Christmas By Design

5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Beckett

For an entire week, I couldn’t get the image of Gemma searching for money in her bag out of my mind. She said I pity her. I don’t. She might be a bit of a mess, but she’s a strong woman. I’ve heard her talking to contractors on the phone at the office. She doesn’t take any shit from anyone. But seeing her near panic brought up some memories of my mom that I thought I had hidden long ago.

Any time I’ve tried to talk to her about the project in the past few days, she closes off. It’s like her perpetual brightness has been replaced by skepticism. I’ve found that I don’t like it very much.

So, when she called me on my way to the Dash house and her voice sounded shaky and defeated, something came over me. As if watching her cynicism grow by the day has changed me in some way, and listening to her breaking up is just too much to bear.

I don’t hesitate. I step on the gas and call my car guy on the way to her.

I can’t name the feeling I get when I slide into the passenger seat of her car and see she’s okay. She hadn’t told me what happened. For all I knew, her car was on fire. So when I see her, I can’t help but check her over. The worst I can say for her is that her nails are bitten to all hell, and her nose is pink with cold.

She’s just… fine.

But that’s probably the best I can say for her, too, as she sits in my car saying nothing, alternating between chewing on her lip and her nails, watching the bland, winter scenery pass us by for the entirety of the drive to the Dash house.

If she wants to drive in silence, that’s fine by me. I prefer it. But I can’t shake the feeling that I should say something , if only to stop her from chewing on her thoughts along with her fingernails.

I wish I were better at small talk. Forty years old, and I’ve never been able to master the skill. If anything, it’s gotten worse as I’ve gotten older. Probably because I see less and less of a need to make other people comfortable the longer I’m on this planet. But it doesn’t change the fact that, right now, it would be a nice skill to have.

When we pull up to the Dash house, though, Gemma gasps. Honestly, I share the sentiment. The house is, in a word, enormous. It’s two full stories tall with dormer windows on a smaller, third floor—probably an attic. There’s a huge wrap-around porch and multiple entrances. From where we sit, it appears as if the siding and porch have been refinished. It looks brand new. The siding is painted a bright canary yellow, and the porch and surrounding fence have been whitewashed. Not my first choice of color scheme, but I remind myself that this design project isn’t about what I’d pick. I’m begrudgingly here to make Mrs. Dash happy.

Upon further inspection, the windows look warped. The sunlight reflected in the panes is distorted, and there’s a classic diamond pattern in some of them. Leaded glass, most likely. Interesting.

I take in the landscape as well. This huge, old farmhouse stands on one hundred acres of land in Northwest Indiana. It would be the perfect location for a bed and breakfast or a wedding venue, both possibilities I know Gemma has talked to Mrs. Dash about.

The front door opens, and exactly the type of old woman I’d expect to own this place walks out. Her hair is gray and pulled into a loose bun on the top of her head. She’s wearing an old, brown crew neck sweatshirt and baggy jeans that are hastily shoved into boots as if she pulled them on when she saw us approach. She tugs a huge, crocheted shawl over her shoulders against the chill of the December morning. She looks like she could be a farmer’s wife, though I know this land hasn’t been used for any real farming for at least a decade.

Gemma wastes no time getting out of the car. She doesn’t even spare me a glance as she pushes her door open and steps out. It makes me wonder if the drive was so unbearable that she can’t stand to be in this car with me for one minute longer. The thought of it sends an unexpected pang through my chest. What the fuck? I rub at it as if that could take the feeling away.

“Good morning, Mrs. Dash!” she calls as she slams the door shut behind her. I still need a minute to recover from that strange feeling, but it looks like I don’t have one. I scramble to turn the car off and get out, feeling uneven and a bit shaky.

Mrs. Dash meets Gemma about halfway to the porch, and I’m bringing up the rear just as a huge, gray dog comes bounding out the front door. No, that’s not a dog. That’s more like a horse. I freeze, and I must make a noise because Gemma whips around to see me standing there, wide-eyed, staring at this monster creature who seems to only have eyes for me.

