18. Vivien
D espite the long drive and late arrival at her townhouse, Vivien woke early the morning of her meeting with the Hoffmans. Coffee in hand, she prowled her two-story unit, trying to imagine coming back here for good after the days in Destin.
And all she could conjure up was a deep sense of sadness and loss.
“I kind of hate this place,” she admitted to the empty rooms.
Hated it enough that she not only dreaded coming back, she couldn’t wait to leave. So much that she took a shower earlier than necessary. After she did her makeup, she stepped into her closet, which seemed small and unfamiliar after the massive one she had in Destin.
She picked an outfit and stepped to the dresser to open her jewelry box, inhaling softly at the sight of her engagement and wedding rings tucked into velvet slots. She’d cried when she’d taken them off, she remembered.
Very slowly, she lifted the wedding ring, which always meant more to her than the solitaire diamond Ryan had given her when he asked her to marry him. It was this ring that said forever , this circle of gold that meant they were well and truly one.
She slipped it on her finger, getting a hard punch at her heart. She tried to remember how it felt the first time she wore it—blissful—and the million times she’d looked at it since then. Mostly happy, always satisfied, and never sorry she’d put this band of gold on her finger.
It was loose now since she’d lost a little weight over the past year, and looked…wrong. That was a win, she supposed. That was?—
She startled at a loud bang on the front door. Turning, she hustled downstairs and peeked out, seeing her neighbor, Lorraine.
“Oh, hey, there,” she said, opening the door.
The other woman held out a packet of mail, smiling warmly. Lorraine was a very chatty retiree guaranteed to turn five minutes into fifteen—or more. Right now, Vivien was not up for small talk.
“Hi, Vivien. Your daughter asked me to grab your mail while she was gone and I saw your car, so here you go. How was your trip?”
“Thank you,” she replied, taking the letters. “It’s actually not over. I just had to run up here for a meeting today.”
“Oh, I love Florida,” the other woman said. “Have you been to Sanibel Island? So pretty there, if you like?—”
“I’m so sorry, Lorraine, I’m just running out the door for my appointment.” She reached to her right and grabbed her purse and tablet from the entry table where she’d left them last night. “Thank you for getting the mail. We might be gone a while longer, so I’ll stop the mail and you won’t have to be bothered.”
She stepped out and pulled the door behind her, tapping the electronic keypad, chatting about nothing and then cutting short what could have been a long conversation.
With a friendly goodbye and some more thanks for the mail, she climbed into her Highlander, gave Lorraine a warm wave, and headed up to Johns Creek.
Traffic wasn’t bad at all, and she pulled into the Serene Hills development along with plenty of construction trucks. The entry gate that would keep out solicitors and intruders when construction was complete gaped open now, allowing subcontractors to get in and out while the new neighborhood was built.
She drove carefully, praying she didn’t get a flat on a random nail, passing lots in various stages of build-out. Ryan had contracted almost half the homes in Phase 1, a coup at the time. Back then, things had been good between them.
He had, in fact, credited her astounding design of the model for his success in the early days of bidding on lots. Buyers walked through that finished home and were ready to sign for one of their own.
Thinking of that design and realizing she had forty-five minutes to kill, she turned at the first road, heading off the main drag to the sales office and model homes.
She’d totally forgotten how spectacular that model had been, with a fabulous “organic modern” timeless style. If it was open now, she could get some pictures for her website, and a few of the main bedroom’s built-in entertainment center that she wanted to duplicate in the Summer House.
She parked and walked right into the two-story model, hearing some voices as she entered. A woman popped out from the guest suite and smiled, her crisp jacket bearing the logo of one of the real estate firms handling Serene Hills, but Vivien didn’t recognize her.
“I’m with some customers right now if you want to grab a brochure and peek around,” the woman said. “Then I’ll be right with you.”
Vivien nodded thanks, not bothering to explain why she was there.
