Rusty Nailed (Cocktail, #2)(38)

The lowest point came on Wednesday afternoon after I sent everyone home early, and then I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to see my family for Thanksgiving. I’d thought I was on top of things, I thought my in-box was finally cleared out enough to sneak away for two days, when I found an e-mail in spam for a job I’d agreed to months ago. To come in and decorate for a client who was having thirty people over to her Nob Hill home for Thanksgiving dinner, and needed the dining room dressed. And the living room. And an entire autumn-in-New-England scene designed for her conservatory, where drinks might be served but might not, but just in case, could I please make it look like pilgrims might have lived there?

I lost my mind.

I didn’t even close the door, since there was no one left there but me.

I was still wiping the sob snot from my face when I heard Skype ringing on my computer. Dammit.

Crawling around the desk—yes I was on the floor, that’s the best place for a breakdown— I popped up and saw that it was Jillian.

Should I answer? Should I not? She’d know I was upset. Oh hell, let her.

I pulled myself into my chair, answering her call with one last nose blow.

“Do you have a cold?” she asked, the video coming through instantly. I saw myself in the tiny window, red eyes and red face, and I lied.

“I do, how’re you?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light.

“Great! We’re just about to take the train into Venice. I never thought I’d be having Thanksgiving dinner in Venice, can you imagine? It won’t be a true Thanksgiving dinner, but we were thinking maybe we’d have something with chicken. That’ll be close enough, right?” She laughed.

“I’d think so. What can I do for you, Jillian? You just caught me.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d still be there. When are you leaving for your folks’?”

“Um, in a few minutes, just finishing up a few last-minute details,” I answered, struggling to keep my voice from breaking. Mentally, I was going through the stockroom, thinking about how many yards of brown silk I’d need to fashion into a tablecloth.

“Well, good. I just thought I’d check in and see how things were going, wish you a happy Thanksgiving.”

I bit my tongue, wanting to say something but keeping it in check. “Happy Thanksgiving to you too, Jillian. How’s Benjamin?” I managed to ask.

“He’s great, he sends his love. Where’s Simon this year?”

“Back east, taking pictures in Plymouth. Fucking pilgrims. I mean—you know what I—”

“You okay, kiddo?” she interrupted.

I didn’t need her worrying about anything, so I forced a smile. “Everything’s great here, I’m just trying to finish a few things so I can get down to my folks’.”

“Okay, if you’re sure that’s all—”

“It’s all good here, Jillian. Talk to you later, okay?” I hurried, knowing I couldn’t hold the tears back much longer. We said our good-byes and hung up, just as a fresh wave started.

I couldn’t take another call like that, so I chickened out and texted my mom to let her know the change in plans, promising to call her a little later. I couldn’t speak to her until I’d calmed down; I didn’t want to worry her. She knew how many hours I’d been putting in; she was so proud of me and how well everything was going. Ha.

I texted Simon to let him know that I was no longer going home for Thanksgiving, that I was working on a last-minute project, and that I’d call him later on when I took a break.

A break! Pffft.

He tried calling me back almost immediately, but I let it go to voice mail. I needed to work, not wallow.

I spent the next nine hours working on table settings and centerpieces, and then spent six hours Thanksgiving morning dressing a conservatory to make it look like very wealthy pilgrims had wandered by and decided this would be the place they wanted to have spiced squash soup accented by thyme and chervil.

Thanksgiving night, I was on the couch eating ramen in my pajamas with Clive, watching reruns on Food Network of Ina’s Best Thanksgiving shows. It was like disaster porn; I couldn’t look away. Now that I’d saved the day for another family, I could wallow. And wallow I did.

Which is why my wallow was so surprised when Clive began to pace at the front door, seconds before Simon came in.

I looked at him, covered in November rain, his eyes warm.

“I didn’t want you to spend Thanksgiving alone,” he said, shaking off the rain. “And maybe I don’t either.”

I burst into tears for the second time in twenty-four hours.

He just picked me up off the couch and settled me into his lap, his North Face getting my PJs soaked. He held me, soothing me, running his hands over my back and making little circles on my shoulders.

“You . . . are . . . the best . . . boyfriend . . . ever!” I wailed, wiping my nose on my arm. Clive ran in and out of Simon’s legs, threading himself as close as he could get without appearing too needy. Hell, I was idling at needy, ready to downshift into pitiful.

By the time my sobs tapered off, I was shivering, the chill from the rainy night moving into my bones.

“Come on, sweet girl, let’s get you changed into something warm,” he said. Reluctant to be set down, I clung to him. So he stood with me wrapped around him in front, and walked us back to the bedroom.