Epilogue
Cowan opened the new message in his inbox, noting three photo attachments. “I think Lucy Finch got back to us with pictures from her engagement party.”
“Finally.” Irene swiveled away from her monitor and focused on his. “Hippies have no sense of urgency.”
Over the past few weeks, he’d grown rather fond of Ms. Finch and Mr. Castillo. Their episode was likely to become a viewer favorite, as well as HATV’s only episode of Tiny House Trackers that could be considered erotically charged, due to footage the couple hadn’t noticed the cameras capturing.
“The party only happened three days ago,” Cowan said. “Cut her some slack.”
Irene couldn’t abide delays or obstacles thwarting her progress, which made her a fearsome HATV intern but an exhausting coworker. And although he would never admit it to her, also a very stimulating—but frustrating—companion.
“The episode airs next week, and we’ll need to add those photos to the follow-up segment at the end.” The crease of her brow, barely visible under her heavy black fringe of bangs, indicated her concentration as she tapped out a message to the Tiny House Trackers staff. “I hope there’s time.”
“Should be. Don’t worry.” After reading the lovely, seemingly sincere letter of thanks Ms. Finch had written to accompany the pictures, he clicked through the images. “Oh, wow.”
Irene’s gaze focused again on his monitor. “Wow indeed. It pains me to say this, but the tie-dyed dress looks good on her. Someone needs to talk to her about frizz control products, though.”
He shook his head. “Not that. Look at Mr. Castillo’s expression.”
Clad in a crisp white shirt, subtly patterned tie, and dark suit, the man was standing among a group of conservatively clad people with dark hair and golden-brown skin, along with a number of pasty-white folks sporting ponytails and Jimi Hendrix tees and throwing peace signs.
Cowan figured he could work out which family was whose.
Mr. Castillo had wrapped his arms around Ms. Finch from behind, his chin propped on her shoulder. He was beaming, his lean face creased in joy.
“What’s so weird about his expression?” Irene squinted and leaned closer to the monitor. “He looks like a normal, happily engaged man to me. Maybe hotter than the average prospective bridegroom, but that’s the only difference I can see.”
Smothering a foolish flare of irritation, Cowan spread his hands. “Exactly. Remember all those complaints from Jill about how he never showed any emotion? Before she caught the secret footage, she thought he and Ms. Finch were platonic friends.”
Irene tapped her stylus along the edge of her tablet. “I remember him being hard to read during his intake interview.”
Was that her type? Stoic and stone-faced?
Whatever. Mr. Castillo was taken, whether or not he fulfilled Irene’s no-doubt numerous and arcane requirements for male companionship.
“He was very hard to read. But in these pictures, he looks completely transformed.” Cowan clicked on the next photo. “This is a great shot of the two of them.”
Lucy Finch was looking directly into the camera, her nose wrinkled under those tortoiseshell glasses as she laughed.
None of the hesitance and anxiety he’d seen in her intake interview showed in the picture.
No doubts. Just effervescent happiness as she leaned against her fiancé’s chest, snuggling close.
For Mr. Castillo, though, the camera might as well have disappeared. He didn’t pay it any attention. Instead, he was watching the face of his friend, his new fiancée, with the sort of rapt attention and adoration that tightened Cowan’s chest.
He wanted that. Not soon, but someday.
Maybe it would be easier to find if he weren’t working eighty hours or more per week, or if he spent significant time around any woman other than Irene.
“Did she send a picture of her massage yurt too?” Irene paused. “That may well be the most ridiculous phrase I’ve ever uttered in these studios, which is saying something.”
He checked the third photo. “Yup.”
More tapping on Irene’s tablet. “I’ll make sure all three pics make it into the episode, along with some bullshit about true love, happily ever after, blah blah blah.”
Swiveling to face her, he tilted his head. “You don’t believe in true love?”
“You do?” Her red-painted upper lip curled. “More time spent working with Break Up/Shake Up should cure you of that.”
The show about post-divorce home renovations boasted notoriously bitter applicants. Intake interviews often consisted entirely of obscenity-laden rants about exes, interspersed with fervent paeans to quartz countertops and shiplap.
Again: Whatever. Irene’s misguided beliefs about love didn’t matter. His job did.
He forwarded Ms. Finch’s e-mail to the appropriate parties. “What’s next on the agenda?”
“I just got a message from the producer of Flipping Foul Play.” She read it aloud.
“Flipper Kate wants to plan a surprise proposal for the next live episode. Apparently, she and Flipper Nick have been carrying on a secret relationship where the cameras couldn’t see them, and she wants to take it to the next level. I need your help.”
Cowan sat back, crossing his right ankle over the opposite knee. “How is a secret relationship even possible? The cameras are rolling all the time on that show.”
Irene just shrugged.
“And I thought those two loathed one another.”
Like, sincerely loathed. Especially after Flipper Nick’s sabotage had cost Flipper Kate the last challenge and that bonus ten-thousand-dollar prize. Not that Cowan followed the show religiously or anything.
His coworker laughed. “Loathing doesn’t preclude a few late-night hate fucks, kid. Anyway, Deena is pretty excited about the proposal idea, since it should bring in huge ratings.”
As befitted a full-grown man, Cowan ignored Irene’s continued use of the word kid. “So what does she want us to do?”
“Go through this season’s footage and find any evidence of the secret romance, so the editors can piece things together for viewers.” Irene’s shoulders acquired an uncharacteristic droop. “All this season’s footage, up to the previous episode.”
“But…” He gave his head a frantic shake. “There are so many cameras on that show. The sheer volume of footage—”
“I know. Hope you wore comfy clothes, Cowan.” Despite the exhaustion painting dark shadows beneath those sharp green eyes, Irene managed to direct an evil grin his way. “Because we’re going to be here a loooooong time.”
Not only that night, but the next few evenings too. Well, shit. So much for his half-baked plan to hit some local bars and talk to a few women. Ones who didn’t call him kid and consider him a wet-behind-the-ears rube, despite many productive weeks of working together.
“I’ll order the pizza.” She tapped the number on her phone’s contacts list. “You pay.”
Cowan sighed and fished his credit card from his wallet. “Your wish is my command, your highness.”
“Damn right,” Irene said. “All hail the HBIC of HATV.”
THE END
Thank you for reading Tiny House, Big Love.