I watched as the flyers got weatherworn and tattered. We put up new ones. And they got old too.
The worst part was that I kept imagining the worst possible outcomes; it was like my brain was trying to decide what it could handle by showing me phantom glimpses of what might have happened. To see if I could handle it, I suppose.
Clive cold and wet and trying to figure out how to get into a trash can to find something to eat.
Clive approaching a stranger and being chased away with a broom.
Clive flattened out underneath a tree while being circled by two or three other cats. He had no front claws to defend himself with; he was a pampered house cat that slept on a pillow and was served catnip on demand.
I was back at work; I had to. Because being busy helped; because I loved my job; and because the Claremont was finally ready to launch.
The house was really starting to take shape, and things with Simon and me were as well. We talked more than we had before—not just about the silly day-to-day things that made us laugh, but about the real things too. We cleared off more and more of our mental shelving, talking about what really matters and what kind of a life we wanted for ourselves. Don’t get me wrong, there was plenty of the laughing and the sexy, because that’s who we were. But we were evolving. Imagine that.
I told him I wanted to be the kind of couple that spent some of their holidays in some far-off fairy tale. He told me he wanted to be the kind of couple that had all their family and friends over for Christmas—some years. I told him I wanted to be the kind of girl who bought her own car. He told me he wanted to be the kind of man who bought his girlfriend a car.
For the record, I won this one. We took the car back and I bought myself a used Mercedes convertible. Silver this time. It was old enough that I could afford the monthly payments, but new enough that Simon was excited to drive it.
We were dipping our toes into Grown-Up Lake, rather than barreling into it like a giant cannonball. I wasn’t giving up on Clive, but a resignation began to sink in after two weeks had passed, one that I had to acknowledge. I had to be practical here. In the grand scheme of things, I hadn’t suffered an actual tragedy. Only little girls cry themselves to sleep because their favorite pet is gone.
Sure.
chapter twenty-two
I stood in the lobby of the Claremont, my eyes taking in every detail: the check-in desk created entirely of reclaimed wood. The original marble floor restored, polished, and gleaming. The replacement art installation. And the view of the bay as the sun cast its last bit of light over the water, making everything sparkle and shine.
There was a flurry of last-minute activity, with waiters hurrying this way and that, champagne towers beginning to flow, and the earliest of guests starting to arrive. I took a final look around, pronounced it good, and tried to turn my brain from Plan This to Enjoy This. It was time to kick up my heels a bit and dance them across the marble floor.
This entire project had been overwhelming, stressful, gray-hair inducing even, but it had also been the most rewarding, the most fruitful, and the best example of what I could do. And I did it on my own. That’s saying something.
And what it was saying now was get a glass of bubbly, toast your damn self, and—holy shit, Max Camden was here! He was early!
I smoothed my dress, took a deep breath, and hurried down the steps to greet him.
“Mr. Camden, good evening.”
“Evening, Caroline. Are you ready to show off our little hotel?” he asked, shaking my hand. “I thought I’d come by early and walk the space again, before everything gets too hectic.”
“A wonderful idea, sir. Would you like some company?”
“No, thank you. I always do this alone right before we open a new property. It lets me breathe it in a bit.”
“Of course,” I said, watching as he walked past the reception area and down one of the corridors. It was always a bit tough, turning over a space once it was complete. But this job was done. What would be next?
“Caroline,” I heard from behind me, and turned to see Jillian, accompanied by Benjamin.
I greeted her with a kiss on each cheek. “I’m going to vomit. That’s normal, right?”
“Perfectly. I’d worry about you if you didn’t feel like that. Remind me to tell you about the first time I hosted a launch party like this. I’ll just say I never used a chafing dish again.”
I stifled a laugh, then turned to Benjamin. “Hi, Benjamin,” I said, blushing as he leaned in for his cheek kisses. He was just too fantastic looking.
“Caroline, you look lovely as always.”
“Hey, babe, why are you so pink?”
I turned and admired Simon. Charcoal gray suit, black tie, clean shaven, wonderful jaw and cheekbones. And a smirk—don’t forget the smirk. He knew I’d been school-girling over Benjamin.
“Oh, be quiet,” I shushed, letting his strong arms catch me up tightly against him. I kissed his nose and his eyes danced.
“So, do I get a private tour?”
“Semiprivate. I thought I’d wait until the girls and Ryan get here, then I’ll walk you around, show the place off a bit.”
“It looks amazing so far; I can’t wait.” He took my hand and squeezed. “So proud of you.”
I glowed.
And then I hosted. Guests were starting to arrive more quickly, photographers were milling about, and I needed to make sure that everything went smoothly. I waved to Mimi and Ryan when they arrived, and when Sophia sailed in a few moments later, I took a quick moment for a sip of champagne and an ass slap. I couldn’t help it, she looked amazing.
All my friends were there, and when Max Camden proposed a toast to Jillian Designs and more specifically little ol’ me, I was glad to have them all here to celebrate with me. It was big-time, baby, and in the big times, you want the people you love around you.
