“Where?” he asked.
It’s sweet how he’s allowed to ask questions and I’m not. So sweet.“Nantucket. I took the ferry.”
Sam arched an eyebrow. “Who did you go with? What did you do?”
He wants a story; I’ll give him a story.“Simone and Danielle, and it was a regular girls’ weekend. Beach, brunch, booze. What else would we do?”
And he knew it was a story. I kept no secrets about disinterest in girls’ weekends, or my shortage of affection for my law school friends. The honest communication train ran both directions, and if he was locking me out right now, I was doing the same.
We’ll see how you like it.
“Why aren’t you sunburned?”
“Sunscreen,” I said with a shrug.
“Why don’t you cut the shit,” he said. “What is the purpose of this exercise, Shan? Does it not seem ridiculous that you’re keeping something from me? From all of us? And you do notice that you’re making a bigger deal out of it by lying about going to Nantucket, right?”
Kind of like how it’s ridiculous that you don’t talk to me anymore? Or you only take care of yourself when someone forces you?
“Since you have a busy afternoon, I’d rather get down to the reason I came in here,” I said. “We were approached last month by a real estate agent who was representing a very private client. Since the agent was absurdly vague about her client’s interests, Patrick and I decided not to engage.”
He blinked, annoyed with my deflection. “Okay.”
“The agent came back, saying the client really, really wanted to work with us. It seems the client saw theBoston Globespread on the future of green restoration.” I motioned to where the freshly framed newspaper feature showcasing one of his projects leaned against the wall. Another reminder to get Tom on that project right away. “And the client insisted on working with you.”
“I don’t have much free time, Shannon,” he said. “And no offense, but I don’t have a lot of patience for dealing with agents.”
I bit back a quip about being the agent who put him through college. I needed him to take this project. It was the type of all-encompassing restoration that he adored. It would give him the meaning and focus he required to gain his footing again, and if it worked out the way I was hoping, I could put another pair of eyes on him at all times.
“Well, it gets better.” I toggled through a few screens on my tablet, then turned it toward Sam. “Turns out the client is Eddie Turlan, from The Vials.” I pointed to a picture of the punk band popular in the eighties.
I toggled to the street view map, and showed Sam the red brick house. Once he saw the gorgeous façade, I knew he’d fall in love. “They want you to design it, and they offered to go well beyond your standard fees.” I swiped to another screen, and handed the tablet to Sam. “Here’s the most recent communication from the agent.”
He read the email, his eyes widening when he saw the budget, and handed the tablet back to me. “I still don’t have time.”
“You could make time if Riley moved off Matt’s projects and started working with you.” Sam’s expression turned pained, and I held up my hand. Riley was the resident fuck-up, and he’d spent the past year and a half bouncing between Patrick and Matt’s projects as he refined his skills. Neither of them had any success in training him to consistently zip his pants. “I think you’ve argued with me enough today. Just listen. He’s come a long, long way in the past eight months, and you have to admit that.”
Sam grumbled out a sigh and I was taking that as agreement.
“I was also thinking this could be a phenomenal opportunity to partner with the roof garden girl,” I said, angling for the last slice of Sam’s resistance. I didn’t know Magnolia Santillian, but Sam hadn’t stopped raving about her work since the spring. For reasons I had yet to comprehend, Patrick hated roof gardens and shut down every one of Sam’s attempts at weaving them into his designs. “If there’s ever been a property that needs a roof garden, it’s this one.”
He reached for the tablet again. He wouldn’t believe it until checking out the roof himself. After all, I was just the lawyer. I didn’t know anything about architecture or preservation or design. “What’s the timeline with all this?” he asked.
“They’d like to know as soon as possible. They close on the property in forty-five days or so, and want to start construction immediately. I promised them we’d follow up by Friday.”
“I’ll call Magnolia and find out whether she has any flexibility in her schedule,” he said. “I need Riley freed up in the next couple of weeks, and I want the blueprints pulled from City Hall by noon tomorrow. Get your errand boy, Tom, on that one.”
Miracles worked, mountains moved.
“Yes! I knew you’d be all over this. There’s just one more thing.” He groaned and flopped back in his chair as I held out my hands. “Actually, two things. One: why can’t we just call her Roof Garden Girl? I really prefer that to Magnolia. I mean, please. Who names a child Magnolia? It requires her to be a landscape architect, or own a flower shop. And two: there’s a strict non-disclosure agreement attached to this client. You can’t go tweeting about working on Eddie Turlan’s house.”
“I don’t tweet, and you’ll need to talk to Magnolia about that. I don’t think we know her well enough to give her a nickname yet.”
“But you’d like to know her a little better, right?” I asked, lifting my shoulders. “You’d like to get on a nickname basis.”
“You’re reading into this rather far, Shannon.”
I didn’t know much about Magnolia beyond the stray details Sam shared, but I couldn’t help wondering whether he needed someone as creative and strange as him. Anyone who designed roof gardens for a living had to fit the bill.
