hallie’s
staring up, indignant.
“Why was that man ripping off our flowers?” she demands.
“He was pulling off the dead ones, love bug. That’s how the plant can focus on growing new ones.”
“Oh.” Hallie’s expression falls to neutral, and she seems instantly satisfied.
That simple explanation was all she needed, and I can’t help imagining how my own mother would’ve gasped and launched into
a lecture on respect if I’d dared to question an adult at the same age. Respect: something Magnolia has always loved to receive but rarely dishes
out.
The squeak of a braking car interrupts the quiet of the street, and Hallie runs to the wrought iron fence to see for herself.
She gasps, then sprints back to me, her face lit with excitement. “They’re here .”
I smile in an effort to appear confident, despite the zero-gravity effect that rushes through my insides at the thought of
the committee members right here, in the flesh.
She yanks me into a tight hug. “Go get ’em, Mama.”
It hits me like a wave: I want this. For me, yes, but also for her, to show her what she can do and what she can build.
“All right, sweetheart,” I say. “Let’s get you inside.”
Hallie skips to her designated post, just like we planned. There, she’ll be set up with a stack of coloring pages, snacks
to last a lifetime, and a tablet for when she ultimately grows so bored she “ might just shrivel up and die a little .”
Just as she’s settled, I hear the gentle pop of doors closing on a car. My stomach twists like a pretzel as the group files
through the gate into the courtyard. A woman in a tweed skirt with a neat bob leads the group, a clipboard tucked efficiently
under one arm. At her side is a graying man in a seersucker suit, and they mutter to each other as they point at different
parts of the landscaping. A woman wearing a neon-green, tailored shift teeters on her razor-thin heels as she struggles to
keep up behind them. The last member, a younger man with still-wet hair, darts from the car and joins them, looking suspiciously
like he might’ve just woken up from a nap.
“Hey, there! Welcome.” I wave as I walk down the path to greet them.
“Good morning,” the lady in tweed says. “You must be Ms. Bishop.”
The rest of the group looks up at the house and around the garden. Assessing, surely.
“It’s Suffolk, actually. But I guess... I guess Bishop’s fine as well.” I do like the sound of having my own name back.
“Do y’all want to start outside?”
I feel the butterflies in my middle grow into seagulls swarming a downed beach snack as I walk them through our gardens, pointing
out the restored fountain and the new installation of native plants.
“I can’t resist a well-maintained begonia myself.” The man in seersucker smiles at the flower border.
I remind myself to send a thank-you gift to Hartman Landscape—well-maintained is no easy feat in the brutal Charleston heat.
“It’s gorgeous,” the woman in neon says. “Not too stuffy either.”
I could swear I see the woman in tweed stifle an eye roll at her counterpart before she speaks. “Timothy”—she turns to the
man with the wet hair—“the scoring papers?”
Timothy looks sheepish as he turns back to the car.
“Shall I give y’all a moment out here before we head inside?” I ask. I’d rather eat a roach than stand and watch them whisper
opinions until they scratch a number on the clipboard.
The woman in tweed nods gratefully. “That would be best,” she says. “We’ll meet you up on the porch in a few minutes.”
I’m grateful for the pause and turn to head up the wide steps. I could use a sip of water, a wave of air-conditioning, and
a glance at Hallie. Before I reach the porch, a low rumble grabs my attention, and I look to the sky for unforecasted rain
clouds. There is no hint of gray in the sky, but the sound continues in sharp crunches and one final smash.
I whip around at the gasps of the committee members. The wet-haired man is wide-eyed, finally awake, and the woman in neon
has raised her gargantuan sunglasses to the top of her head.
I skip down the steps. “What on—” I stop when I round the corner and see.
A smashed planter box that was just fastened beneath an upper window has crashed to the ground, its perfectly coordinated
contents scattered beside the boxwoods.
“We checked the planters three times. This just cannot be possible. Or right. I’ve never had one fail. Not once.” The words
run out of me like I’ve burst a pipe of liquid language.
The woman in tweed gives me an embarrassed smile as she pats her bob. “Well then,” she says. “I guess it’s time we head inside.”
The man in seersucker takes a wide berth as he approaches the house, and the others follow.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “Quite the shock for everyone.”
I lead them inside and launch into the history of the reclaimed door we installed. I point out the foyer tile we salvaged
from the mucky grip of carpeting glue.
“Carpet glue, huh?” the wet-haired guy says, bending to touch the tile. “I bet you could sell your trade secret for a pretty
penny.”
