Chapter 43
We’ve had to start locking the studio doors. It hasn’t even been two weeks since we got the call about the show, but the Charleston
rumor mill is as mighty as that of any small town. By now, everyone and their auntie knows that Bishop Builds is going to
be featured on Exquisite Interiors, and far too many come by our storefront to rubberneck.
Maya pushes the doors shut, flips the locks, and looks out the window, up and down the street.
“Maya, would you like me to order you a security officer uniform?” Fitz asks. “I could even get some Mace and handcuffs for
you, if you’d like.”
The seriousness melts from Maya’s face. “Only if they have it in anything but navy. That’s not my color.” She floats back
over to our desks.
“Of course. We’ll get it tailor-made in whatever color you like,” Fitz says.
We’ve had a deluge of well-wishers descend upon the studio. Most of them are our people—clients, current and old, business
owners we’re friendly with—but a few have caused problems. Internet sleuths trying to get the tea , as they call it, on us before we start production. More than a few new faces are also interested in securing employment
before the cameras start rolling.
So we’re keeping our office locked and screening visitors. It’s such a silly and unexpected necessity, though I admit I need the focus. Maya has been helping us go through the contract line by line while our lawyer reviews it separately. Shante was great during our meeting—explaining very clearly their expectations, typical schedules, and what we can expect for a day-in-the-life. It’s the perfectionist in me that simply must review the contract for myself.
Plus, if anything were to go wrong, I’d hate to have to admit I didn’t read the thing.
“Here it says that the network would put out a casting call for properties to be considered on the show,” Maya says. “Are
we at all worried that their vision might not be the same as ours?”
“That’s a great point,” I say. “I’ll write it down to discuss with Shante on our next call. I don’t want to have to accept
a project that doesn’t fit the bill for us.”
“Quite right,” Fitz says from across the room.
He’s working on closing out the work from the Daniel House—the paperwork of it, specifically. It’s a key part of the process
with a historic board to demonstrate the work order has been completed. Then we’ll do a final walk-through before we hand
the keys back over to the Carolina Historic Society. Or, most likely, its representative, Magnolia.
“Did Magnolia email you back with answers to those questions we had?” I ask. “When I called to tell her about the full season,
I only had a second to chat.”
Fitz pulls down his new orange glasses frames. “What do you think?”
I groan. “I’ll call her. Honestly, I could use a break from this anyway. Take five, Maya?”
Maya nods and drops onto the sofa. “Agree, 100 percent.”
I unlatch the French doors to our garden patio and settle on the bench across the way. The smell of the jasmine vines is sharply sweet, and the iron of the bench is warm below me. I thumb through my phone and tap to call my mother.
She answers after a single ring. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you,” she says.
“Hi, Mother. I know, Fitz sent you an email. You could’ve called—”
“No, not that,” Magnolia says. “Exquisite Interiors. We need to discuss.”
I did call my mother and fill her in on the fact that we’d been awarded a contract for a full season. I also did it at a time I knew Hallie would need my help in a few minutes, and I’d have to hang up.
I didn’t want her to ruin it for me.
“Oh,” I say. “What is there to discuss?”
“I assume you’ll be featuring the Daniel House?” Magnolia asks.
“It’ll be part of the pilot. There’s a chance the producers will pivot to another home if the board has an issue with us showing
it, though.”
It’s an intentional move because I knew this was coming. She won’t derail my show by trying to wield power over what she will
or won’t allow to be shot, so I got out ahead of it. I suggested to Shante that the Carolina Historic Society might have sticking
points with the Daniel House, and she said it wouldn’t be a problem to scrap parts as needed.
She didn’t say we’d nix the house entirely, but I’d also rather have that than my mother bossing around the production crew. How would
that affect our chances at making this into a long-running thing?
“Oh.” The word pops out of Magnolia, and in the silence I can hear the fight draining.
“We’ve got another project coming up in the same area—a neighbor loved the work and asked to peek,” I say.