Gemma doesn’t hesitate. She steps right in front of the dog, drops to her knees, and opens her arms wide. That thing bounds right into her open arms. She wraps it in a hug of sorts as she rubs its ears and lets it lick her face.

Disgusting.

“And who is this magnificent beast?” she croons, looking up at Mrs. Dash while the thing continues to press its flat tongue against her cheek and neck.

“This is Periwinkle. We call him Perry for short.”

“Periwinkle?” I choke out, my voice higher than I expected it to be. I clear my throat.

Mrs. Dash laughs. It’s a deep, breathy sound. “My son named him a long time ago.” She eyes me carefully. “He’s big, but he’s old and practically blind. He won’t hurt you.”

“Sure,” I mumble under my breath.

Gemma must hear me, though, because she huffs. “Not a fan of dogs?”

I take a moment to straighten my wool coat and brush some lint off the front. “No,” I say with finality.

“The feeling is probably mutual,” she mutters only loud enough for me to hear as she scratches under the dog’s chin. “Dogs are excellent judges of character.”

“Perry, go chase something,” Mrs. Dash commands with a clap. The dog regards her for a moment, then bounds off into the distance. “Don’t worry about him. He won’t be back for hours. He’s an outside dog, that one.” She crosses the distance between us and extends a hand to me as Gemma stands and brushes herself off. “Emelia Dash. Such a pleasure to meet you both.”

I shake her hand firmly. “Beckett Camdon, interior designer,” I introduce myself. “We’ve spoken on the phone.”

She nods and extends her hand to Gemma, who takes it and shakes enthusiastically.

“Gemma Woodard. I’ll be the project manager for your renovation.” She looks up at the house and a smile lights up her entire face. “I have to say, I’m really excited for this.”

Mrs. Dash grins as she turns and walks briskly toward the house. “Well, come on in out of the cold. I imagine you want to see what you’re working with.”

Confidence regained, I lean in slightly as I pass Gemma on my way into the house. “Kiss-ass,” I murmur into her ear.

“At least I’m not afraid of a little dog,” she retorts.

That stops me in my tracks. “Little?” I exclaim.

Gemma just shrugs and continues up the porch steps. “Harmless, anyway.”

“It’s all fun and games until someone gets their head bitten off,” I grumble as I follow her.

“You’re more likely to get your head bitten off by me.” She has the audacity to twist around and snap her teeth at me as we cross the threshold into the house. I have a comeback on the tip of my tongue, but Mrs. Dash claps her hands again like a schoolteacher trying to get her class’s attention.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” She raises her arms and looks around. The space is enormous, with high ceilings and a wrought iron chandelier illuminating the space in warm light. It’s dimmer than I’d expect for such a large fixture, and I make a mental note to figure out why that is.

“This is the foyer, obviously,” Mrs. Dash is saying. “I’d love to continue the yellow from the outside into this space for continuity.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my grimace from showing on my face. “If you’re going for brightness,” I start carefully, “we could do a lot of whites and creams. Keep it clean and neutral.”

“I like color.” Mrs. Dash folds her arms. “White isn’t a color.” She turns and walks further into the house.

“Technically, white is all the colors,” I grumble.

Gemma snorts. “When I asked to work with you on this project, I knew you’d be surly, but this is next level.”

She follows Mrs. Dash down the hall. I hang back under the guise of tapping out some notes in my phone app, but in reality, I’m floored. My heart skips over itself a few times as I process what I just heard. She asked to work with me? Why would she do that?

Her squeal snaps me out of my pondering. “You know what would be perfect in this space?” she exclaims loudly. “A teal retro fridge.”

Oh hell no.

I bound toward them as quickly as I can, but I’m too late. Mrs. Dash has clasped her hands together and pressed them against her lips in a clear display of ecstatic joy. She looks at me with large, pleading, hopeful eyes. “Please, Mr. Camdon. Can we work that into the design?”

