Chapter 3
Devon
*Ask Bea for workout playlists
*Email Nathalie from Live Your Best Life in Palm Springs
*Research other carpenters in the Coachella Valley
-Items from Devon’s to-do list, August 1st
“Hey there.” Allie rolls her knuckles against my open door as she walks into my bedroom. Her fair skin is freshly washed, leaving her round cheeks rosy and her long lashes standing out even more so than usual. She wears a black t-shirt that reads Death Before Decaf and cotton shorts that hug her thick hips and thighs. The familiar sight brings me comfort after a long day. “Sadie sent us cookies.” She holds up the tin and plops down cross-legged at the end of my bed.
“Was there a note in the box reading, ‘Great news, I broke up with my loser boyfriend, and I’m moving to Palm Springs’?” I ask, saving my work and spinning my desk chair around to face her.
“I wish,” Allie sighs, popping open the tin. “Hopefully soon.”
Sadie was my roommate in college, and Allie and I have stayed close with her ever since. She’s been dating the same guy forever, and he couldn’t be less worthy of her if he tried. Reaching for my planner, I make a quick note to call her tomorrow.
Allie points around the tin, giving me a tour of the baked goods. “These frosted ones are cinnamon. These are her amazing chocolate chip ones, and these are something raspberry and fancy.”
“Chocolate chip, please,” I say, reaching for the cookie she’s already holding out to me.
“I can’t remember you ever working late this much before,” my best friend says, green eyes wide as she nods toward my computer.
That’s because I haven’t.“It’s been pretty busy,” I offer with a shrug.
“I thought things might be a little easier on you after you hired Bea, no?” she asks, leaning over the edge of the bed, careful not to get crumbs on my white linen duvet as she bites into a fancy raspberry cookie. Instead, they fall on my hand-knotted rug. At least she tried.
The truth of it is, I’m working late every night to figure out a solution to Friday West’s financial predicament. When I hired Bea, I had just signed two big projects that should have been more than enough to keep us in the black for the foreseeable future, but both fell apart. The first was Lemon + Sway, and the second was a new build in Palm Desert.
A week and a half after signing their contract, the homeowners of the new build called to tell me they were ‘going in another direction’ with their design and they didn’t think a small firm like mine could handle it. They were willing to lose their deposit with me to work with Trina. I never found out what direction she took their design in, but their story was uncomfortably similar to what happened at Lemon + Sway. It was enough to make me believe Trina was intentionally trying to draw clients away from me.
Allie tilts her head, patiently waiting for an answer. It’s rare for me to keep secrets from her, and it turns my stomach a bit to do it. But the issues with my business cut too deep for me to share with anyone, with the exception of my detrimental moment of poor decision making with Rhett almost two months ago. I haven’t told Allie about that either.
Allie and I have been friends since middle school, so we both grew up in the UnofficialCaroline Blake School of How to Be a Young Woman Entrepreneur. My mother is an architect, and she has owned her own firm since the late nineties. She wanted Allie and me both to be prepared to start our own businesses as early as possible, so everything was a lesson. We did our homework first thing when we got home from school because “Free time isn’t truly free unless all of your responsibilities are taken care of.” We’d get marketing critiques with each box of Girl Scout cookies, and most importantly, she made sure we knew we were powerful and could accomplish anything to which we set our minds.
Allie runs a successful coffee shop, and she is opening a bar with her boyfriend next week. It turns out she learned my mom’s lessons far better than I did. I can’t let her know something slipped through the cracks on my end and I could lose everything.
I give her an answer that isn’t exactly a lie but hides the most painful part of the truth. “Bea carries a lot of weight for me. She’s amazing, but it’s not right for her to have to work late because I overcommitted.”
Allie hums, rolling her lips together. She knows that’s not all of it, but she gives me the space I need, changing the subject. “Did she tell you she’s donating a private barre class for our silent auction?” Allie’s a bleeding heart, and I love her all the more for it. She found out about a senior dog rescue in Palm Springs that was running out of space and immediately started planning an event to raise money even though she’s also in the middle of a remodel and opening a new business.
“We talked about it this morning actually,” I answer. “How’s that coming, by the way? Anything I can do to help?”