“Well, I guess...” Magnolia trails off.
The feeling of holding any amount of power in the face of my mother is something so new and mighty that it almost reverberates
inside me. This is where I’ve wanted to go, and only now have I found my way here, thanks to the full-season deal.
“I’d love to show the Daniel House, of course,” I say. “I’m proud of our work there—we really did our best for you. Not to
mention a shout-out to the board could bring new properties or donors your way.”
Magnolia sniffs. “Whatever you think,” she says.
I have imagined this moment for so long—the moment when Magnolia can’t hold something over me. For so long, I imagined all
the clever quips I’d throw back at her. Every different way to say, And who’s getting the last laugh now? How easy it would be to gloat having won, having beat her at her own game.
But not a one of those phrases feels good. Or right.
God help me, but I do love my mother. I may not like her very much, or very often, or even very noticeably, but I do. In some
strange little way that probably only exists between Magnolias. I don’t want to hurt her—I’m not sure I ever did. I only want
her to quit hurting me.
“I think the Daniel House would be a stunner on TV, and with your blessing, we’d love to have it as our showcase home on the
pilot.”
“Why, yes, I think you’re quite right,” Magnolia says right away. “It’s a beautiful home, and it deserves to shine.”
“I agree,” I say. “I’ll see if we can do a quick blurb on the board, but the producers will have the last say on that. Hosts
can suggest but not dictate.”
Magnolia hums. “I understand.”
“All right, Mother, well, we’re snowed in with paperwork here, so I’ll let you go—but only if you promise you’ll get back
to Fitz. Today.”
“All right, Mack. Good luck with your work,” Magnolia says. “And remember to double-check Fitz’s paperwork for the board.
My child won’t be the one causing backlogs in the office. I won’t hear the end of it.”
I smile to myself. “Oh, never. Bye for now.”
I pass back inside and pull the French doors shut behind me. I look up from my phone screen and stop in place.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
Grady Suffolk III stands in the middle of my studio, arms crossed, foot tapping. “Mack, you’re done on the phone. Good.”
I continue to my desk and slide into the seat. “Again: Why are you here?”
Grady drops into the chair across from my desk and props his foot on his knee. “So I’m unwelcome here now?”
“Cut the crap. What do you want?”
I stare at him until he sighs reluctantly. “Well, I wasn’t going to come right out with it,” he says.
“Of course you weren’t,” I mumble under my breath.
“I heard about your good luck with the television network,” he says.
“It wasn’t good luck. We worked our tails off, worked on the application, shot tape. It wasn’t a lottery situation.”
“Fine,” he says. “Yes, you’re right. I wanted to see if you could use my assistance.”
Naturally. I figured this was what he was sniffing around for when I saw him. He hasn’t called to check in on the firm even once since he resigned. Sure, he and I talk at Hallie’s pickups and drop -offs, but he hasn’t mentioned his former workplace to me once. And he used to be well-known around here. Vendors knew him—some even liked him, regrettably. Clients spoke to him routinely. But only now, after network television interest, does he remember the little place he came from.
“Ah, well. Not particularly, no.” I stand and start walking to the door. “Thanks for asking, but we’re doing quite well.”
Grady stands slowly, like he must adjust a single limb at a time. His friendly demeanor shifts. “You’re sure?”
“Deathly sure,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut then open for effect.
I flip the door unlocked, then pull it open.
He lingers, looking close to pouting. “Well, let me know if you change your mind.”
Grady steps out and down onto the street.
“I won’t,” I say, and then I close the door and flip the lock.
I walk back into the middle of the room and prop my hands on my hips. “What did we say about keeping out the riffraff? From
here on out, Grady is on the no-fly list unless he’s dropping off the magpie.”
The staff giggles and carries on. I may feel a slight tenderness to burning my mother, but Grady I’m less concerned with.
Like he told me on his last day, he’s a big boy and can handle himself. He doesn’t need me.
And I certainly don’t need him.