8. Vivien
T he call from Fiona Buckman the next morning had taken Vivien completely by surprise. But after a moment on the phone, she remembered the woman she’d been introduced to at a dinner party a week earlier.
Fiona wanted to see and interview her—today. Vivien jumped on the opportunity.
As she left for the meeting, Vivien hoped she had the same luck and energy launching her business as Tessa seemed to have with hers. Other than staging the Summer House, which was why Vivien had come here in the first place, she still had no other accounts for her design and décor venture.
But Fiona not only had a historic house to “redo”—whatever that meant—she ran a property management business that could unlock oodles of work for Vivien. The local Airbnbs were in constant need of a refresh or remodeling, so a client like that could be an amazing launching pad for Vivien Lawson Designs.
As she arrived at the address in the upscale golf-course neighborhood of Indian Bayou, it was instantly clear that Fiona’s house was not exactly historic, as the woman had said . Pulling into the long driveway and eyeing the corner lot that featured a large Victorian-style house, Vivien would call that a bit of an exaggeration.
Of course, she was the daughter of an architect and Roger Lawson would have dubbed this two-story 1980s build a “McVic”—a faux Victorian. And it wouldn’t have been a compliment.
Yes, it had the grand wraparound porch lined with gingerbread trim and wrought-iron railings curling like black lace against the deep green clapboard. The perfunctory towering bay windows gleamed beneath a steeply pitched roof with filigree and fantasy all around.
But it was dated, fake, and screaming for a renovation.
Fiona had said that she’d recently bought the house from the original owner, who’d done nothing to it for decades, and she wanted a complete remodel of the inside.
So today, Vivien’s job was to impress the potential client and secure the assignment, or at least leave the door open to writing up a proposal. They’d only talked briefly at the party, but Vivien remembered the sixty-ish widow, and thought her to be no-nonsense and tough.
Which could translate into inflexible and nasty, but hey. After a lifetime under Maggie Lawson? Vivien certainly could handle a woman who knew what she wanted.
Grabbing her laptop bag, Vivien stepped out of her car and glanced down to smooth the outfit that had been heavily vetted by Lacey.
Deciding that Fiona would likely be a style snob, she’d gone with a pale blue silk shell and the pride and joy of her closet—off-white Belgian flax linen trousers that she never wore for fear rain would destroy their luster. She added her beautiful open-toed Steve Madden patent leather slides with a stacked heel for the finishing touch.
Fortunately, it was a cloudless day bathed in Destin sunshine, so she carried her light tweed blue and cream jacket—a Chanel knock-off, but still exquisite. Stepping onto the walkway, she squared her shoulders, adjusted the jacket and laptop, and slid her best bag into place.
Good morning, Ms. Buckman, she practiced in her head. I’m delighted to ? —
What was that noise? She turned left and right, aware of a high-pitched whine, then a clunk, and?—
“Oh, my God!” she shrieked as what felt like fifteen nozzles from the sprinkler system rose up and burst to life, gushing water all over her. “ What is happening ?”
She looked from side to side, seeing nothing but shoulder-high streams of water pouring over everything—including her silk and linen.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” A man’s voice broke through the noise of the sprinklers.
She turned, holding up her hands in a failed attempt to shield herself. She flew off the walkway and leaped toward the grass, which looked bone dry.
But it wasn’t, and the slides did indeed slide , taking her right down to the ground with a thud that sent her laptop and handbag sailing.
“Hang on!” a man she still couldn’t see called. “I got this!”
As fast as it started, the water stopped. A second later, a man dressed in a filthy T-shirt and baggy shorts came darting out of side bushes, rushing toward her.
“You okay?”
She looked up at him, speechless and soaked.
“Oh, man, I’m really sorry. I’m trying to fix the sprinkler system, and you just showed up at the very wrong moment. I didn’t see you.” He crouched down on one knee, a ballcap and sunglasses hiding his face and whiskers that hadn’t seen a razor in a few days showing a mix of gray and black. “Are you hurt?”
She managed a breath and looked down at the soaked pants—with a grass stain!— and the not-really-Chanel jacket strewn on the ground next to one of her shoes.
He followed her gaze and picked up the shoe, holding it out to her on one knee like he was Prince Charming. She could have hit him with it.
“This yours?” he asked.
She snorted at the abject stupidity of the question. “Yes.”
“I’m really sorry.” He held out his other hand, rising to offer her assistance. “Coast was clear before I went into the bushes to turn on the valve.”
She took his hand, which was strong but not callused like she’d expect of the landscaper or whatever he was. She let him guide her to her feet and as she rose, she looked down at her outfit, soaked and destroyed.