Allie’s bright laughter pulls her face into a smile. “Honestly, the fact that you’re in charge of the remodel is giving me time to focus on the auction.” She points toward my laptop. “You already do too much.”
“I mean, you’re paying me.” Trina may have taken the Lemon + Sway project, but she never had a chance at Allie’s bar, Voyeur Café. Allie opened her coffee shop six years ago when we moved to Palm Springs together, and it was the first commercial design I’d ever done. At the time, I’d just started working for Trina, but managed to do it on nights and weekends on my own. The bar opens in the same space next week, so it’ll house both of Allie’s businesses. “How about I donate something for the auction. Would two weeks of design time work?”
“It would be amazing.” She hesitates for a long moment before adding, “But do you have time for that?”
“I will always make time for you.” I’m busier than I’ve ever been, but I know how to manage my schedule. If squeezing in two weeks of free design time helps Allie and the dogs, it’s worth moving things around. And maybe sleeping a little less.
“I’m doing all the paperwork to get the auction listing set up for you though.” Allie uncrosses her legs and slides off the end of my bed.
“Thanks, Al.” She’s not wrong about how much time I’ve spent working lately, and even though part of me wishes she hadn’t noticed, I’m mostly grateful that she did.
“I think you need a proper vacation.” She holds out the cookie tin for me one more time, and I take another chocolate chip. “But since I know that’s a hard sell, I’m claiming you for Taco Tuesday next week, instead. Okay?”
I swivel my chair back around to face my desk. “Putting it on my calendar right now.”
After Allie walks out, I send a text to Sadie.
Me: These cookies are a lifesaver.
Sadie: So happy you like them! Love you girls.
Me: Did you break up with him yet?
Sadie: Devon! You can’t text me shit like that. He might see.
Me: Change your password.
Me: And break up with him.
§
The beat drops in my headphones right as my feet hit the road on the longest stretch of my run without stoplights. My heart rate is high, but my breathing is strong, and my speed catches up to the music. Left. Right. Left. Right. Buzz. A text vibrates my phone. It’s six in the morning. It can wait. Left. Right. Left. Buzz. I’ll be home in half an hour. It can wait. The next buzz isn’t the short text notification. It’s ringing. I give in and check. It’s Alex, the general contractor on three different projects I’m working.
“Yes,” I answer, doing my best to conceal my breathlessness.
“A pipe burst at the Calle Vista house. Whole first floor is flooded.” Good morning to you too.
I breathe in through my nose. Out through my mouth. “That’s not great.”
“No shit, it’s not great,” Alex barks. “It wasn’t my guys who let this happen. You need to get over here and clean up your mess.”
The plumbing in that house is over sixty years old. It wasn’t anyone’s guys who caused this. “Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m fucking here. That fancy ass wallpaper you talked them into is ruined,” he adds, irritation thick in his voice.
“The hand-painted geometric for the upstairs office?” I lean against a nearby fence, still working to regain my breath. “That was supposed to be installed two days ago.”
“You never told me that.” Yes, I did. “We found it rolled up in the corner of the dining room, and now it’s mush.”
In through my nose. Out through my mouth.“I’ll be there in thirty.”
“Thirty minutes? How far away do you fucking live?” he protests.
I hang up, gazing longingly at the missed portion of my run before turning back toward home. There is a wide range of what’s considered a design emergency. Most things are not as serious as people make them out to be, but a burst pipe and a flooded mid-remodel house? This one counts.
My phone rings four more times on my ten-minute run home. Twice from Alex, who is probably mad I hung up on him. Once from the homeowner who can only be described as losing her ever-loving shit. Once from Bea, who Alex had no right to call this early, but is blessedly going to meet me at the house with coffee after her barre class.
My morning routine prioritizes ease. Usually, I go for a run, take a long shower, blow dry my hair, and catch up on my gossip podcasts over breakfast. Today, I have to skip it all and show up to the jobsite with sweat-mussed hair and still in my workout clothes.
So, obviously the first thing I see when I turn onto Calle Vista is Rhett’s truck.
Rhett is reckless and nonchalant, the exact opposite of my type and the last person whose opinion I should value. But somewhere in my brain there is a disconnect because I am helplessly attracted to him. I get obnoxious little butterflies every time I hear his voice when I walk onto a jobsite. And when he smirks at me, I hear his slow southern voice saying, ‘You’ll be calling me daddy soon enough.’