She bypassed the brochures and walked upstairs, past the loft that she’d styled as a combo study-room and hangout area for teens, with a wall of storage that worked for toys for younger families. She’d put touches like that everywhere, offering lifestyle flexibility that buyers loved.
She made a mental note to get a picture and use that on her website, too.
Walking around the corner, she stepped into the main suite and smiled, still in love with the blend of neutrals, the textured grass wallpaper and thick columned drapes, and that jaw-dropper of a chandelier.
As she took her phone out to take a picture, she heard the Realtor coming up the stairs.
“It’s well over four thousand square feet,” she said. “And every inch has been made more beautiful by the keen eye of Una Tatum, a master designer.”
Vivien froze. Excuse me?
“Una works very closely with Ryan Knight Homes creating stunning designs,” the Realtor continued. “He can work the cost of a professional designer—absolutely the best in the Atlanta area—into your contract. Ms. Tatum can make your home look as beautiful as she made this one.”
“What?” she croaked the word in disbelief.
“Excuse me one second,” the woman said. “Take a good look at this study-TV combo. That storage works for toddlers with toys and can be transformed into an entertainment area for teens. That makes this house one you’ll stay in for years. That’s how Ms. Tatum designs.”
With fury surging up her spine, Vivien whipped around, coming face to face with the woman who entered the room.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am, but I’m with a very serious buyer right now. Can you come back?—”
“Una Tatum did not design this house,” she ground out the words, not wanting to take her anger out on the stranger.
The woman drew back, clearly not expecting that. “Yes, she did. She works closely with Ryan?—”
“No, no.” Vivien rooted for calm professionalism. “There’s definitely been a mistake, but I’m sure they’ll fix it. Actually, I designed it. Quite…lovingly, I might add.”
The woman cocked her head, as if she were uncertain if this could be true or if Vivien was just a delusional snoop poking around model homes.
“You see, I’m married to Ryan Knight—well…” She held up her hands, noticing the ring she’d forgotten to take off when the neighbor arrived. “I mean, I was, or am about to not be…” She gave an awkward laugh. “Anyway, not important. I just…you know. Pride and all. I picked everything in this house. Even that chandelier. Me. I’m Vivien Law—Knight. Well, Lawson…”
She closed her eyes and sighed, hating the look of disdain and pity on the other woman’s face.
“It’s on the brochure,” the lady said. “Designed and staged by Una Tatum. With her logo. So…I don’t know…”
But she knew. Vivien knew exactly what was going on.
“Of course. Not your…problem. Thank you. I’ll just…” She gestured toward the steps, walking past the couple who stood looking even more confused in the hallway. “Good luck,” she murmured to them with a tight smile, unable to make eye contact.
She was vibrating with emotion as she strode downstairs, her hands shaking when she snapped a brochure from the pile and stuffed it into her bag.
Do Ryan a solid ? Take the high road ? Be friends because divorce is longer than marriage?
Oh, hell, no.
This was cheating. This was fraud. This was wrong on every level, and no one knew that better than a woman whose father went to jail for that kind of crime. It would not be perpetrated on her.
Vivien almost called Lacey on the short drive to the other side of the neighborhood just to vent, but decided her time was better spent calming down. Taking deep breaths, she got her heart rate to something resembling normal and managed to stop trembling.
She’d gone through a litany of opening lines from, “How dare you!” to, “I’ll sue you!”—none of which truly captured just how indignant she was over this egregious breach of ethics.
If she was going to sue anyone, it would be Una Tatum, who surely knew she was being given credit for Vivien’s designs. But first, she was going to rip Ryan Knight from one end of Serene Hills to the other and if the Hoffmans were there to witness it, all the better.
She pulled up to the address he’d sent when she’d texted him that she’d be up today, seeing only one car—a two-seater Lexus convertible. Either that belonged to Miranda and Sam, or Ryan got a new car, which would be a classic midlife crisis move.
Maybe it was Una! Surely she wouldn’t have the nerve to show her face to Vivien!
She threw open the SUV door with way more force than necessary, grabbed her purse and yanked out the crumpled flyer.