Letting out a whimper, she brushed her trousers and tried not to say a very dark word.
“Here.” He offered the shoe again, putting it on the ground so she could step in. Then he turned one way, then the other, muttering something as he went for her laptop case.
“I hope this is okay.”
After getting it, he grabbed her bag, stuffing God only knew what back into the open top, snagged a pen that must have fallen from the laptop bag, and brought it all to her.
The whole time she stood in shock, the damp clothes cold despite the sun, her hair dripping in her face, and she didn’t even want to think about her mascara.
“I’m sorry…ma’am.” His voice was deep and rich with regret. “I wasn’t sure which way was on with this system. I’m really…” He gave a soft laugh. “Not exactly a sprinkler repair man.”
No kidding.
“It’s…” She wanted to say “all right” but really? It wasn’t. She was wrecked. “I’m, um, supposed to meet…” She angled her head toward the house. “Ms. Buckman.”
He cringed as if the very idea pained him. “You want me to cover for you?”
“While I change in my car?” she quipped, taking her belongings and wiping some dirt from the jacket. “It’s fine. I’ll just step into the bathroom and towel off.”
“There’s a powder room off the entry.” At her surprised look, he added, “I tried to fix some wonky plumbing when she moved in.”
“Thanks for the warning,” she said dryly. “I’ll avoid the faucet.”
He chuckled. “Look at that—pretty and she has a sense of humor. Don’t see that a lot, you know?”
Did he say…pretty? Was this handyman flirting after he’d drenched her? She felt a smile pull despite the fact that she kind of wanted to kill him. Except, yeah, he had a handsome face under the whiskers and shades.
“Thank you…”
“I’m Danny,” he said. “Danny Sullivan and I’m?—”
The front door flew open, revealing Fiona Buckman standing in the doorway, her smooth white hair contrasted against a black sweater making a daunting impression.
“What is going on?” she demanded.
“Ruh-roh,” he muttered under his breath. “Ding-dong, the witch is not dead.”
Vivien half-gasped, half-snorted, stunned by his insolence. She hoped Fiona hadn’t heard and didn’t lump Vivien with this half-baked handyman from hell.
Swiping back some wet hair, she lifted her chin and smiled as if nothing in the world was wrong.
“Little run-in with the sprinkler system,” she said, feigning brightness.
“Oh, it works, Danny?”
“We’re getting there.” He stepped back and touched the brim of his hat in a gesture that was somehow both mocking and chivalrous. “I’ll wait until you’re inside.”
“Come on, come on.” Fiona waved her closer. “I’ll give you a towel. You can’t possibly ruin the floors because they’re all coming out anyway.”
With one more glance at—what was his name? Danny the Walking Disaster?—she headed up to the porch.
Inside, Fiona ushered her straight into the powder room. “Honestly, that man’s going to be the death of me,” she murmured. “There’s a towel in there. You’ll be fine.”
In a room with a black pedestal sink and ghastly velvet flocked wallpaper, Vivien tried not to look too hard at herself in the ornate mirror. After an attempt to dry, she donned the jacket, which was damp, but not see-through like her wet silk top.
As ready as she could be, Vivien stepped into the center hall, a two-story affair at the bottom of a massive staircase, just as Fiona joined her.
For the first time, she got a good look around, taking in the dark floors that she certainly wouldn’t replace, but might have stripped and re-stained. A heavy brass chandelier that looked like it had been installed when the house was built forty years ago hung from the ceiling, barely casting enough light to make up for heavy gold drapes that covered arched windows in the formal living room.
Yes, it was wretchedly dated. But there was so much potential here—the kind of high-quality woodwork that could be refinished, the detailed moldings that could be modernized without losing their charm.
“Your home is beautiful,” Vivien said sincerely, pausing to admire the dark wood trim up the sides of the stairs as Fiona gestured her toward the back.
“It will be, but now? I can’t bear to look around. But getting into Indian Bayou was all that mattered to me. Location is everything, you know, and this one is top notch.”
Vivien followed her into a formal dining room, where a massive rosewood dining table dominated the space.
“I bought it furnished,” she said, sounding apologetic as she touched the table. “I haven’t had a chance to get rid of this.”
“I’m not sure I would,” Vivien said. “It’s an antique and probably the site of many family dinners. We could refinish it and let it star again.”
She grunted. “It’s firewood to me, but maybe we’ll donate it. Sit down.”
Vivien almost bristled at the order, and Fiona glanced at her. “You can’t ruin the brocade even if you’re wet,” she said, misinterpreting her reaction. “The chairs are going, too. Everything is.”
