One Way or Another(53)

Not only that, Ahmet had called her every day asking how it was going, when could he move in, what was taking so long? All in all, wearily, Martha sometimes wished she’d never met Ahmet, never taken the job. Marshmallows was so far from civilization she might have been in a different country. Plus, she had Mehitabel to contend with.

The mystery woman, as Lucy rightly called Mehitabel, was on top of every tiny detail; she showed up, notes in hand, comments prepared, always managing in an effortless way to make it appear that Martha and Lucy were getting behind, were not sure of what they were doing, questioning every single detail.

Still, by week three, the house Martha had envisaged began to emerge from the chaos and dreams into a reality. The tiled floors were gone, along with the red carpet on the stairs, the heavy furniture, the dark drapes, the too-solid-looking paneling, the many crystal chandeliers—only the walls now stripped to the bone awaited the softest of colors. Not white; she had decided that would be too harsh a contrast to the gray-green environment outside the windows. The drawing room was now pale Tuscan fawn, the floors an even paler scrubbed ash, the window frames an infinite blue that hinted of the Mediterranean and which seemed to bring the outdoors into the room. The windows themselves were hung with a creamy soft cotton lawn, weighted so they hung perfectly yet might still move in the breeze when the tall windows leading onto a paved terrace were open.

When she stood and looked out those windows, Martha thought the view was like looking into infinity: the soft rusty-gray paving stones punctuated with tall urns now full of clinging vines; then the long emerald “lawn” that led into the brownish green marsh that took the eye ever onward to the glint of the river and a low cloudy sky.

All the house needed now was the scatter of the antique Turkish rugs—chosen specially with Ahmet’s background in mind—soft and pastel enough to blur into the background, with the grayish ash floors, the sofas and chairs in coordinating colors, though nothing matching; scattered with plump, luxurious cushions that invited you to sprawl.

Looking at her handiwork, envisioning the end result, Martha knew she had done a great job. There was only the delivery of some furniture and the antique pieces needed to complete the entire downstairs, and with time pressing and other work in hand, she felt she might safely leave that in Lucy’s hopefully capable hands. If Lucy could get her mind off the cute blond pizza guy whose name Martha had now learned was Phillip, then she could. Anyhow, where was Lucy? Why did she always seem to be somewhere else when Martha needed her?

“Lucy,” she yelled, striding back through the hall toward the kitchen, betting she would find her sister having a snack made by that nice Tunisian who seemed to be the only employee around here. She supposed Ahmet was waiting until his house was finished before he brought in a whole staff. “Lucy?” she called again, pushing open the green baize door leading into the kitchen. The green baize was an old-fashioned upstairs-downstairs touch she had thought amusing and hopefully so would Ahmet.

She did not find Lucy in the kitchen, though she did find Mehitabel, standing by the sink, running what seemed to Martha to be a critical finger over its surface. The sink was old, a find Martha had foraged in a local sale. It was made of stone, which she’d had smoothed and polished and fitted with new drains and an electric garbage disposal, and a very smart, very tall chromium faucet that swiveled either way. Set in the pale gray granite counter, chosen by Ahmet himself, she’d thought it looked stunningly modernistic.

“This simply does not work.” Mehitabel turned to look at her, that cold look Martha recognized.

Martha wondered if the woman ever warmed up, ever liked anything, ever, for f*ck’s sake, even smiled. Martha got on with most women, liked making new acquaintances, enjoyed her girlfriends, but Mehitabel was different though she could not quite put a finger on exactly why.

She put on her own smile and asked what was wrong.

“This faucet will have to go,” Mehitabel said. “It’s completely out of place. Mr. Ghulbian will not like it.”

Martha walked across to the sink, stood next to Mehitabel, and inspected the fixture.

“Let me explain something,” she said, coolly because she refused to be intimidated by this woman who was obviously out to do exactly that. “This is my job. Ahmet”—she threw in his name just to make Mehitabel understand that she and Ghulbian were friends—“approved every single fixture, every color, every granite, every floorboard. My job is to please my client. I trust you understand that? This house does not belong to me, neither does it belong to you. It is Ahmet’s and he alone decides what works and what does not. Do I make myself clear? Mehitabel?”

Martha saw two bright spots of color flare in Mehitabel’s cheeks, recognized the anger simmering beneath her cool surface. She had definitely not made a friend.

“I will speak to Mr. Ghulbian about it,” Mehitabel said. “Anyhow, I think you must wait and ask him yourself. I am expecting him here within the hour.”

Martha picked up her iPad and her yellow legal pad with her drawings and notes, looped the ring holding the swatches of fabrics over her fingers, and offered Mehitabel another smile. “Too bad I have an appointment this evening. I won’t be able to wait, but Ahmet can, of course, call me any time.”

Mehitabel did not so much as acknowledge what she had said. An uneasy silence fell, broken suddenly by Lucy charging through the door, phone to her ear, sneakers squelching across the immaculate white-tiled floor, leaving muddy footprints.