She shook it out and angled it to the sun, fighting back a very dark word when she saw the scroll-like logo for UTD, which sounded more like a disease than the Una Tatum Designs acronym.
Huffing out a breath, she slammed the door and marched to the front patio. Which, she noticed with a cringe, was painted black. Ouch. She hated that trend. Very popular but, in her opinion, very ugly, and the owners would be repainting it in two years.
In front of the door, she glanced down and saw the UTD logo again, this time woven on the doormat.
She took it as a reminder not to be a doormat. Not this time. No matter what he said, she would not let him get away with this.
She didn’t knock, but squeezed the oversized—too big for the door—knob and pushed into the entryway. She took a moment to inhale one more time, getting a whiff of fresh paint and that overpriced sandalwood cologne that Ryan loved.
So he bought a Lexus convertible. What a cliché.
“Ryan!”
“Oh, Viv, you’re early!” She heard his voice from above, drawing her eye up a set of open tread stairs that screamed mid-century modern but had no warmth and no grandeur.
He appeared at the top, wearing a white shirt, a tie, and dress pants—the picture of a successful builder meeting with wealthy clients. Also the picture of someone whose eyes she wanted to scratch out.
“Hey,” he said, jogging down the stairs. “I didn’t think you?—”
“You didn’t think at all.” She spat out the words, making him do a double-take.
“What’s wrong, Viv?”
“What’s wrong ? This!” She came closer and waved the creased brochure at him. “Designed by Una Tatum? The model I sweat blood to make perfect?”
He shuttered his eyes like she was a whining child who needed to be put in her place.
“It’s called business , Vivien, and it’s how people make money. Money that will, ultimately, be shared with you under the generous divorce settlement I have agreed to.”
She took another breath, this one so full of vitriol she felt her nostrils flare. “You will not let her take credit for my work.”
“Yes,” he said simply, sliding his hands into his pockets. “I will. Because it’s my company and I can do what I want and all she has to do is switch out a pillow and it’s no longer yours.”
Was he serious? “How…what…why…”
He gave the slightest smile at her loss of words, pure condescension and victory.
“Come on, Viv. Don’t get your panties in a bunch. It’s about money and I told you, if you’ll give me some great pointers for this place, I’ll pay you well. Very well. Now, let’s look at the living room. I think we went a little overboard with the black paint on all the woodwork, so I was wondering if you?—”
“No.”
He gave her a blank look, like he didn’t understand the simple two-letter power word that she hadn’t used enough in her marriage.
“I mean it, Ryan. I will not do this for you, and you will not let her take credit for my work.”
“No one is getting hurt by it, Viv. It sells houses. Her name is a brand—a strong brand—and putting it on the house gets us all more money.” He breezed by her and gestured toward the back of the house. “Skip the living room, I know what you’re going to say. Too edgy. I like it, but the Hoffmans are old school, you know? Come and look at?—”
“Ryan.” She ground out the word, not moving. “This is going to end right here, right now.”
He stopped without turning, letting out a frustrated breath. “I knew this was a mistake.”
“Then why did you call me?”
He didn’t answer and still didn’t turn.
“Because no one else would help you,” she guessed, knowing she was right. Design was a small world in Atlanta, and this was a smarmy thing to do.
She took a few steps across the marble floor so she didn’t have to raise her voice.
“Because everyone knows that you are going to give credit to your new girlfriend and not the real designer.”
“Oh, so you’re jealous?”
She snorted and rolled her eyes.
“Look, Vivien, overlapping designs and sharing credit is common in your business, just like?—”
“It’s called stealing ,” she fired back, feeling a punch of clarity as she realized just why this made her so deeply distraught. “It might be common, but it is exactly what put my father in prison thirty years ago. You might think it’s no big deal, but I happen to know it’s a very big deal. And I have no qualms seeing you pay the price for it.”
He finally turned. “You’d do that to your husband?”
“My ex- husband,” she reminded him.
