16. Vivien
T he words she’d read in her old diary that morning haunted Vivien the whole time she drove to Fiona Buckman’s house.
She’d called herself a doormat way back then? She didn’t even remember having those thoughts or feelings as a young girl. As an adult, especially after twenty-five years with Ryan? Yes, she’d frequently used the term and always hated it.
In fact, since leaving her marriage and starting over on her own, she’d vowed mightily not to be walked over, pushed around, or let people use her desire to avoid conflict as a way to manipulate her.
But…as a kid? Eesh . Why hadn’t she paid attention to that? Why hadn’t her mother drummed it out of her?
Because Maggie was the victor in those old conflicts.
These days, she had better sounding boards. When discussing that particular weakness with Lacey or even, at times, with her trusted brother, they both pointed out that Vivien came by her desire to please others naturally—a middle child, daughter of an uber-controlling mother, and a strong incentive to stay out of arguments.
But here she was, facing fifty and the realization that she’d always been that way. Why didn’t she have the nerve to tell Dustin Mathers to take a hike and save her brand-new pink and green boogie board?
Well, she did now. Or at least she was aware of the problem and ready to change it for the next half of her life. So today, when Fiona tried to?—
The dashboard lit with an incoming call and the name derailed her train of thought, and in a very good way. Speaking of that very young Vivien—wouldn’t she be delighted to know that thirty-some years later, she was dating Peter McCarthy?
Okay, dating was a stretch. They hadn’t been out again since their dinner date, but they texted daily and talked a few times on the phone. This was going…somewhere. She wasn’t sure where, but she was ready to enjoy the ride.
“Good morning, Detective,” she answered warmly, imagining his sweet eyes, neatly cut hair, and that smile that still made her a teeny-tiny bit weak in the knees. “Catch any baddies today?”
He chuckled. “Not yet, Viv. But it’s only eleven. How about you? Beautifying the world one window treatment at a time?”
She laughed, but wrinkled her nose. “Actually, I’m on my way to see a client and I’m already stressed out about it.”
“Why?” he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.
She thought about all the reasons why Fiona Buckman’s text had her uptight this morning.
At the top of the list was reason number one: she was more than a little terrified of the woman. And reason number two: Fiona reminded Vivien of Maggie. And that added a shiver of fear at the possibility that her mother could somehow discover that all of her kids—including Crista!—were currently and happily defying her.
But she didn’t want to go into all that with Peter.
“Well, her text was brief and…chilly,” she told him. “It was a demand that I be there at eleven with no explanation. I’m worried something in the design doesn’t work.”
“Oh, is this the cougar being scammed by a second-rate handyman?”
She snorted at the description. “Same client, yes. And, sadly, my only one other than the Summer House. But I haven’t seen the hapless handyman around her house for a while.”
“Have you sniffed around to find out if he’s up to no good?”
“Last time I met with her, she was barking orders so fast, I didn’t mention anything. And I stopped over late yesterday to see some carpentry work, but she wasn’t home. Her housekeeper let me in, and there was no sign of her young paramour—er, associate.”
“Well, maybe we’re just misunderstanding the whole situation,” he said. “Because mistakes do happen. I’m beginning to think this guy I’m looking for was never even in Destin. No one recognizes his picture anywhere, and he left zero tracks. I’m frustrated.”
“That’s so strange. How does a person just disappear? I’d think there’d be a full manhunt out for him.” Vivien checked the clock to make sure she wasn’t running late for this appointment, wishing she could just linger and talk to Peter about his case for an hour.
“We’ve got quite a few law enforcement people looking into it, but without a body, motive, or the media behind it, this could go on for weeks very quietly. I kind of hope it does.”
“You do? I’d think you’d want to wrap up the case.”
“But not my time in Destin,” he said, his voice just a little lower and more intimate. She got the message, and it made her smile.
“You’re only an hour or so away in Pensacola,” she said.
“Too far for spontaneity, which I happen to like. So how about we have lunch after your meeting?”
“Oh, I love that idea,” she said. “I should be done in an hour. Can I meet you somewhere?”
“The Back Porch?”
She gave a soft laugh. “I forgot about that restaurant. It’s still there?”
“Bigger and better than when we were kids. It’s a Destin landmark. Meet you at twelve-thirty?”
“I’ll be there,” she promised, turning into the entrance to Indian Bayou.
As she drove to Fiona’s house, she tried to imagine why the woman would have sent that icy text ordering her to come over at eleven. It was so… Maggie .
Vivien had to cancel an appointment with the owner of a high-end kitchen business, one that could have led to new clients. But she didn’t want to disappoint Fiona.
Could she be getting fired? No, no, no.
Maybe Fiona had another job for her at one of her rental properties, she thought optimistically. Or maybe she was just a lousy texter and everything she wrote came across like she was angry.
When she pulled up to the Victorian, Vivien glanced around but saw no sign of Hapless Handy. There was a very sharp BMW sedan parked on the street, though, so maybe one of Fiona’s friends was here.
Then why would she demand Vivien come over?
Oh! That was it! New business! Fiona had invited a friend to meet Vivien, go over the work she’d done so far, and look at her portfolio. Perfect!
