Chapter 11
Maya and I meet at the Daniel House bright and early to get a handle on the work this property will require. It’s been a week
since we met Jade and Douglas and first saw the place, and now that we’re back, we need a plan for the overall layout and
the scope of work involved. Big-picture design is the name of the day.
“Did you see this water damage under the sink?” Maya calls from inside a kitchen cabinet.
I’m clicking through my proposed floor plan on my laptop set on a makeshift desk of stacked boxes by the staircase. “Under
the sink?” I pull off my reading glasses and head into the kitchen. “I haven’t looked through there that closely yet.”
I can’t help but run a hand over the swoony woodwork on the doorway as I pass through, a wide trim with ornately carved borders.
I grab a flashlight from the toolbox and slide onto my knees beside Maya. The damage is obvious as soon as the light hits
it.
“Yikes. We’ll have to have Sam come out to look and tell us what he can do.” I pull myself upright, take out my phone, and
shoot Sam a quick text.
Maya pulls off her work gloves. “How’s the proposal coming for the board?”
I turn and head back to my makeshift computer stand in the foyer, and Maya follows.
We signed the contract for work two days ago, after agreeing to mutually positive terms, and we’re cleared to start the clean-out.
In the house’s current state, that mostly includes scraping paint off wood molding, pulling down outdated wallpaper, and repairing
any wood or siding that’s damaged. It’s delicate work. Before we start any rehabbing, we’ll need to get a design proposal
approved by the board. I’m not concerned about the proposal, but it will be a while before this place starts looking pretty.
I grab the computer and turn it so she can see. “I mean, I love it, but I’m sure the Dragon will have more than her fair share of comments.”
Maya scans the blueprint. The kitchen design maximizes every inch of space—enough to accommodate catering for board meetings
or a dreaded event of reasonable size. The living areas are mostly open, which will allow for the furniture to dictate the use. Arguably, furniture
could be moved in and out, rented for some occasions.
“I see what you’ve done here,” Maya says with a grin.
I shrug. “It makes sense to take care of the basics and let the space be flexible.”
“And upstairs?”
I click over. “It’s going to stay the same, minus the looks. I’m not changing the original room layout, even though Magnolia
asked. I wouldn’t be doing my preservation job if I did.”
“She sure does think she’s the queen of the low country, suggesting you blast those walls.”
I stretch my palms out beside me, suck in a deep breath, and spring to life with an animatronic smile.
“What on earth was that?” Maya sputters.
“Tried-and-true tactic for dealing with my mother: zipping it all up and acting pretty,” I say. “It’s just that by now I’m also excellent at using guerrilla warfare behind the scenes to get my way. I told you I know how to work this situation.”
Maya grins. “She deserves to be twisted a little herself.”
“And the church said amen,” I say.
Maya leans toward the computer screen.
“But yes, the designs,” I say, regaining my focus. “I don’t think we’ll have an issue with this blueprint, so once they sign
off on it, we can move ahead with construction.”
Maya stands upright. “And we should be good on budget, based on this.”
Together we head to the front porch. The cover offers a welcome shade, but beyond it the bright sun highlights the desert
quality of the front yard—crumbly brown, scorched, like a potted plant left unattended on a windowsill. It’s an expansive
area that slopes gently up to the house, cut only by the brick path that grades upward in long steps. The lawn and surrounding
beds should be grand and lush and draw the eye delightfully to the stunning home. But for now, it’s a reminder of how far
we have to go.
“Have you heard anything from Fitz?” Maya asks. “We need to get going on our Exquisite Interiors audition materials.”
I drop onto the front porch steps, and Maya plops down beside me. The warm, muggy air wraps us, and it’s as if I can feel
the baby hairs at the nape of my neck curl in real time.
“I got a crazy number of emojis when I told him about the audition, but nothing else. I guess it’s time for us to start making
the tape?” I ask.
“Yup,” Maya says. “We can use our standard portfolio, though we should give it a once-over to make sure it includes all things
camera ready.”
“What’s the deadline?” I ask. “This house is far from finished, and we want them to see how good we can make it.”
“Deadline is as soon as possible,” Maya says. “Coco said they’re really hoping to decide within a month or so, but they’ll
also hold out for the right people.”
“A month is tight,” I say.
Not to mention everything else going on in my life: Hallie at home, an ex-husband bound and determined to make things difficult,
and a once-summer-love moved in next door.
Maya nods. “I know. They said it doesn’t need to be perfect, but they want to see your style, your personality on camera.”
I drop my head and examine the tuft of weeds growing up between the bricks in front of me. I think about this endeavor practically—specifically,
the fact that I’ll be on camera, the real filming required to make a show. Just because I’m a strong designer does not mean
I have the cool and charisma of a television personality. In fact, those are qualities I never would’ve assigned myself.
“I’ll need a cohost,” I say. “I’m up for this, but I need a friend at my side.”
“I think we both know who that’ll be,” Maya says, her mouth slowly lifting into a smile. “It has to be Fitz. I, on the other
hand, am literally known among my family for freezing on school picture day. Like, there’s an actual montage of me looking like a deer in professional-grade
headlights years K through seventh grade.”
“Fitz was a theater kid through college, and he might just fire me as a friend if he isn’t asked first,” I say. “But the montage you mentioned? That I need to see.”
