Joss.” With a sigh, Emily sat on a shadowed ledge near the fountain. “We aren’t all born with your self-confidence.”
Born with confidence…or just born to a very determined mother?
A memory surfaced of an elementary-school choir recital—Joss had loved to sing, despite tentative pitch, and she’d been looking forward to the concert. But when all the parents had filed into the auditorium, her knees had started knocking in time to the pianist’s metronome. Her voice squeaky with nerves, she’d still managed to warble through her stage fright.
She’d been filled with a huge sense of accomplishment and renewed confidence…until her mother announced on the drive home that she wasn’t about to let her daughter make such a public fool of herself again. If Jocelyn wanted to sing, Vivian would help her do it well. A week later, Joss had begun private voice lessons, with her mother’s full support.
The kind of support that ensured job security for therapists.
Giving up the sun that hadn’t been keeping her warm anyway, Joss sat next to her friend in the shade. “Trust me, Em, there are plenty of things I’m bad at. And you’re selling yourself short. Not everyone can teach. Or write.”
“Sure.” Emily pitched a penny into the softly gurgling water, and Joss wondered what today’s wish had been. “Put me on the other side of a piece of paper, or in front of a whole class, I’m fine. It’s one-on-one interactions that make me nervous.”
This came as no surprise to Joss. The two women had met when Mitman did some publicity work for the university, and though they’d hit it off pretty quickly, Emily was shy. The middle child between two boisterous brothers, Em was known for being quiet and accommodating—qualities that had led to her being hurt more than once, but also made her a soothing person to be around. Joss, at the other end of the spectrum, knew she wasn’t exactly lowkey, and appreciated the balance her friend helped provide. When Joss had first met David, she’d hoped he might be the romantic equivalent of a male Emily.
He’d been more the romantic equivalent of a brick.
What business did she really have trying to push Em to the realization that Simon was all wrong for her? Joss hadn’t had any more lasting success in her love life than her friend, whose pre-Simon relationships had included a compulsive liar and a man who waffled weekly between Em and his ex-wife, but was at least honest about it.
Thankfully, Emily changed the subject away from men entirely. “I was impressed with the improvements on the house, by the way. I went over to feed Dulcie, expecting a certified disaster, but it wasn’t as bad as you made it sound. I think maybe you’re just expecting too much too soon.”
“Who, me?”
The new house—rather, the seventy-year-old house she’d recently purchased—was either her pride and joy, or the albatross mortgaged around her neck for the next three decades. Depending on what day you asked.
She’d been en route to a subdivision of shinier modern homes with programmable digital thermostats and updated appliances when she’d driven by the neglected two-story for sale. It hadn’t been what she was looking for, but it had stood out among the houses she’d seen, with their cookie-cutter floor plans and treeless postage-stamp-size yards. Ultimately, the urge to perfect had been irresistible—she could buy the house at a bargain and reshape its raw appeal into her dream home.
Of course, recent business demands had thus far impeded her brilliant renovation schemes. And the “bargain” was costing her a fortune.
Emily’s continued reassurance was cheering. “The refinished dining-room floor looks terrific—I don’t understand why anyone carpeted over that hardwood in the first place!”
“Thanks. I plan to put hardwood in the foyer, too.” It was on her ever-growing to-do list.
“And I was really impressed with the progress on the wraparound porch. I made it all the way to the door without once worrying I was going to crash through rotting steps.”
Progress was being made, but the porch would have been done by now if the man Joss had hired didn’t have all manner of excuses for delaying. Weather, supplies, an emergency across town, his astrologist telling him Jupiter was in the wrong house for him to handle nails that day…Patience, she reminded herself. Rome wasn’t build in a day.
Maybe Caesar couldn’t find a decent contractor, either.
“All right, I suppose I am a little impatient. I just can’t wait to see what everything will look like once it all comes together.” Whatever century that was. “I’ve got to get a new water heater, though. And I still haven’t decided on colors for the downstairs bathroom or my bedroom.”
Emily laughed. “I would’ve decorated the bedroom first and let everything else sit for months.”
“I don’t think ‘sitting’ is an option for the water heater. It’s a disaster waiting to happen, and I haven’t finished my room because I just haven’t seen anything truly perfect yet. And then there’s that hideous kitchen…”
Joss was in the middle of painstakingly stripping the current wallpaper. Current only in the sense that it happened to be on the wall, not that it bore any resemblance to something presently fashionable. She’d been pleased with how easy it was to peel off the busy vertigo-inducing pattern, but then discovered the reason she’d been able to remove the paper so quickly was because it hadn’t actually been attached to the wall. Instead, there was a second print—less busy, just as ugly—beneath.
She’d now uncovered three strata left by previous generations. My kitchen, the suburban archeological dig. Joss was investigating interesting sociological issues, such as how the hell had avocado and gold become so popular in the first place?
Mercifully, the third layer of paper, a lovely shade of bordello red, appeared to be the last. Joss didn’t expect any more prints to pop up like never-ending clowns out of one of those little circus cars. The bad news, however, was that older wallpapers were considerably more difficult to remove than what was being manufactured these days, especially if the paper turned out to be “nonporous,” as her call-girl crimson was.
Now that Joss was back in town after her unsuccessful meeting with Neely-Richards, she needed to buy a puncturing roller and rent a wallpaper steamer. Probably not today, though. She already had a list of errands that might well take her into middle age, including Dulcie’s annual vaccinations this afternoon. The fact that the veterinarian was a great-looking guy helped compensate for the Siamese’s weeklong grudges after clinic visits. Joss glanced at her watch with a sigh.
“Lunch was great,” she said, “but I’m afraid I need to run. I’ve got to take Dulcie to see the cute vet at three, and I should get around to looking at tile samples for that downstairs bathroom. You don’t, by any chance, want to come with me and help narrow down a color scheme, do you?”
“Actually, I have to get going, too.” Emily stood. “I’ve got some work to do before Simon picks me up. We’re having an early dinner and catching a movie at that art house he likes.”
“He likes?”
“I like it, too.” Emily’s mumbled response didn’t change the fact that she went to most of the movies on her “must-see” list with Joss, then reportedly spent her dates with Simon squinting at foreign-film subtitles. “And he’s right about me—my horizons could use some broadening.”
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