All We Ever Wanted(41)

   And that’s when it hit me. Where I had seen her before. It was about four years ago, maybe more, as I tended to underestimate the passage of time these days. She’d come to the home of a client who had hired me to redo cabinetry in what she called her “keeping room.” This woman, whose name I couldn’t recall for the life of me, was about the same age and profile as Nina—meaning she, too, lived in a Belle Meade mansion, though not as grand as Nina’s. I’d actually gotten the initial call from her contractor explaining that she was impossible to please, hadn’t been happy with the work of a former carpenter, and wanted to start over from scratch. She didn’t like his design, though she had signed off on the drawings, nor did she like the materials he’d used, though she’d also approved his choice of teak.

“I wouldn’t blame you for not touching this one,” the guy had said. “She’s a real pain in the ass.”

I very nearly heeded his warning, but I needed the money, as always, so I took the gig. When I went over to meet her, I actually tried to talk her out of the redo, explaining the flaws she perceived in the teak would likely disappear with a coat of paint and certainly two or three, and that, in my opinion, she’d be wasting her money. She was unconvinced and undeterred, or maybe she just wanted to waste money.

So I took the job, agreeing to use mahogany and a new, more detailed design with a lot of flourishes and scrollwork that she’d pulled from a design magazine and that I actually thought were a little too McMansion-y.

Suffice it to say—the contractor was right. It was a long three weeks with this woman, though not because she was hard to please. She was thrilled with my work. But she never left me alone, never shut up or shut down her monologue of complaints about her life, whether online ordering snafus (her house was like a FedEx depot) or tennis team drama. Every day at five o’clock sharp, she’d open a bottle of wine, which was my cue to try to leave, and her cue to offer me “overtime” and a glass of my own. I explained more than once that I didn’t drink on the job, at which point she’d assault me with peer pressure I hadn’t experienced since junior high. “Oh, come on, don’t be such a Goody Two-shoes,” she’d say. “One little glass.” A couple times I relented, taking a few sips just to shut her up while she polished off the rest of the bottle, often then delving into complaints about her husband. How he was never around, that he didn’t listen to her, that he bitched about her spending habits.

   And that’s where Nina Browning came in, quite literally, showing up one evening for what looked to be a big night out. What’s Her Name wasn’t quite ready, so she handed her friend a glass of wine and told her she’d be back in a second. At least a half hour passed in which I continued to work and Nina typed away on her phone in the adjoining kitchen. Meanwhile, we each pretended the other wasn’t just a few feet away. At one point, she got a call, and I had the feeling it was from her husband or someone she was very close to. Because she started speaking in a hushed voice, complaining about how What’s Her Name was always late. When she hung up, she caught me looking at her, let out a little laugh, and said, “You didn’t hear that.”

I smiled and said something like “Oh, yeah, I did.”

“She’s a great friend, but never on time.”

“Maybe if she talked a little less….”

This made her laugh a real laugh, showing a lot of big white teeth and how pretty she was and, perhaps more noteworthy, how unlike her friend she seemed to be. More real, less insecure. She was interacting with me as an equal and not as the carpenter she could pay overtime to drink with her.

   A few minutes later, What’s Her Name sauntered into the kitchen and announced that I could keep working; she “trusted me in the house.” She meant it as the highest of compliments, but of course it was actually an insulting sentiment—which Nina picked up on with a subtle eye roll. Then they were gone.

That was it, really. Not much of a meeting at all. But it was still a reference point that made me think it was possible that our conversation today had been sincere rather than a coffee-shop performance. Then again, they both could have been performances. I shut off the lights, locked up my workshop, and walked to my truck, telling myself none of this mattered. Whether she was a decent person was in some ways as wholly irrelevant as her looks. It didn’t change what her son had done, and it wasn’t going to change my decision. Yet as I drove home, I found myself wondering about her—who she really was as a person. For some inexplicable reason, I wanted—somehow needed—to know the truth about Nina Browning. Which is why I was more than a little intrigued when I received her email that night—and unable to resist the back and forth that followed.


Tom,

Thank you so much for meeting me with me today. Although it was difficult, I’m glad we had the chance to talk through things. I was wondering if you’d be open to getting together again, this time with Finch and Lyla? Obviously I won’t press the issue if you’re uncomfortable with the idea, but I think it might be good for both of them. Let me know your thoughts.

Best,

Nina



…

   Thank you for following up and for the offer. Let me talk to Lyla and see how she feels. Oh. And I think I figured out where we met. Do you have a friend who lives in a brick house on Lynwood? Pretty sure I met you while working there a number of years ago. T.