It’ll pass. I’ll make sure of it.
No one’s living in the Calle Vista House while it’s under construction, so the burst pipe was likely flooding it for hours before anyone was here to notice. Water squelches under my running shoes as I walk around and assess the damage.
When I round a corner into the dining room one of Alex’s subcontractors says, “Whew, tight pants today. Showing off for us?” Before I can respond, Rhett’s there, saying something to him in a low growl that I can’t make out. Whatever it is causes the guy to apologize to me.
Rhett looks confused when I send him an irritated glare. I can handle myself without his help, but apparently the obnoxious butterflies don’t know that, because they make an appearance anyway.
“You’re finally here,” Alex says, misdirecting his frustration to me when he joins me in the soaked dining room. We walk through the house together, and he gives me a thorough update on what I missed by ‘sleeping in’ making a point to emphasize that this can’t possibly be his fault. The damage isn’t the worst I’ve seen, but it will put this project on hold for at least a few months. Which means, it’ll put the income Friday West is getting from this project on hold for a few months as well.
Alex and I part ways at the garage, where most of the materials that were waiting to be installed were stored, and the flooding is the worst. There are half a dozen people sorting through boxes and moving things out to the patio, including Rhett, who’s crouched low, assessing stacks of wood.
“How is it looking?” I ask him.
He stands up to his full, impressive height, ignoring his task in favor of giving me his complete attention. “Only the bottom six or seven boards in each pile are soaked. The weight of the dry boards should stop most of the warping if we stack them on top of the wet ones outside. I’m thinking we can salvage most of it.”
There is a long list of other things that could use my attention, but I find myself asking, “You need help getting it all out there?”
He cocks his head at me, raising his brows in surprise. “Are you offering?”
“I have time.” I shrug, sliding on a pair of gloves.
“How many can you lift?” he asks.
I’m tempted to say as many as you can, but his biceps flex as he tests the weight of the boards, and I know that can’t be true. “Let me see.” I grab the edges of a few and check. Probably two, comfortably.
“You don’t have to strain yourself. We’ll take as many trips as we need,” he says when I put the boards down.
“Three,” I answer.
“Alright.” He smiles, lifting the edges of three boards. “Make sure you—”
“If you tell me to lift with my legs, McCoy—” I let my glare finish my sentence.
“Alright.” He laughs, the sound full and clear, in opposition to the tense energy of everyone around us. Rhett walks backwards around the garage, and I warn him of debris and jutting edges as we go, careful not to let on that these are a little too heavy for me.
On our fifth trip to the back patio, I’m beginning to think being honest about my lifting limitations would have been wise, but fortunately Bea shows up before I have to admit defeat. She’s still dressed from the barre class she taught, wearing black bike shorts and an oversized Gin-Blossoms t-shirt with chunky white sneakers. She pushes thick-framed neon orange sunglasses into her espresso-brown hair, shining a warm smile at both of us before passing out coffees from a cardboard tray.
“Tell me what I did to land on the gets-coffee-delivered-to-the-jobsite list so I can keep doing it,” he says, accepting an iced drink.
“Allie sent it,” Bea answers, before sipping her own drink. Between the custom tables and all the new cabinetry, Rhett’s been around Turbine a lot lately. She’s probably trying to adopt him into our circle, make him feel welcome. It’s her way. Of course, if I weren’t keeping so many secrets from my best friend she’d know that I need to keep my distance from him every way I can manage, and she’d give him the cold shoulder immediately. But I haven’t told her.
Rhett finds someone else to help him finish unloading the boards from the garage, so Bea and I can take inventory of all the damaged items and materials. We’re able to get a list of what needs to be reordered quickly enough to leave time for me to go home and shower before our lunch presentation for the Shephard ranch.
It’s a project I know we’re going up against Trina for, and the one I want most. The scope is very involved, meaning steady income for a long time. But more than that, the house has great bones, lots of natural light, and quite a few original mid-century features that we want to work into our design. I know Trina will want to rip them out instead, and I’m banking on the Shephards’ desire to preserve the home’s history to help sell our design. We’ve met with them twice now, but today is our final presentation before they decide who to hire.