“Well, that’s why I’m here,” she said. “We can modernize this home, but maintain the illusion of history and what I’m sure is an amazing legacy.”
“Legacy?” Fiona scoffed as she sat at the head of the table. “I have no idea what the legacy of this house is, and I don’t care. I know what it’s going to look like, and I need you to make that happen.”
Okay . Some clients had a distinct vision, but they were usually open to some input. Otherwise, Vivien was a hired gun with no creative input. But this was a test, and a lot of other business was on the line, so she just nodded.
“So, I’ve created a few different vision boards,” Vivien began, reaching for her laptop and praying that only the case was wet. “Think of them as idea hubs that create an overall aesthetic. I’d like to know what colors, textures, and styles you respond to, first, then I’ll?—”
“Oh, no, that won’t be necessary,” Fiona interrupted, pulling an iPad from a bag on the floor. “I already know exactly what I respond to. I know how the house will look when I’m finished.”
Vivien lifted a brow. “Terrific. Tell me?—”
“I want everything gone, totally stripped down to the bones, or at least the drywall. All the ghastly wood torn out, all the curves and gaudiness gone. I want sleek, modern, contemporary, organic.” She tapped the iPad’s screen and handed it to Vivien. “I have a vision board of my own, actually.”
Vivien blinked, a little taken aback but quickly recovering. “Oh, well, great! I want you to love the house, so whatever look you’re going for, I’ll make it happen.”
But as she scrolled through Fiona’s Pinterest board, Vivien’s enthusiasm for the job took a nosedive.
Every image was stark and colorless—white walls, black accents, and cold, sleek lines. It was modern, yes, but also sterile. Appropriate for an ultra-contemporary California hillside home, but an upscale golf community in Destin in a structure that had nooks, crannies, and atmosphere galore?
There was no warmth, no personality, no nod to the character of the house itself. Vivien couldn’t help but think it resembled a high-end hospital rather than a home.
“Okay, so you’re definitely wanting a very modern look.”
“Yes, I just said that,” Fiona replied, her tone clipped. “I would love it if you’d do those concrete floors that are all the rage, too.”
Concrete floors in Florida? Vivien had to swallow her whimper of sadness.
“All right. Just from looking around, your house has such beautiful detailing. I think you could find a way to get the clean, contemporary vibe you want but preserve the?—”
“Preserve nothing,” Fiona said, cutting her off. “I want it all gone. See these white walls?” She gestured toward an inspiration photo. “That’s what I want. Clean and spotless, nothing elaborate, fussy, or embellished. Am I clear?”
Crystal.
Vivien glanced toward the kitchen, which she could see from her seat. It did need an update, but there was so much richness and charm in the cabinetry.
“What do you think about refinishing the cabinets to a much lighter, organic wood, adding black finishings and white countertops? It could still be very contemporary but?—”
“Are you not hearing me?” Fiona snapped, her voice sharp. “No wood. None. I want it all gone and replaced with sleek, white, clean lines. I like those shiny white European cabinets with no handles. Are you familiar with them?”
In this house? It was so wrong she wanted to cry.
Instead, Vivien bit the inside of her cheek, a flashback to Maggie in her head. She didn’t usually—maybe ever—work with clients like this. But…she’d been raised by one.
“Okay,” she said evenly. “I can do modern and sleek, definitely. But, respectfully, Fiona, you hired me to design the redecoration of your home, and I really think you could consider some?—”
“I hired you because I don’t want to do it myself,” Fiona said, standing abruptly. “I know the look I want, and this is it.” She tapped the iPad again. “So, please, make it happen. I have a business I have to run now that my husband has died. As you may recall, I manage dozens of properties in Destin and all around the Panhandle and 30-A. Those properties always need refreshes, remodels, and redesigns. Do my house right, and you’ll go at the top of the list for recommended designers for the owners. Do it wrong and you won’t work in Destin again. Do you understand?”
She most certainly did.
Vivien stood as well, forcing a smile. “If you could just email me the link to your inspiration board, I’ll get started on finding materials and furnishings right away.”
Fiona nodded curtly. “Good.” She walked Vivien to the door and offered a brisk goodbye before disappearing back inside.
Standing on the porch, Vivien took a deep breath, letting the warm air steady her nerves. She turned to look at the house again, her designer’s eye picking out the details she’d love to keep and others she’d like to change. Yes, it was faux Victorian, but she could work with that and bring out the home’s essence. That would be fun.
This would be…work. But it was a stepping stone to more work.