“Not yet,” he said, walking toward her. “Please don’t forget I still have the power to change that divorce decree quite easily. I don’t have to pay you a red cent if you turn on me. We’re not divorced, so?—”
“You’re not ?”
They both whipped around at the words, delivered with sharp precision and disbelief from a woman who’d just silently pushed the unlatched front door wide open. She strode in, five-foot-one inches of big hair and skinny jeans and really expensive boots.
“Convenient that you never mentioned that, Ryan.”
“Una! I didn’t expect you…” His voice faded as he looked from one woman to the other. “Who called you?”
“The new admin at Ryan Knight Homes that I got to help you out? She’s my niece and she got a heads-up from a Realtor at the model. I happen to be working down the street.” She crossed her arms and stared daggers at him. “You’re still married ?”
“That’s not…relevant.”
“It is to me,” she scoffed, sliding a coffee-brown gaze to Vivien. “I’m Una Tatum. You must be the not ex-wife. Vivien? I really like your work.”
She blinked at the unexpected compliment. “Thank you,” she mumbled, resisting the urge to say something far less polite.
“And I thought I liked your husband,” she added dryly. “But that’s when he told me he was divorced.”
“The divorce is almost final,” Ryan said.
“Really? Because your wife is wearing a wedding ring .”
Vivien sucked in a breath and touched the ring she’d completely forgotten she was wearing.
“I do have a line in the sand,” Una announced. “Although it might not seem like it under the circumstances. I don’t do married men—never have, never will. Obviously, she didn’t leave you high and dry and take money from you like you told me she did when you oh-so-smoothly persuaded me to put my name on that model. Fraud isn’t ‘in her blood,’ like you said it was, but it might be in yours.”
Vivien spun, tearing her attention from the woman to Ryan as a flash of white-hot anger rocked her. “You told her what ?”
“Look, listen, I’m just…” He held up both hands, clearly the one drowning now. “I’m sorry. Both of you.”
“Keep your apologies,” Vivien said, the need to get out of this house and away from these people stronger than anything she’d felt in a long time. “I’m leaving. Just fix the name and give my work the credit it’s due.”
“Come on, Viv.”
“Do not ‘come on, Viv’ me. We’re done.” She turned her back to Ryan, her sights on the open door and her escape.
“Vivien.”
Ignoring him, she brushed past the other woman and walked to the door.
“Vivien Knight!” he yelled.
She pivoted to stare at him for one dark, raging second.
“It’s Vivien Lawson ,” she said, barely above a whisper. “As in Vivien Lawson Designs. As in your very-soon-to-be ex-wife. As in a free, strong, single woman who doesn’t need you and never did.”
Stepping out, she looked down at the doormat, giving it a little kick as she stepped on it, spinning it to a satisfyingly crooked angle.
You are a doormat no more, Vivien Lawson.
She strode to her car, relieved that Una had parked on the street. She couldn’t get out fast?—
“Ms. Lawson? Can I talk to you?” Una rushed out of the house after Vivien.
“No.” Ooh , she was starting to really like the sound of that word on her lips.
“Please.”
She put her hand on the door handle but stopped, waiting for the other woman to trot over in her red-bottomed boots.
“Listen, he painted an entirely different picture! He said you stole other people’s work and that’s why he?—”
“Stop,” Vivien said, pointing right in her face. “I don’t want to hear your excuses or his lies. Una, that man in there is all yours. But…” She leaned a little lower to get closer to the petite woman. “My work is not.”
“I didn’t?—”
Vivien shoved the crumpled flyer at her. “If you ever so much as claim a paint color I picked as yours, I will sue you from here to eternity. I will ruin your name and wreck your business and take you down. Is that clear?”
Una took the flyer, holding Vivien’s gaze, a flicker of surprise in her brown eyes. “Huh. Weird. He said you were kind of a pushover.”
Vivien smiled as she yanked open the door and slid into the driver’s seat.
“Well, Una, he was wrong. Now, unless you want me to run over those two-thousand-dollar boots, you better move. I have a beach house to get to.”