Connie Shephard is a punctual person, so when the clock ticks to fifteen past, I know something’s wrong. She doesn’t answer my call, but Bea and I get a group text message a minute later.
Connie: Sorry to cancel with so little notice. We went with someone else. Hope you didn’t go to too much trouble today. You girls are great!
Bea and I check our phones in unison. One more tally for Trina Boatswain Design.
“Been a hot minute since I received a break-up text,” Bea says, breaking the tension. “And just like when this happened in high school, we don’t want people in our lives who would treat us that way.” For a moment, I marvel that she hasn’t been broken up with over text since high school.
“You’re right.” I allow myself a couple deep breaths to dwell in the disappointment before I brush it off. “There will always be something better.”
“What’s meant for us will come to us,” she smiles, looking over at the presentation we had set up for Connie. “I am sorry for all the work you put into this, though. I know you’ve been working a lot of late nights.”
“Did Allie tell on me?”
“She did, and I see the timestamps on your emails.” Bea raps her grass-green manicured nails against her walnut desk. “You shouldn’t be sending anything to clients after six, Devon, or they’ll expect you to work all hours.”
I can’t help but laugh. “I do work all hours.”
“I’m going to teach you work-life boundaries eventually.” Bea walks over to the marble dining table that serves as a conference area in our office. “Come eat with me, but I call dibs on Connie’s chicken salad sandwich.”
“As long as I get the extra pickle,” I say, joining her at the table.
“You’ve got a deal.” She unpacks the food from the to-go bag. “Dev, I’ve got to ask,” she pauses, considering her words, “I know you’re pushing for some big projects, and we haven’t had a whole lot of luck getting them.” I nod in agreement, letting her sort out her thoughts before interjecting. Her intense hazel eyes settle on me. “Are things okay for Friday West?”
Bea’s perceptive in all situations. As a barre teacher, she always knows when to push me harder and when I need to take it easy in class. As a friend, she has a way of understanding when to give advice and when to listen. As the only other person working at Friday West Interiors, of course, she can see the cracks forming in our foundation.
Another lesson my mom taught us was to never be friends with employees, because it makes things messy. It’s good advice, but I ignored it because Bea was the perfect person for this job. No one else in Palm Springs would work as well with me or with our clients. Now, though, it’s not only my friend asking if my company is in financial trouble, it’s also my employee.
“Things have been better,” I answer, wanting to be direct without giving away too much. “But you do not need to worry. I have it handled.” We have enough to keep us going for the next few months, and I am not giving up. Losing Bea as an employee is the absolute last thing I’d allow to happen to Friday West. There have been some major setbacks lately, but we’re hardly out of options.
Bea folds her light-tan arms in front of her on the honed marble table. “I’m not worried about me, but I think you’re spread too thin—”
My phone rings, saving me from an echo of the conversation I had with Allie last night.
“The lights are all wrong,” the hectic voice of Joanie Birch, another of our clients, comes through the line, referencing the custom pendants for her kitchen that were delivered this morning. I check my watch. And were supposed to be installed half an hour ago.
“How so?” I ask.
“They’re huge! Way too big. I cannot live with them. You have to get them out of here.”
I mouth Joanie’s name to Bea, who’s teasing her shag haircut with her fingertips in the reflection of a mirror across the room. She raises her brows, nodding in understanding. This was not unexpected.
I pull out my planner, scanning through my schedule for the afternoon. “Have they been installed yet?”
“No,” Joanie snipes. “I wouldn’t let them install these. Are you kidding? They look ridiculous.”
It takes a couple minutes, but I convince her to send me a picture. The pendants are exactly what we created renderings off, she signed off on, and we custom ordered for her. But, sitting on the kitchen counter, instead of hanging from her eleven-foot ceilings, they look ridiculous.
“I’ll head over there in a few minutes, and we can get this sorted out together.” I say, crossing Shephard Presentation off of my calendar and replacing it with Birch Lighting. She agrees, somewhat reluctantly, but I’m sure I’ll be able to talk to her down in person.
After we hang up the call, Bea taps the to-go container that holds my salad with her fork. “You have to eat this before you leave.”