Lifted by the thought, she parked behind the BMW and grabbed her bag and tablet, glancing at the house and its grand but aging facade. She so badly hoped Fiona could see beyond her obsession with stripping it down to something cold and soulless.
Baby steps, though. The carpenter had finished the new molding around the stairs, removing the gaudy mahogany and replacing it with a warm light oak trim. And Vivien had left all the samples for the kitchen update on the table days ago, so surely by now Fiona had at least picked the new backsplash and pulls.
Smoothing the simple cotton sheath she’d worn, she made her way up the walk toward the front steps, eyeing the improvement in the shrubbery. Maybe Hapless had managed to figure out the irrigation system in between taking Fiona out for dinner and emptying her bank account.
She pushed the thought from her head and braced for the woman who would open the door. Glancing down, she eyed a worn doormat—and took it as a stark reminder of how not to behave.
Vivien exhaled sharply, straightening her spine as she knocked on the frightfully showy front door. Please let a replacement be in the budget, she thought, just as the door opened.
Fiona was as impeccably put together as ever, from her sleek white bob to her crisp navy linen dress and sensible pumps. But her pursed lips and miserable scowl spoke volumes and made Vivien’s stomach sink.
Instantly, she knew she wasn’t here to be introduced to a friend who needed her services.
“Come in, Vivien,” Fiona said, stepping aside. “We have a problem. Maybe more than one.”
Oh, boy. Here we go.
Vivien stepped into the heavily air-conditioned home, immediately regretting the decision not to wear that light sweater she was always leaving behind.
“What’s the problem?” she asked as Fiona closed the door behind her.
“You don’t listen, that’s the problem.”
Vivien swallowed and turned to the woman. “What did I not hear?”
“Apparently, everything. Let’s start with the staircase molding.”
“Is something wrong with it?” Vivien asked, stepping closer to the molding in question.
The oak blended seamlessly with the home’s original craftsmanship and looked, to Vivien, like it had always been there.
“I despise this,” Fiona announced, waving a hand toward the molding as if it physically pained her to look at it. “Didn’t you hear a word I said ? I don’t want wood finishings! I want sleek, clean, modern. ”
Vivien swallowed her frustration. “Fiona, I did listen to you. You have to have something there.”
“I don’t agree. Why can’t I just have the drywall?”
“Because it will look unfinished,” Vivien said. “I chose this wood and style because it complements both modern design and the original character of the house. It keeps things fresh without eliminating charm.”
“Charm?” Fiona scoffed. “This isn’t a bed-and-breakfast, Vivien. I don’t want charm. I want clean. ”
Vivien clenched her jaw. “The house will feel sterile if we strip it of all its natural warmth.”
Fiona crossed her arms. “No, it will feel clean. And that’s exactly what I want. This wood nonsense? It needs to go. Maybe you need to go.”
Vivien inhaled deeply, transported to a bedroom in Atlanta, looking at a bed she thought she’d made perfectly but…Maggie found flaws. Maggie looked disappointed and poor little Vivien wanted to crawl under that bed and cry.
But she wasn’t poor little Vivien, and this woman wasn’t her mother. “I truly believe that once the entire design comes together, you’ll see how?—”
“Enough.” Fiona held up a hand. “I don’t need convincing, Vivien. I hired you to execute my vision, not to push yours. ”
Vivien felt the words hit like a slap. She understood, she really did—this was Fiona’s home, after all. But what Fiona was asking for wasn’t just an aesthetic choice. It was a gutting of everything that made this house special.
She thought about every time she had bitten her tongue to keep the peace, every time she had let someone else’s voice drown out her own. It was instinctual at this point. But this time? This time, she couldn’t do it.
She straightened her spine. “If I’m going to redesign this entire house, I am going to preserve its character. I can make it modern and contemporary, but I don’t want it to look like an asylum and neither do you.”
Fiona’s brows lifted, and for a brief moment, there was silence.
“Well. That’s a shame.” She rubbed her hands together as if suddenly she was as stressed as Vivien. “I would really prefer if you followed my direction. It would make this much easier. You don’t want me to find a different designer, do you?”
Vivien’s stomach clenched at the threat, and she remembered there was a fine line between having a backbone and being…out of a job. “I’ll do some research and get back to you with new ideas.”
Fiona walked past her, heading toward the front door. “Now, the other problem is in the kitchen.”
Vivien followed, thinking of the array of selections she’d left for Fiona to consider. “You don’t like the countertops, backsplash, paint, or flooring.”
“The paint will be white. Pure white, like all the walls. The flooring will be white tile, the quartz is fine, but the backsplash? No blue curves in this kitchen. Is that clear?” Sweeping into the room, she pointed to the tables, the samples obviously untouched. “Because this is…awful.”
She made it sound like Vivien had formed the porcelain with her own hands. “Let me guess. White?”
“Carry the quartz up the wall,” she said.
Vivien nodded. “I love that idea, but it’s very expensive. Would you consider a dark blue cabinet color then? Just to bring some dimension into the room.”
Fiona sighed, long enough that Vivien thought she might have made headway. “No,” she said. “I’ll stick with white.”