The evening was perfect and lovely, and in between talking with the various newspapers and posing for photographers, I mingled with many of the local business owners, who were delighted to discover that I was now a resident. It was a good feeling, beginning to belong to a community as close-knit as Sausalito. I adored this seaside town, and I could see myself settling in here for years to come.
Settling in. Not settling. Big difference.
I laughed with my friends, indulged in more than a glass of champagne, and was almost ready to pronounce the night a success. But while chatting with the mayor about how beautiful the hotel was, and how high expectations were for the new business it would be generating, I saw a certain sportscaster enter the lobby, scan for leggy redheads, and zero in the hottest cellist on the West Coast. Continuing to make small talk while channeling Mimi telepathically (it could work), I watched as Sophia and Neil met in the middle of the lobby. And began to argue. Loudly.
I excused myself from the mayor and swiftly made my way through the crowded lobby, where a production of Take Me to Petty Town was taking place.
“I still can’t believe you. It’s like talking to a brick wall.”
“I still can’t believe you don’t understand that you will never be up against this brick wall again.”
“It’s like arguing with a child.”
“The same child who called you and had to listen to some woman answer the phone? Giggling?”
“My mother doesn’t giggle.”
“Oh please, you expect me to believe that was your mom?”
“Why do you think I tried to call you back?”
“I don’t care. I hate you.”
“Enough!” I hissed, and grabbed them both by the elbows. Steering them behind the petit fours, I turned them both around and let fly. “That’s enough. I’m tired of listening to you two fight; it’s just ridiculous. Not here, not now, and not ever again. We’re all friends, and we’re going to continue to be friends, and I’m sick of you two dickheads making it miserable for everyone else! So knock it off—both of you,” I snapped.
As I turned to stomp away I he
ard Neil say, “Jeez, she didn’t have to yell at us,” which was quickly followed by, “I know, right?” from Sophia.
I caught Mimi trying to muscle her way over to the petit fours, and I told her to leave it alone—no more meddling. She huffed a little, but quickly abandoned her plan when Ryan asked her to dance.
Everyone was dancing. We’d hired a big band to play for the party, old meets new. And as I sipped my champagne in the middle of the gorgeous hotel that I’d designed, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I knew it was him. My skin told me.
“Glen Miller?” I asked, turning around.
“I might have requested it.” He grinned. “Moonlight Serenade” spilled over the dance floor, and I let myself be spirited away by my Wallbanger. He held me close, and as moonlight beamed down through the open windows, I sighed in his arms. Content.
Until Monica tapped me on the shoulder and told me we had a problem.
Excusing myself from Simon, I followed her toward the back of the reception area. Her face was beet red and full of apology as she sputtered and stuttered and tried to tell me what was going on. All I could get out of her was “coat closet.”
“What’s the problem? Is it full? We can use one of the guest rooms on this floor. Just ask housekeeping to bring up— Oh!”
I’d opened the door to the coat closet and saw something I can never un-see. Burned into my retinas forever was the image of Neil and Sophia, on a pile of minks. Going at it like—well, you guessed it.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Sophia was shouting. She should: Neil was . . . Hmm, how shall I put this?
Ever seen a Clydesdale?
As I say, I can never un-see.
As luck would have it, they “finished” while I stood there, my jaw on the floor next to his jacket and her undergarments. I backed out, slammed the door, and as they afterglowed on the other side, I instructed Monica to keep everyone away for at least five minutes.
And that any cleaning bills should be sent directly to Neil at NBC.
• • •
Two weeks later, Simon was back out on the road. Cambodia. He was doing a series on secret cities and hidden temples, buried by centuries of the jungle taking back the land. The photos he was sending back to me were haunting, riveting, and beautiful.
I still had my hands full. After the Claremont opened I finished up the last few projects I had going over there, worked with Jillian on some new office protocols, and then decided to take a few personal days to rest and relax. What I was really doing was putting the finishing touches on the house. I wanted to surprise Simon when he came home and have it totally ready. Jillian had stopped by to help.
Initially I’d balked at ordering so much new furniture, but Simon kept insisting, “Make it how you want it, and I’ll love it. It’s just money, Caroline.”
Anytime anyone says something like that, you know they’ve got wads of it. I’d seen a few figures on some of the banking reports when Simon bought this house, and Mother of God, it was a big wad.
Big Wad—what a great name for a band.
So order I did. I aimed to marry my style and his, while honoring the original beauty of the house. Taking my cue from the natural landscape all around, I let the surrounding hillside inspire the palette throughout, especially in the living room. Buttery creams, burnished bronzes, soft muted greens, and splashes of goldenrod made the house cozy. It was made even cozier by the tall stone fireplace where a fire crackled merrily, framed by refinished built-in bookcases stacked high with our collection of books behind the leaded glass doors. And by the bay window perched the customary telescope through which I could see San Francisco.
Windblown Girl on a Cliff with an Orange hung over the original wooden mantel, which now gleamed golden after being rubbed rich with oil. Simon loved this photograph of me, cringing in embarrassment at having my picture taken, orange juice clear on my lips and chin, hair blown out wildly by the Spanish wind. It was his favorite, and he’d insisted that it be displayed somewhere downstairs.