Maya slides out her phone and begins searching for the photographic evidence, while I sit quietly waiting. The iron gate rattles,
and Maya and I look up in unison. A familiar figure huffs to wrench them open, his tousled hair not budging an inch.
Delight runs through me, and I’m on my feet.
“Y’all running a prison out of here or what?” Fitz says, eyeing the latch. “Only other thing you need to keep folks out is
razor wire.”
“Fitz!” I skip down the steps. “You’re here .”
He nods. “I got over us losing the fellowship sooner than I expected. The French Riviera tends to have that effect on me.”
He pulls me into a hug. “Not to mention I got jealous when I heard about our potential fifteen minutes of fame and this gem
of a project ‘I just had to see with my own two eyes,’ so I booked the next flight.”
“Welcome back, buddy,” Maya says, standing and descending the steps as Fitz and I near the porch. “It’s never the same without
you.”
Fitz grins. “So what’re we gossiping about?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe the very thing that got your rear in action and on a plane stateside.”
Maya looks between us. “Fitz, you ready to dust off your theatrical voice?”
“Depends,” Fitz says. “Does it include tap shoes? I wore a hole in many a Fitzgerald floor with those, much to my mother’s
horror.”
The three of us laugh as we climb the porch and stop in the shade. Maya waves us to circle up.
“No chairs?” Fitz says. “We really should have some for meetings of this kind.”
I sling an arm around his shoulder. “We’re just getting started, not even patching floors yet, my friend. We’re a long, long
way from rocking chairs on the porch. Not to mention, you know better than to wear dry-clean only to a jobsite.”
“I’ll bring my own camping chair next time.” Fitz waggles his brow.
I swat at him, and Maya clears her throat for our attention.
“Y’all ready to talk work or not?” she asks.
Fitz zips his lips from under my arm and motions for her to continue.
“Well, we were just talking about getting Mack a cohost...” Maya’s eyes fall on Fitz and stop, looking hopeful.
“All those years of musical theater were for this very moment,” I say. “Fitz, you’ve literally been training for this opportunity your entire life.”
“You wouldn’t consider Hallie? She could be a child star!” Fitz says. “Plus, I can’t have her mad at me for swooping up her
spot.”
“One: I don’t think child hosts are Exquisite Interiors’ thing,” I say. “And two: we’ve all read the child celebrity bios
by now, so we know how that goes.”
“Where is the magpie?” Fitz asks, looking around. “Uncle Fitz brought her some fabric swatches from France.”
Fitz was one of the first (and strongest) proponents of Hallie’s desk at the design studio. He dotes on her exactly like an
uncle and is kindling her young talent with such care—mostly by feeding her magpie tendencies with materials.
“School hasn’t let out for summer yet. And truancy is a real thing.” I shake out my shoulders, mentally resetting. “You’re
distracting me from the point: You’re made for television, more so than any of us.”
Fitz shrugs, then wanders over to examine the elaborate knocker on the front door. “I’m sure I won’t hear the end of it from
the Fitzgerald crew,” he says. “But yes, of course I’ll do it. I’m just playing hard to get.”
“Amazing,” I say. “And don’t pay the Fitzgerald chatter any mind—you’re free to do as you please.”
He shoots me a look. “Is that to say Magnolia Senior has given this her stamp of approval?”
I scoff. “Obviously she’s in the dark on this. And preferably will remain so until she happens to see us on-screen while at the hairdresser.”
Fitz sighs. “I certainly can’t see her as one for reality television.”
I could fill hours of time dissecting Magnolia’s opinions on movies and reality television and celebrities—pop culture in
general—all of them rife with contradictions and snobbery. The fact that she tries to pretend that social media and its influencers
don’t even exist. The fact that she says people shouldn’t be so loud about their success when she’s not particularly quiet
about her own wealth. “It’s all a bit gauche, no?” I can just hear her saying it now. Because in Magnolia’s opinion, any power or money that’s not old and storied is “a tad cheap.”
My phone rings. It’s Sam, my hardwood genius who I hope will help us work a miracle on these floors. I hold up a finger and
say, “Sorry, guys, it’s Sam. I’ve got to take this.”
I wave goodbye and hear mutters about calling it a day, then Fitz offering Maya a ride before I dip inside the house and take
the call.
“You’re just the person I wanted to talk to,” I say after tapping the button to accept, then I launch into an overview of
the work.
“I’ve got a few more days on a project out on Sullivan’s Island through next Tuesday. But I could squeeze in my favorite designer
tomorrow morning, if you’re game?” Sam says.
I don’t usually schedule work for the weekends, but since Hallie’s started splitting time between Grady and me, I don’t mind
it so much on the weekends she’s with her dad.
“Hallie’s with her dad this weekend, so that works great for me.”
Sam and I talk through details and set a time to meet. He’ll give me a bid, but we both know he’s got the job—he’s the best
around. Still, the steps matter, especially when the budget belongs to someone else.
I end the call and stand in the middle of this grand home in its quiet. It lets out the occasional creak and groan, sounds that have always reminded me of breaths and sighs, the pop of a joint, a much-needed stretch. Like the house is alive all around me.
I know we will make this house over in the best ways we can.
But now I’m also wondering if, maybe, right at the edge of the wild possibilities, there might be a camera crew following
us as we do it.