I growl softly and glare at Gemma, who is standing slightly behind Mrs. Dash with her arms crossed and a satisfied smirk on her face. “Oh, Bex can absolutely work that in, Mrs. Dash. It shouldn’t be a problem at all.”

“Wonderful!” she exclaims, then moves away from us into the next room.

Is this why Gemma asked to work with me? So she could continuously piss me off? That would admittedly be more than a little disappointing.

And yet, this teasing is such a far cry from her silent nail-biting in the car on the way here. It’s as if she’s in her element, talking about project design and client wish lists. Like her work takes some of that anxiety away.

It’s almost a relief to see her back to her usual self.

But I can’t tell her that. She’d twist it somehow and shoot it back at me or become self-conscious again. So, instead, I say, “You’re recycling nicknames, you know.”

Gemma shakes her head. “I’m not. That one was spelled with an X. The other was an S.”

I reel back, incredulous. “That’s a stretch.”

She just shrugs and follows Mrs. Dash again. I’m getting a little sick of being left behind, so I march after them.

What follows is a tour of the giant house with the owner telling us all of the things she’d love to see changed. The dining room needs a huge table to seat guests and some other updates. The living room needs a cozier feel, though my eyes catch on the giant fireplace that I’m definitely using as a focal point for the room, and a gorgeous grand piano in the sitting area that is definitely staying. Through the sitting area are an office and a bathroom, both in decent shape.

At every turn, though, Mrs. Dash suggests wild color combinations that have no business being in a home. Gemma, to her credit, doesn’t egg her on anymore. Instead, she taps at her phone every once in a while, then asks to see the bedrooms.

Thankfully, Mrs. Dash is open to a more neutral palette for those rooms, as they’ll be mostly for bed and breakfast guests. They have clearly not been used in ages, and they have an earthy smell that will need to get aired out.

I glance at Gemma as we close the door to the last bedroom. She taps her phone a few times, then nods to Mrs. Dash. “Do you have a basement?”

“Oh, yes, but it’s not livable space. It’s completely unfinished,” she responds.

“With the extent of the renovations, we’d like to see it anyway, if that’s okay? Just to take a look.” Gemma smiles reassuringly, and Mrs. Dash nods.

She leads us down two flights of stairs into the basement. It’s mostly concrete. I shine my phone’s flashlight into the crawl space at the back of it. Gemma pulls a marble from her pocket and puts it on the ground. It slowly rolls all the way to the left before it hits the wall.

That’s not good.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Dash says. She must know a thing or two about foundations.

“Not to worry. We’ll have the foundation leveled before we start on the remodel,” Gemma reassures her.

“This will affect our budget,” I say slowly.

Mrs. Dash waves that away. “My late husband left me more money than I know what to do with. Like I told your partner on the phone, there is no budget.”

“I’m sure The Beckinator over here will test that statement,” Gemma says drily as she sends another text. “One of our guys can come take a look tomorrow, Mrs. Dash. It’ll take them about a week, which will likely push our timeline back a little.” She chews on a nail as she considers something. “But I can probably make up at least some of the time. Do you have somewhere you can stay while they work? It’ll go faster if you’re not living in the house with all this going on.”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Dash says. “I was headed to my son’s house for Christmas, anyway, and was going to stay until you’re done here so I could be out of your hair. I’m sure he won’t mind if I come a little early.” She tilts her head, then her face lights up like a Christmas tree as she turns her attention to me. “Do you think we could do one of those reveals like they do on the shows? Where you cover my eyes until I’m inside, and then I open them and am just amazed at the work you’ve done?”

Why on God’s green Earth is she asking me this question? Do I look like the reveal type of guy? My gaze shifts to Gemma, who is trying desperately to hold back a laugh. I attempt to convey with just my expression that she should be the one answering this question. When she just shakes her head as her body shudders with repressed giggles, I flash a stiff smile in Mrs. Dash’s direction. “Sure.”

“Oh, fantastic!” She jumps a little and claps her hands. “Now, let’s get out of this creepy basement.”