The rest of the day follows a similar path, filling up with disasters, big and small, without getting to check a single thing off of my original to do list. But fortunately, it’s Monday, and I have a standing appointment for a massage after work.
I call Sadie on my drive over. “Devon,” her voice comes through the speakers in my car, quieter than usual.
“Hey, gorgeous. Those cookies you sent were everything.”
“It’s all I could do from here.” A heavy door closes in the background, and her voice gets louder. “You both have so much going on.”
“Are you coming down for Allie’s grand opening?” I ask, slowing my car as I come up to a stop sign.
“Hopefully, yeah.” Another door closes in the background.
My eyes narrow into a glare no one can see. “Did you just get in your car so you could talk to me?”
“I don’t want Jared to hear,” Sadie answers, her voice growing more animated with each word. “You’ll never believe what he did last weekend.”
“Bet I will.” Maybe it’s unkind of me, but I hope it was something awful enough that she’ll finally leave him.
“He told me he was going on like a guys’ trip to Seattle, right? But I follow all his friends and their girlfriends online. And one of the girlfriends was posting pictures in Seattle last weekend too, and I was like. That’s weird. And so, I did some more digging, and a lot of the other girlfriends were in Seattle.” My heart sinks, guilt twisting in my stomach for wishing he’d done something awful just a moment ago. “And then I found pictures of a couple girls who weren’t girlfriends—”
“Sadie,” I exhale with a sigh.
“I know,” she responds, voice growing quiet again.
“You deserve better,” I say, willing her to believe it.
“I know,” she says, the defeat in her voice implying the opposite.
“Do you?” I ask, turning out of my neighborhood.
“I do. I do. But we live together. We’ve been together forever. We have all the same friends.” Sadie lists the familiar excuses.
“Not all the same friends,” I object.
“Okay, other than you and Allie.”
“You can always come live with us. Honestly, I’d be shocked if Allie didn’t move in with Luke soon, so there’ll be even more room in the house.” I consider telling her that it would help me financially not to be covering rent for the house all by myself, admitting that I’ll be lonely without Allie in the house, telling her how much it would mean to have her here right now, but that would be too manipulative. If Sadie’s going to leave Jared and move here, it has to be her choice.
We have to cut our call short when I reach my appointment but agree to talk on my way home. Sam, my massage therapist, greets me and doesn’t say another word for the following hour. He’s one of my favorite people, and I barely know a thing about him. My racing thoughts calm, and I’m able to enjoy the reprieve of a clear mind. Make time for yourself isn’t one of my mom’s business rules, but it’s one of mine.
Bea likes to point out my lack of boundaries between work and personal life, saying I don’t make time for myself. But I have weekly massages, bi-weekly manicures, and I get my hair done every five weeks. Someday, I’d like to have self-care time I don’t have to build into a schedule, but until then what I have works for me.
Sadie is waiting in line at a fast-food drive through when I call her back. We stay on the phone for my drive home, while I make dinner and she eats hers in her car, and while I get ready for an early night in. She shares more details about everything she dug up on social media, the huge fight she got into with Jared about it, and the way he gaslit her—which she struggled to admit. She never outright says he cheated, but all the signs are there. We even go over some logistical details on what it would take for her to move here.
When we hang up, my hair is brushed, face is washed, and skincare is applied. I pull on my favorite cream-colored satin shorts and camisole sleep combo, tuck my legs under my duvet, and grab my cup of tea from the nightstand. I’m turning on the podcast I didn’t get to listen to over breakfast when a text from Rhett comes through. He doesn’t text me. After deliberating briefly which would disturb my peaceful evening more—reading his text or not reading it—I check.
Rhett: Alex said we’re starting a new job next week. Shephard something. Is that you?
I was wrong. This is more disturbing. His text is a glaring reminder of why I can’t allow myself to get involved with someone at work again. I told Rhett I have a rival and I could lose my business because of her, and I can’t fool myself into believing he’d forget. I never gave him Trina’s name, but it’s a small enough city that he’s undoubtedly figured it out. I’ve suspected for a while that he works on her jobs too, and now I have confirmation. She can’t find out how well her threats to my business are working. This is not great. I let my read receipt speak for itself and put my phone on Do Not Disturb.