I can tell he’s making an effort to lighten the mood, and it’s a relief. “I wish.” I lean in and whisper, “Mostly it was elbow
grease and the fact that whoever smeared the glue was a bit lazy.”
I get a gentle chuckle from the group and guide them into the formal sitting room. Morning sun streams through the window
and highlights the discreet stripe in the cream curtains, and the rich tones of cypress glow in the coffee table. Even the
spines of the old books stacked on it are pristine.
The woman in tweed speaks up. “This globular light fixture. It’s a bit modern, no?”
I swallow. I was nervous about this piece, even if I do stand by my choice. “It is on the modern side, especially for a house
of this age, but one of the things Bishop Builds values is allowing our clients modern elements while maintaining the historic
integrity. Real people don’t want to live in museums.”
“Don’t speak for all of us.” The man in seersucker forces a chuckle.
The woman in neon swats the air. “Whatever, Hugo. I think it’s amaze-balls.”
I know without a doubt that elements dubbed amaze-balls will not score well with committee members who have pull. I might’ve overshot this one.
“I appreciate the feedback,” I say. “The kitchen next?”
I point the committee out into the foyer, past the grasscloth table stacked with fresh flowers and traditional brass decor and beyond the nineteenth-century art we borrowed for the occasion.
On our way I second-guess the pale celery-green cabinetry. Color is typically bold in Southern interiors, and I adore the
pop of color. This one isn’t offensive or garish; it’s muted. We tested what felt like one hundred swatches to get it just
right. Still, most of the older design firms stick to neutrals in the kitchen—creams, whites, tans. It all gets a bit vanilla
after a while, and I’ve always felt it a shame not to dip our toes into the brighter tones Southerners can’t seem to resist.
The wet-haired man reaches the kitchen entrance and recoils from the threshold. “Whoa, Nelly!”
My gut drops. He hates the green; he must. Which means chop-chop . That’s it for us.
The woman in neon screeches to a halt behind him, narrowly avoiding a pileup, and looks past him. “Cleanup on aisle three,”
she says, her nose turned upward.
I gently squeeze past the pair and halt just as they did. My mouth drops open.
In front of me, blocking my entry, sits a knee-high wall of foamy soapsuds that carries on in a sea throughout the kitchen.
Two of my interns stand in the center of the kitchen, red-faced and mopping frantically as bubbles continue to erupt from
the dishwasher.
“The floors!” the woman in tweed fumes. “These are hundreds of years old, and your staff is throwing a bubble party. I’m only
glad Arthur and the others aren’t here to see this. Such a travesty, a disgrace! I can’t even imagine—”
One of the interns, Cecile, bursts into tears. “I’m so sorry, Mack. This is my fault. I used the wrong soap.”
My chest tightens, and I look from the committee members to my interns. There’s no question where I stand on this. “It’s ok, Cecile. It happens, even to the best of us.”
“Well, I’d hope it doesn’t happen often in your homes.” The man in seersucker props his hands on his hips. “I can’t imagine hiring you folks in and then getting
my irreplaceable hardwoods ruined.”
I pull in a breath as my voice threatens to wobble. “This is an innocent mistake. Cecile is a hardworking member of our team,
and she’s been dedicated to the restoration of this home. We would never be careless with our clients’ homes. We treat them
as if they were our own.”
“You must be a foamy lot then,” the woman in tweed says under her breath.
“Can I take you upstairs?” I ask.
My mind is reeling as we make our way up the creaky staircase. I probably forget to explain how a local woodworker helped
us salvage some spindles, how seamlessly he incorporated them. We make it upstairs and continue through rooms, me in a mental
haze. I point out the repaired stained glass in the bathroom, the newly functional pocket doors in the main bedroom, the linens
that were sourced from a historically inspired line.
All of it feels like a last-ditch effort.
“Kinda wishing you’d done a runner here in the hallway,” Neon Green says.
“It was a consideration,” I say with a smile.
The older committee members breeze into the primary bedroom. The walls are lined in a muted-blue wallpaper with a silvery
floral design. The window dressings are traditional—read: flowy, heavy, and hopefully to the liking of the older crowd.
The man in seersucker and the woman in tweed take in the room.
“You opted out of a traditional canopy bed?” the man in seersucker asks.
“The client prefers a lower-profile bed frame,” I say. “And if you take a closer look, you’ll see it’s an early nineteen hundreds
frame that fits the history of the home. We even have reason to believe it was crafted here in South Carolina.”
He tuts to himself like we tossed a flat-pack bed frame in here.
I’m resigned by now. It seems they’re decided.