And speaking of stones…she glanced left and right, noticing the sprinklers were running, but were now aimed at the grass and shrubs. Danny was nowhere to be seen, thank goodness, so she walked gingerly to her Highlander and climbed in, turned on the engine, and made a safe getaway.
Just as she turned the corner, she glanced at the side of the house and saw him. He stood halfway up a ladder reaching into a gutter, shirtless now—he’d probably gotten himself soaked. As she slowed at the stop sign, she squinted at him, grudgingly acknowledging that he had a nice physique.
Actually, really nice.
She slid her window down to get a better look just as he turned and stared right at her. Before she could turn and pretend not to be gawking at the man, he tipped his ballcap and grinned.
Blood warmed her face as she breathed out a sigh and turned to face the street.
Great. With luck, she’d never see that hapless handyman again.
* * *
A car she didn’t recognize was parked in the driveway at the Summer House when she returned, making Vivien wish she could slip in unnoticed, rush upstairs, and get these ruined clothes off as soon as possible.
But as she opened the front door and heard male laughter and voices, she knew that wasn’t going to be possible.
“Hey, there she is.” Eli stepped into the entryway and instantly drew back. “Oof. What happened to you?”
“A wayward sprinkler,” she muttered. “Do you mind if I…” She pointed in the general direction of the stairs. “Could you, uh, distract our company?”
“It’s Peter, he’s not company.”
Peter? Oh, she didn’t want to see him like?—
“There you are, Viv.” He came around the corner, looking tall and strong and way more together than she felt. His gaze dropped over her. “Is it raining somewhere?”
“Just over me,” she said, fluttering the now destroyed Belgian linen trousers.
Eli pulled out his phone and looked at the screen. “Jonah needs me up in the apartment. Catch you out there, Pete.”
He breezed by her, going right out the door she’d just come in, leaving her standing bedraggled in front of the man she once prayed would be her first kiss. She could still see some of the reason why—the dreamy dark eyes and easy smile—but he was an older, wiser, confident detective now, and attractive in a very different way.
He hadn’t been her first kiss, but not for lack of writing in her diaries about it.
“I understand you’re going to be working in the area,” she said. “Missing persons case?”
He nodded. “Routine stuff, but the department rented me a townhouse right off 98, so I’ll probably make a pest of myself here.”
She laughed. “Just like old times. Can you stay for lunch?”
“I just had mine,” he said. “I really just wanted to swing by and see…you.”
Her? Then she remembered their last conversation. “To apologize for sending me up the high road, where I crashed?”
He gave a sad smile. “Yeah, Eli told me it didn’t go so great with your ex. I still think you did the right thing.”
“I did,” she said. “Now I know there’s a good a reason I’m getting a divorce.”
“Exactly. No doubts or second-guessing.”
“Yep. I do appreciate your advice, and I hope that Ryan and I can somehow remain civil, if not friends. As you said, divorce lasts a long time.” She added a smile. “In fact, I’ll be signing those papers in a matter of days.”
“Then my timing is perfect,” he said. “Maybe a little early, but that’s how I roll.”
“A little early…” She frowned, not following.
He angled his head as if he couldn’t believe she didn’t know. “Too soon to have dinner, Viv? I’d like to go out with you.”
He… what ?
“I didn’t want to ask via text—I’m way too old school for that. And I wanted to see your face, and going by that surprised look, Eli didn’t warn you I’d be asking.”
She felt her face warm with an unexpected blush for the second time in a few minutes.
“No, I…no. He didn’t warn me about anything,” she said on a laugh. “So…really? A date?”
He smiled. “Just a nice dinner to catch up without the entire Lawson crew breathing down our necks.”
“Peter, I…” She was weirdly breathless, certain her hair was falling in still-damp clumps and her mascara might have left raccoon eyes. But he looked like he didn’t care about any of that. “Yes, of course. I’d love that.”
The look on his face made the whole awkward moment utterly worthwhile.
“I’ll call you,” he said, taking a step forward. “Eli gave me your number.”
“You two are scheming like teenagers, aren’t you?” she asked on a chuckle.
“Some things never change, Viv.” He stepped closer and for a second she though he was going to lower his face and drop a kiss. But he just tugged one of her wet strands. “Good look for you, Viv. You look pretty,” he said softly.
And with that, he stepped out the door, leaving her breathless and shocked and weirdly excited.
The handyman had called her pretty, too. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt pretty—let alone had not one but two men tell her she was in the same day.
“Huh.” She looked down at her grass-stained, misshapen, ruined Belgian linen pants, smoothing the water bumps left behind. “Who knew these would be my lucky pants?”