Rusty Nailed (Cocktail 2)

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.

As I took one more pass through the first floor, making sure everything was in its place and looking spick-and-span, I paused by the dining room. Specifically, the window that was cemented shut. I winced every time I saw it and the deep windowsills that Clive barely got to enjoy before he ran away.

The sound of Simon’s key in the front door brought me back from my thoughts and I sprinted into the kitchen.

“Babe? I’m back. Hey, when did you— Whoa!” I heard him say as he became aware of his surroundings.

When he left ten days ago, there was still chaos. The end was in sight, but it was still rough. But now it was complete. And tranquil. And filled with the smell of homemade chicken soup.

I listened to his steps through the house toward the kitchen, where I turned from the stove to meet his eye. Wearing his favorite apron, over clothes this time, mind you, I smiled at my sweet Simon. Worn out and travel weary, he was still the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. Three days’ worth of lovely scruff roughed up his face, accenting the most chiseled jaw this side of Mount Rushmore. Piercing blue eyes sparkled at me—he did love me in an apron.

“Everything looks . . . I mean, it’s all so—” Shrugging his shoulders, he laughed. “I’m speechless. It’s perfect, babe.”

“Just wait till you get my bill. You hungry?” I asked, then ladled him a bowlful of chicken soup made with rich broth, eggy noodles, and packed with vegetables. I could see him sniffing the air and I smothered a laugh as he walked toward the breakfast nook where I’d set a table for two.

He sat down, and as soon as I’d set the bowl in front of him he pulled me onto his lap. “You’ve been busy,” he murmured.

I felt that sandpaper jaw on the side of my neck and my skin immediately pebbled. “I wanted to make it nice for you,” I replied, then leaned close to his ear. “Welcome home, Mr. Parker.”

His hold on me tightened. He ate his soup and drank his milk with one hand, not wanting to let go of me with the other. As he ate, we talked comfortably about everything and nothing at all. Afterward, he showered off the travel while I cleaned up.

After he explored all the rooms that I’d put my finishing touches on, we found ourselves in our master bedroom. We chatted about weekend plans as he towel dried his hair, and I watched him walk around the room in his pajama bottoms. Best thing ever.

“We’re having Jillian and Benjamin over for dinner Sunday night, if that’s cool with you?” I asked.

He pulled down his side of the duvet. “Sure that’s fine. Is everyone else coming too?”

“Mimi and Ryan are with her parents in Mendocino, and Sophia and Neil haven’t come up for air yet.” I smirked as we fluffed the comforter at the foot of the bed. Those two were back together like nobody’s business. They’d barely left their bed.

We flipped pillows, turned down blankets, and I sighed when I saw the sheets. Egyptian cotton, thread count in the millions, and gleaming white.

“Hey, speaking of Mendocino, you’ll never guess who called me the other day. Remember Viv Franklin?”

“Fishnets and tattoos? From your reunion?”

“Yep. She might be moving out here—to Mendocino.”

“Really? Wow, that’s great. I thought she was pretty set up back there with her . . . security guard company?” I asked, gesturing for the throw pillows. I had a special way I stacked them in the armchair at night.

“Security software, babe. She designs security software for companies. I’m not sure what she’ll do; she’s still thinking about it. Some great-aunt died, a big house on the shore was willed to her—I don’t know all the details. But she might move out here and take over the house.”

“That could be amazing!” The pretty brunette was a fun mix of badass and sweet; she’d kept Simon on his toes. I’d liked that about her.

“I told her to let us know when she made a decision. She doesn’t know anyone out here, and we could go help her out,” he said, throwing me the last pillow.

“Oops, don’t throw that one!” I set it delicately on top of the others. “Yes, for sure. Just let me know when she knows for sure.”

“Um, it’s a throw pillow, right?” he asked.

“Hey, mister, if you knew how much of your money I spent on that pillow, you wouldn’t be so quick to throw it.”

“So I really don’t want to know how much this set me back, do I?” he asked, nodding his head toward our new bed. A bed of our very own that had no history of past others. The California king was large enough to accommodate both his snoring and my flailing, and it was simple and elegant, with a massive, well-padded headboard.

“It’s better if you just let me do my thing and not ask questions,” I sassed, now crawling across the bed on all fours, making sure my pink nightie swished in all the right places.

“I like it when you do your own thing. Especially when you let me watch you do it,” he breathed, raising an eyebrow when I turned to show him my ruffles. He pressed his body against mine, his shower-warm skin heating me as much as his words.

“Tonight I’d much prefer you touching me. With your hands. And that mouth,” I instructed as I perched on top of him. I’d positioned the bed so that when we cuddled up, we could see the lights twinkling over the bay.