Of course she would. Vivien wanted to argue, to plead her case, but she knew it wouldn’t matter. She was skating on some seriously thin ice, and it was as cold and unforgiving as this woman and her sterile, one-dimensional asylum.
“Now, I don’t have any more time,” Fiona announced, swooping up her phone from the counter. “I have a video call scheduled. Danny’s upstairs, so if you want him to rip out that heinous wood, he can. Well, he can try.”
Danny was…upstairs? Like, in her bedroom? That was his car in front of the house? Not the wheels of any handyman she knew.
Fiona flipped over the phone and checked the time. “I have two minutes until this call. I’ll be in my office, and I do not want to be disturbed.” She waved the phone at the table. “Get these eyesore samples out of here.”
Before she could respond, Fiona turned on her heel and walked to the front of the house, closing the door of the first-floor office with a thud.
Vivien huffed out a breath, alone with her “eyesore” samples and a sick, sick feeling.
She had tried to stand up to the woman, but Fiona Buckman was a living, breathing bulldozer and even someone with a spine as strong as that quartz couldn’t fight the woman.
Tear out the molding?
She gave a whimper and walked back out to the staircase, glancing at the closed door to the study, hearing Fiona’s voice on the other side. Kneeling down, she ran a finger over the wood and wondered if she could just paint it the same color as the wall—that oh-so-vibrant pure white. Then it would just blend?—
“That’s a ridiculous amount of money.”
She froze at the man’s voice, glancing up to where she heard it, and heavy footsteps crossing the open hallway.
It was Hapless Handy…talking about money.
“I’m not going to do that to her,” Danny said, lowering his voice as if he thought someone—maybe the woman he was currently swindling—might hear him.
Vivien stepped back, out of his line of vision if he came to the top of the stairs.
“Fifty grand and not a penny more,” he said. “I know she doesn’t pay attention to her cash flow, but we’ll get caught short if we go any higher.”
Caught… doing what ? Emptying her account? And did he have a partner in this con?
His voice got louder as he came down the stairs, so now she couldn’t move. “I’m at Fiona’s, of course. Where else would I be, Harry?”
Harry? Who was?—
“Hello, again.” He reached the bottom of the stairs, a half-smile pulling at his face as he spotted her on the other side of the railing. “Hey, I gotta run,” he said into the phone, tapping the screen without taking his eyes off her.
Was he wondering how much she’d heard?
She straightened and took a good look, searching for clues. But all she saw was a man wearing a dark T-shirt and khaki shorts, a toolbox in one hand and his phone in the other. He was taller than she remembered, and now she could really see his face.
He was about fifty, so not exactly a “much younger lover,” although Fiona was at least sixty. He had black hair with threads of silver at the temples, and blue-gray eyes that seemed to spark with humor, as if he knew she knew and didn’t care.
“If she told you I can take off that wood she hates?” He angled his head toward the molding. “The answer is no. I don’t have the time or the talent.”
“But you do have a toolbox,” she said.
He gave a mirthless laugh. “Please. It’s a prop. But I’m starting to get the hang of it.”
He wasn’t even going to try and pretend he was a handyman?
“I was thinking we could paint it the same color as the wall,” she said.
“Don’t look at me,” he replied. “Paint is way above my pay grade.”
Was he serious ?
“Look, I’m just here because I love the woman, okay? And you have to in order to work for her…as I think, based on your expression, you figured out.”
“You…love her?” She tried, and failed, to keep the disbelief out of her voice.
“Well, I can’t say no to her.” He looked past her to the office, Fiona’s muffled voice coming through the door. “So, call that love if you want.”
He smiled and it changed his whole face, taking it from standard handsome features to…yeah, above standard handsome. She pushed the thought away and narrowed her eyes, trying to remember all the things Peter told her to look for—the money flow, expensive things, if he isolated Fiona.
“So, if that’s a prop…and painting is out of your league, why are you here?”
He studied her for a moment, looking like he might confide something, but then he shrugged.
“Look, she lost her husband a year ago and made the classic widow’s error—she bought a house she doesn’t know what to do with, has a business she might not know how to run, and inherited a mountain of money and needs help with it. And I’m not kidding when I say no one will work for her. The list is short. Basically, you and me.”
“She needs your help handling a mountain of money?”
He grinned then glanced down at his watch—a Rolex.
“Handling money is in my pay grade.” Then he grunted. “I’m late. See you around, Vivien. Unless she chews you up and spits you out like the last two designers. And the electrician. And the moron who installed the sprinkler system that I have, I’m happy to inform you, finally fixed.”
Laughing, he breezed by her and went out the door and, a few seconds later, she heard the purr of that German machine he drove.
Wait…what the heck just happened? Was he conning Fiona? Sleeping with her? A real boyfriend? She’d been widowed for less than a year! And had a mountain of inheritance ?
And what had he said to “Harry” on the call…she doesn’t pay attention to her cash flow? How convenient for him and his Rolex and BMW. The poor woman probably thinks he loves her, too.
Should she tell Fiona, or would that put Vivien right in the crosshairs like…the last two designers?
Dang. She was in a bind, and it didn’t look like there was any easy way out.