We order drinks and mussels to start, and the tension between us fades to a physically survivable level. It’s still crackling, but it’s banked enough that my brain is once again able to access its use of the English language. “So, what are you going to do with yourself now that you’ve sold your company? Doesn’t that basically make you unemployed?”
“I’m thinking of going home for a bit. I need to help Mom get her house ready to sell. She’s been making noises about moving to Vail for most of the year and just getting a condo off Turtle Creek.”
I straighten immediately. “She’s selling the Dilbeck?”
The first time I ever saw a Charles Dilbeck–designed house was when I’d gone over to Finn’s for a middle school science project, and it was an epiphany. I realized that houses didn’t have to be boring square boxes with one central hallway. They could have a sense of humor. They could list to the side or pull you up a turret. They could be anything you wanted. Every Dilbeck looks different, but my favorites are straight out of a storybook with hand-carved mantels surrounding oversized fireplaces, detailed brickwork, leaded glass windows that glint like melted sugar, a maximalist’s dream. It’s not at all the normal Dallas look of bright, shiny, and new. Though, if you take a step back and realize that the city’s vibe has always been “more is more,” then Charles Dilbeck is a quintessential Dallas designer. His houses are whimsy piled on top of whimsy. Sometimes more whimsy than people know what to do with. They’re getting torn down at an astonishing rate.
From what I remember, Finn’s parents never really leaned into the fancifulness of their Dilbeck farmhouse. Their home was always beautiful, but they were minimalists. The interiorwas white and gray before white and gray was all the rage. No knickknacks or unnecessary pillows. It was so different from the house I grew up in, which had dozens and dozens of wine corks stashed in glass vases that my mother was going to “do something with someday.” Liz’s and my childhood art, framed as if it were as precious as a Picasso, hung all over the house. So many pillows on the couch that you needed to shove half of them onto the ground to have room to sit. My mother could never walk past a handmade quilt without taking it home. She couldn’t stomach that something someone had put so much time and care into might end up homeless and unloved. She’d always meant to buy a chest for them, but never found one she really loved, so one corner of our living room became a landing zone. For most of Liz’s elementary school career, she would come home, burrow into the nest of quilts, and do her homework on her lap while I pulled together dinner in the kitchen.
Finn’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “A builder reached out to her about it, so she may just sell to him instead of going through the hassle of listing it.”
A lead weight drops through my stomach. “You can’t let her sell to a builder. That house is a treasure. A builder would just tear it down to build some lot-line-to-lot-line McMansion.”
“I can’t just tell her to hold on to it in this market. Not when she wants to be in Colorado most of the year.”
The waiter comes by with our mussels, and Finn and I both order steak frites.
“Please, Finn,” I say, once the waiter has gone. “Promise me you won’t let her sell to someone who’ll tear it down.”
I imagine a world in which I have the funds to buy it myself and totally redo the interior as a proof of concept for my owndesign firm. But I’m barely able to save with my current gig—and with keeping Liz afloat. Mom certainly doesn’t have the means to contribute to a down payment.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Finn says, which is really as much as I can expect from him. “How’s your work going?” he asks, changing the subject. The lead weight in my stomach turns molten.
“It’s fine,” I say, hoping that Finn will just leave it at that. He opens his mouth, but takes a look at my face, and closes it. He’s not going to push me, which I appreciate. But I find that I actuallywantto tell him.
“Honestly…” I take a long pull from my wine and decide to lay everything out on the table. “I think it may be time to jump ship. Though my boss may beat me to the punch on Monday.”
“What makes you say that?” Finn asks.
I explain the situation with the Hanson property. When I finish, Finn’s question isn’t what I’m expecting.
“What’s your end goal?”
“My end goal?”
“If you could be doing anything, what would it be?”
I don’t have to think about the answer. “Running my own design firm.”
“Okay. So does this job serve you toward that long-term plan?”
“I mean, I guess not so much at this point.” I pluck a mussel from the pot and scoop the meat from its shell. “I’ve worked there for five years. I’ve made a good network of connections. And it doesn’t seem like I’m going to be getting the chance to really grow my own creative aesthetic there.”
“Exactly,” Finn says as if it’s just that simple.
“However, I do need this job to afford to eat and sleep with a roof over my head.” I pop another mussel into my mouth. “Two things I’ve come to enjoy.”
Tearing off a piece of bread and dragging it through the white wine broth, Finn counters with “I’m sure you could find someone to back you.”
“Spoken like a true Silicon Valley–er.”
“You could move back to Dallas. It’d lower your overhead costs. I’ve actually been thinking of doing the same.”
“It just feels like failing,” I say as the rest of our meal arrives.
“The firm you work for is the one failing if they fire you.” Finn cuts into his steak matter-of-factly. “It’s bad business to drive away good talent.”
“I should have just done my job and kept my mouth shut.”
