His head hurt a bit from that pot, and yes, it was so worth it.
But what was with that man? The guy who had stepped out of his Tesla as if his feet had never touched gravel. The way he took deliberate, slow steps to make sure his perfectly polished shoes didn’t end up touching the grass. He lifted the hems of his Armani trousers like a prom girl lifting her ball gown to avoid grass stains.
So that was the kind of man Bree Leake dated?
You know? It suited her.
It oddly did.
He could imagine the two of them now, looking through the sunroom window of some McMansion, talking in low tones as they watched a neighbor’s hired men mow the twenty-acre lawn horizontally instead of on the diagonal. How they’d tsk as they sipped their espressos from tiny porcelain cups, saying they really should get out of the neighborhood before it went completely to pot.
Chip pulled his sleeping bag higher over his shoulders and turned over on the otherwise bare mattress. Russell stood at the window, per usual, his breath frosting the glass as he stared at Bree’s bedroom. The thoughts rolled through his mind.
Mr. Richardson wanted a contractor who was also artistic. In this town, he’d be hard-pressed to find a contractor with a hobby like art, that was certain. But then, if anyone could demand fine art in the CV and actually succeed in hiring such a jack-of-all-trades, it was Mr. Richardson. Wouldn’t be long before he’d conduct a nationwide search, and the Barter would have a line stretching all the way to the Martha of men in tailored suits carrying drills in one hand and easels in the other. Well, he knew a thing or two about tailored suits. And he may not be selling oil paintings at Laurel Springs Studios, but—
Chip’s thoughts stalled as he caught sight of a curious item hanging in Bree’s window. He propped up on his elbow and squinted.
Sure enough, he could see a piece of paper taped to the glass.
A simple piece of printer paper with bold, black, handwritten letters:
THIS ISN’T OVER
He grinned and lay back down, putting his hands back behind his head.
This isn’t over.
Well, well, wasn’t that just icing on the cake?
He closed his eyes.
And slept like a baby.
* * *
Chip’s brother Will set his glass on their parents’ dining room table. “So I told the investors, ‘Guys, we can get granular about this, but just from a thirty-second look here on the Google street view I can tell you this isn’t going to work. I can see overfilled garbage bins, dogs in the middle of a fight in the driveway next to what is clearly a gambling ring, asbestos siding, and a deer stand poking out from the second-story window. This isn’t going to be the deal of the century.’”
Will started laughing at his own story before it ended, and chuckles moved around the twenty-person table.
Chip’s mother’s eyes met his, and he gave a clandestine wink before raising his glass to his lips. This was Sunday-afternoon supper at its finest: carved ham, sautéed asparagus, and 120 minutes of construction jokes and tales of heroic journeys into the land of bidding wars and project management.
Brothers Pete, Will, and David sat with their wives and babies on the opposite side of the cognac-colored, custom-made table their mother and father ordered while on a trip to Sicily. Four of his nephews and nieces dined at the children’s table in the corner, well away from upholstered seating with their cranberry sauce–stained hands. With his mother and father sitting at the heads of the table, only Ashleigh and Chip were seated on the other side, flanked by empty chairs, like high school students facing the Brown admission committee.
Boy, had that been one intimidating interview.
“Pete, you didn’t happen to pick up that architectural drawing for Hotel Bristol on Friday, did you?” David said. “I know we were thinking that . . .”
Chip sliced into his ham with measured precision. Because no matter how engrossed they were in conversation, they were all watching him, anxious for any indication of his state of being. Everyone down to his sister-in-law Lisa, who was in the other room nursing her baby.
Drop his knife on the ground and let it clatter against the Moroccan hand-painted tile, and Lisa would be there in five seconds, baby wailing, wanting to know what was going on. Wanting to know if he was finally talking.