A long, thin custom shelf filled with the bottles of sand Simon had collected was positioned on one wall, with a smaller shelf just below with bottles from our trips together. Tahoe, Nerja, Halong Bay, they clustered together to tell the beginning of our story, with plenty of room for the next chapter.
In the kitchen, where marble shone and the counters were of a very specific height, pots of rosemary, parsley, and thyme sat happily on the windowsill, catching the morning sun. My double ovens stood majestically, ready to bake cookies and pies and zucchini bread until Simon said uncle. So . . . forever.
In a place of honor on its own marble round was my KitchenAid mixer. Stainless steel. Cool to the touch and crafted to perfection. Was there an undermounted lighting fixture directly above it, to make it a beacon of hope and goodness throughout the land? You bet your sweet bippy.
And on a solitary shelf built in the exact center of the wall, a collection of Barefoot Contessa cookbooks were arranged—chronologically, of course. And in a windfall of good fortune, the title page of each one was inscribed To Caroline. Love, Ina.
Simon’s friend Trevor’s wife Megan’s friend Ashley’s boss Paul at the Food Network had them signed for me. And no one could touch them but me.
Jillian and I walked through the home, adjusting things here and there. Fluffing a pillow. Adjusting a vase. In the living room, I paused to display the final piece. I threw Simon’s afghan—which we’d once spent a monumental night under, trying to keep the horror of The Exorcist at bay—over the plush chocolate couch. Jillian looked at it quizzically, no doubt wondering why a retro orange and pea-green afghan was the focal point in a room such as this. I looked around at the palette that I’d created, the afghan bringing it all together, and told her, “It was his mom’s.”
She nodded, and we stood for a moment just taking it all in. It was done, and it was kind of perfect. “Looks great, kiddo. It’s really lovely.”
“Thanks.” I sighed, letting myself really feel the house and all it had come to mean.
“When’s Simon coming home?” she asked as we headed back into the kitchen.
“Friday night. I’m glad I could get all this done before. Coffee?”
She nodded and grabbed the cream from the fridge while I poured. “You two want to come over for dinner Sunday night?”
“That’s funny, I was going to ask if you wanted to come over here! Be our first dinner guests?”
“We’ll be here.” She smiled.
We sat down across from each other at the island, and while she added sugar to her mug, I looked at her carefully. I needed to talk with her, and I was hoping she’d still want to come for dinner after I said what I needed to.
“So, Jillian, I need to talk to you about something.”
“Hmm?” she asked.
“It’s about the partnership,” I began.
She smiled sadly. “You’re not taking it, are you?”
“How in the world did you know that?” I asked, baffled.
“It was a hunch. So tell me why.”
“I’m not turning it down, but I have a proposition for you.”
“I’m listening.”
And she did. I gave voice to everything I’d been feeling about my job and my work and my place within the firm. In my heart I was purely a designer. I’d enjoyed the business aspects I’d taken over while she was away, but for me it was more enjoyable just to know that I could do those things, and do them well.
I didn’t actually want to do them. And while I knew I was turning down the Job of a Lifetime, I needed to be strong enough to say no. And here’s the important part.
Turning down the job was honestly the only thing I could do. I liked my life, and more important, I liked my quality of life.
It wasn’t that a man was telling me that I needed to have his dinner on the table at 6:00 p.m. five nights a week. It was that I wanted to cook dinner for Simon sometimes, and not have to work twelve hours the day before to make that time.
It
wasn’t that anyone was telling me that I couldn’t have it all. It was me saying good Lord, no, I can’t have it all—and why the hell would I want to?
I had the life I wanted. And I wasn’t afraid to say no to something more.
But I did still want a bigger piece of the action.
So here was my proposal, and it was incredibly simple. I’d take on a supervisory position within the firm, especially when Jillian was abroad. I’d continue to mentor Monica, sponsor new interns, and be the point of contact for all new business. I’d retain my existing clients, take over for some of Jillian’s, and be responsible for bringing in new clients. And if Jillian approved, we’d hire an office manager to execute the day-to-day operations. Sure, there’d be long days when there were projects on a deadline, but no more working Sundays. No more leaving the office after 9:00 p.m.
There’d be plenty of time for running my own show later on, if I changed my mind. For now, this was exactly what I wanted to do.
“Wow, you’ve really thought this out,” she said, flipping through my proposal. Which I’d prepared with graphs and charts, and bound in a colored folder. And hidden behind the cookie jar, until I was ready to bite this bullet. “You sure about this?”
“Yes. It’s what I want, as long as you’re okay with it.” I held my breath.
She paused for so long I had to let it out and take another. Had there always been tiny little stars in the kitchen?
“Okay, Caroline—I think we can work with this. Let me show this to my accountant, but I see no reason it can’t work,” she said at last.
I finally breathed deeply. No more tiny stars.
• • •
Friday night, eight fifty-seven. I busied about the kitchen, getting things ready. Simon had texted me when his plane touched down, and he was on his way home from SFO. He’d been flying for hours and I knew how wiped out he’d be. But I still wanted his homecoming to be something special.