genuinely disappointed he wasn’t actually a man with a chalk problem, in need of hemorrhoid cream, obsessed with tropical birds, in search of an engagement ring.
It was impossible, but it was almost like Bree knew he would’ve dropped the magazines by the door in his haste, and she knew Ashleigh would stand there by the front door, waiting on him, and see it. He could never prove it, but he’d bet everything those magazines hadn’t been for him. They were for her. To get to him. And that fact was both irritating and impressive.
* * *
The next day, standing in front of the Barter, he was still ruminating on how she did it.
It was a temperate Sunday afternoon, cars inching along bumper to bumper on Main Street in the post-church rush to get out of ties and dresses and whip up potato salad for Sunday family suppers. Weekenders slowed to take pictures of the iconic Barter building with its charming exterior and medieval-looking flags. Or they gawked at the sprawling estate of the Martha Washington Inn and wondered who was in the mysterious limousines that deposited guests at the lobby.
Chip hadn’t told his mother why he couldn’t attend that afternoon’s supper, opting instead for a vague explanation. “Something’s come up, Mom,” he said. She used her time-honed mothering skills to express disappointment over the phone without saying one word about her disappointment over the phone, and frankly, he wasn’t sure what she was more disappointed by: that her baby boy wasn’t able to make it, or that they would have to go without the cornbread he usually brought.
“Mr. McBride,” Mr. Richardson said, stepping off the Barter’s bottom step toward him.
Chip hopped up from the crosswalk and met him beneath the sign containing the words A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He moved forward to shake Mr. Richardson’s hand but received a hearty slap on his shoulder instead. The administrator turned on his wingtip heels and guided him inside.
It was a pointless maneuver, but Chip ducked his head slightly into his collar to hide his face. If his father wasn’t calling him by the end of the evening, asking why he’d been spending time with Richardson at the Barter, it would be a miracle.
“I want to preserve the basic layout of the lobby here,” Mr. Richardson began, stepping onto the decorative red plush carpet between racks of souvenir candles and T-shirts. “But we’ll update the café area to offer a more accessible array of fudges, wines, and coffees during intermission. As it is, you can see the space gets congested. Anyway,” he said, waving his hands, “black granite, quarter-sawn white oak. I’ve had my eye on a carpet from Brintons for a while—a rich, red broadloom classic, a perfect blend of the Persian and Amerindian motifs—you know how it is. But in here”—he opened a set of double doors with a flourish—“I see everything different. Here is where I envision the magic.”
The doors opened onto Gilliam Stage, the main theatre, which sat under a forty-foot ceiling and was saturated in red: rows of rich red seats with the embroidered crest of the Barter shimmering in golden thread, pallets of red damask along the walls, and more elaborate maroon damask carpeting the aisles. The room was royal and rich and, if Chip were quite honest, utterly not in need of updating. But then, Mr. Richardson wasn’t asking him to be honest.
“Tell me, Mr. McBride, what do you see?”
Mr. Richardson took his fedora off as he gazed up to the two chandeliers dangling from the high ceiling. Chip looked up too.
Ceilings. Okay. This was a bit of a stretch from double-hung windows in ranches or carpet tiles for university gymnasiums, but there were some similarities here. Like, this was a building. And he had worked in a building.
So far so good.
Chip racked his brain for something inspiring. Ceilings. This was a domed ceiling, with two chandeliers . . . Of course, he could suggest a new chandelier.
Maybe a bigger one.
A much bigger one.
With a lot more tiers of those gold, glassy bulbs.
Mr. Richardson shifted his weight to his other foot. “Of course, we could go with some gilded ceiling murals. Those would go nicely with the updated chairs and amber Kashan carpeting for the floors. We’d stick with the crimson color, of course.”
“Of course.” Chip nodded and started to lower his chin but noticed Mr. Richardson still gazing up.
“But then, even with those murals—should we consider a nautical theme?—we’d still have to do something with