The Homewreckers(36)
Hattie looked away and grimaced. “Please don’t make a joke about this, Trae. Lanier Ragan was a great teacher. She was somebody’s wife. A mom.”
Trae shrugged. “Just trying to lighten things up around here. I didn’t know I’d touched a nerve.”
“Well, you did,” Cass shot back. She’d taken an instant dislike to the California designer.
“Folks?” Mo walked up with a very tall, very bald Black woman. “Want you to meet your showrunner. Taleetha Carr. She’s the best in the business. Leetha, meet our homewreckers, Hattie Kavanaugh and Trae Bartholomew.” He nodded at Cass. “And this is Cass Pelletier, Hattie’s wingwoman and site foreman.”
Taleetha wore shredded jeans and an oversized Lakers jersey. She shook hands all around, and Hattie noticed, when she shook hers, that the showrunner had a distinctive tattoo of a coiled snake on her right forearm. She felt instantly intimidated. For about thirty seconds.
“Hi, y’all,” Leetha said, “Momo here has been sending me the video to keep me up to speed on your progress. Sorry it took me so long to get out here from L.A. But I’m here now, so we gonna churn and burn and get this mutha fixed up. Am I right?”
She nudged her star. “Hattie Mae, okay if I call you that?” Leetha didn’t wait for a response. “I like this place. I mean, right now, it’s a dump, but that’s where we come in.”
Leetha turned in a slow circle, taking in the deconstructed kitchen. “Wow. This is some shitshow, huh? Heard y’all had some drama today.”
“But seriously, it’s better to know now, right? If we have structural issues,” Trae said. “Wait until you see what I’ve designed for this kitchen. It’s going to be fabulous.”
Leetha’s laugh was loud and raspy. “No, Ashtray, I’m not talking about the termites. I’m talking about the wallet in the wall.”
Trae’s face darkened. “Please don’t call me that.”
She gave him a playful poke in the arm. “Aww, now don’t go getting your feelings hurt, TraeTrae. I got nicknames for everybody. Like Mo here? He’s Momo.”
Leetha studied Cass for a moment. “Hmm. I think you’re gonna be Cash. As in Cash Money, because you look like the lady who watches the bottom line around here.”
Cass laughed. “Am I that obvious?”
“All right,” Leetha said, clapping her hands. “Let’s get rolling.” She pointed at Trae. “I need you to unroll your plans on that table over there, describe the drawings to Hattie Mae, then walk around the kitchen and demonstrate where everything is going to go.”
“Ready when you are,” Trae said.
“Just let me blot out the shine on their foreheads, and give Trae’s hair a spritz,” said Lisa, the hair and makeup girl, darting in from the other side of the room with a crossbody bag and a toolbelt that contained, instead of hammers and screwdrivers, hairbrushes, combs, lipsticks, and blushers.
“Don’t make ’em too pretty,” Leetha cautioned. “We’re trying to keep it real. And speaking of real, y’all don’t need to be so polite. Hattie, I know you’re a nice southern girl and all, but try to push back when Trae here gets out of line. Gimme some drama, y’all!”
* * *
Trae walked around the gutted kitchen with Hattie at his side. “Right here,” he said, pointing at the back wall, “we’ll put a bank of lower cabinets with a double sink under a custom casement window looking out at the water.”
“I love that idea,” Hattie said. “Whoever’s doing the dinner dishes here will have the best view in the house.”
Her thoughts strayed to the paragraph she’d read in the newspaper story, about how, on the night of her disappearance, Lanier Ragan had stayed up late to clean up the kitchen after her husband had gone off to bed. Had she looked out her own kitchen window that night? If so, what did she see? Was there danger lurking out there in the darkness? Or had Mrs. Ragan—their funny, smart English teacher—been plotting her own disappearance?
“Hattie?” Trae was looking at her, waiting for her to deliver her next line, which they’d already discussed.
“Right,” Hattie said, snapping back to attention. “A custom window? Why don’t we use stock windows framed out to fit? It’d be much cheaper.”
Trae’s upper lip curled. “It’ll look cheaper, that’s for sure. No, I’ve already priced out a custom window for the space. And the manufacturer is going to give us a great deal on it.”
“I guess.” Hattie looked dubious. “What kind of countertops were you thinking? Our budget already took a major hit with all the termite damage in here.”
“Granite,” Trae said promptly. “I picked out a beautiful piece at a boneyard here in Savannah.” He showed her a sample. “Isn’t this gorgeous? It reminds me of the interior of a conch shell. I think I’ll have it done in a slightly matte finish. It’ll be stunning.”
Hattie shook her head. “Pink granite? Are you serious? This isn’t Versailles, Trae. It’s a simple, period beach house, at Tybee Island. Anyway, we can’t afford granite.”
“It’s definitely not pink,” Trae snapped. “This granite will absolutely make this kitchen. With plain, out-of-the-box white cabinets, and not-custom windows, I’ve got to do something to salvage my design.”