The Homewreckers(31)

“Partner? I don’t need a designer partner,” Hattie said. “I’m the designer on all our projects.”

“Except this one,” Mo said firmly.

Hattie stood with her back against the fireplace, arms crossed over her chest. “Nope. I bought this house with my own funds. Nobody said anything to me about a partner, or a designer. So if that’s the deal the network wants, I quit. Deal’s off.”

Mo sighed. “You’re aware that you’re contractually obligated to do this show, right?”

“So sue me.” Hattie’s jaw was set, her eyes flashing.

“That could happen,” Mo said. “But here’s the other thing. If you walk away from this deal, you’re also walking away from all the building materials our sponsors were set to donate, plus your salary, plus the money the network budgeted for labor.”

“I’ll still have this house. And my independence,” Hattie shot back.

“Good luck with that,” Mo said. He nodded at Cass, and then Tug. “Nice to meet you folks. Wish things had worked out.”





15

A Change of Heart




Tug watched the producer’s departure. “That’s settled then. You’ll call Little Holl and sell him back the house. At a handsome profit. And we’ll be done with this television nonsense.”

“Right,” Cass agreed. “Think about it, Hattie. That’s a twenty-thousand-dollar profit. We can find another house, in way better shape.”

But Hattie wasn’t listening. She’d wandered into the living room and was perched on the arm of a harvest-gold sofa with arms pocked with cigarette burns. The original ceilings in the room were high, with heavy beams. She was picturing the room as it could be, with hardwood floors, curtains at the windows that lifted in the breeze, maybe a card table set up near the windows, with a pair of armchairs drawn up to it for a game of Scrabble, or cards.

She picked up the machete she’d abandoned on the porch and headed toward the backyard. Tug and Cass stood on the back porch, talking quietly. “Hattie?” Tug called.

Hattie picked her way through the underbrush, swinging the machete to clear her way. She smelled the river before she saw it, passing a tumbledown boat shed flanked by the hull of a long-abandoned johnboat. Finally, she spotted the remains of a cracked concrete walkway and followed it until she caught the flash of sunshine on gently lapping waves.

She was surprised by how much waterfront footage the lot commanded, possibly two hundred feet. It was low tide now, and a set of wooden steps led down to an exposed stretch of sandy beach. A dock stretched out into the river, and at the end was a covered dock house. The silvery planks were worn and splintered in places. She wouldn’t dare walk out on it until her carpenters had a chance to replace some of the planks.

“Damn.” Cass had followed her down to the water’s edge and was standing beside her.

Hattie pointed across the river, toward a spit of tree-lined sand. “Great view of Little Tybee, huh?”

“If you like that kind of thing.”

A curved dorsal fin and silvery-gray back broke through the surface of the water, and then another, and then a pair of smaller fins.

“Sharks,” Cass said hopefully.

“Those are dolphins and you know it,” Hattie said. “A whole pod of ’em.”

“You’re not going to sell this house back to Creedmore, are you?”

“Nope,” Hattie said, shaking her head. “This house is special, Cass. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it. Even if it means making a fool of myself on television.”

Her best friend let out a long, aggrieved sigh.

“You’re just gonna have to trust me on this,” Hattie said, reaching for her phone to call Mo Lopez. “We can make it work.”



* * *



Two days later, Trae Bartholomew sat in the front seat of the producer’s car, staring at the scene unfolding in front of him.

Air-conditioned trailers had been trucked in, a tent had been erected for craft services, and rented trucks full of lights and camera equipment were lined up along the rutted oyster-shell driveway. A trio of RVs was parked in the front yard. But it was the house that held his attention.

He looked over at Mo Lopez. “You’re kidding me, right? We’re going to restore this thing? To what? It was hideous when it was built, and now it’s hideous and decrepit.”

Mo’s smile was tight. “Think of the inherent drama of the before and after. Think of the beyond-belief OMG moment during the reveal in episode six. Most importantly, Trae, think of a Wednesday night prime-time slot. Didn’t Design Minds air on Saturday mornings?”

Trae’s oversized, mirrored aviators slid down his outsized nose as he reconsidered. “It’s a good-sized lot.”

“Waterfront lot,” Mo added.

“And maybe it’s just as well that people haven’t been mucking it up with a lot of unfortunate eighties additions.” He tilted his head to the right. “Okay, I’m getting some clarity. And I’m dying to meet my costar.”

“She’s dying to meet you too,” Mo lied.



* * *



Hattie’s “trailer” was really a rented Winnebago. She’d been pacing around for an hour, alternately annoyed and nervous about having to deal with this celebrity designer. She’d Googled Trae Bartholomew, seen the splashy Architectural Digest layout on his ski lodge project, and other magazine pieces about his less well-known projects.