Blueprints: A Novel (37 page)

It started in the car—Jamie’s convertible, so
cool
with Chip at the wheel—when the origin of the champagne got them talking about sports. What had Jamie felt when she won a tournament? When she lost? Where were her trophies, why were they packed away? Where were
his
? Had Chip regretted dropping out of college to go pro? Did he want Buddy playing hockey? Did she want Tad playing tennis? How to minimize the pressure of competitive sports? In what ways did sports ethics affect their current work?

Many answers were of the yes or no variety, because there were so many questions,
so
much to learn. By the time they pulled up at the restaurant, they were on to their jobs. What was Chip’s favorite age group at school, favorite season, favorite sport? Were school parents a problem for him? How did Jamie choose between projects? Did she prefer commercial to residential? How did she keep up with the latest in technology?

Jamie learned that Chip blamed his early stardom for the arrogance that had led to women and booze, and that he dreamed of coaching hockey at the high school level to help ground budding stars. He talked about the growth of his summer camp, how it emphasized skills and teamwork over competition and partnered with a reading program at the local library. But he was as eager to know Jamie’s dreams as share his own. So she talked of the drawings she had made for the Weymouth estate and her fear that the Barths would steal it away.

She had never been as thoroughly comfortable with anyone in her life. For all Chip’s warnings about her being a MacAfee to his Kobik, the way he described his childhood made it sound identical to hers in terms of values. His family was firmly grounded—sisters functional professionals, one married, one not, parents still together after forty-some years. Could he be crazy, coming from that?

As they talked, they sipped champagne, split an appetizer salad, and munched on warm zucchini bread. Did Jamie see the restaurant’s decor? Barely. She couldn’t look at anything but Chip, which was why she was taken by surprise when a couple stopped at their table on their way to the door.

“We love your show,” said the man, to which his wife added, “We watch it every week, even reruns now. Can’t wait for the new season.”

Much as Jamie resented the interruption, she couldn’t alienate a viewer. Managing a polite smile, she said, “We just finished taping it. They’re in the process of editing.”

That led, when the couple moved on, to Chip wanting to know everything about
Gut It!
and Jamie telling him how the show had begun and what it meant to MacAfee Homes, but also about Claire’s decree on switching hosts and Jamie’s resulting rift with Caroline.

“Is hosting something you want?” Chip was careful to ask first.

“I thought it was.
Assumed
it was. But under these circumstances?” She shook her head. “Maybe someday, but not now. Especially not now,” she added, reinforcing the
especially
with a meaningful look.

“I feel for your mom,” he admitted. “Mine lost her job when the hospital where she worked was bought by a for-profit corporation. They said the cuts were part of the takeover, but it was mostly older women who were let go. Mom liked her job. Suddenly it was gone, and she was too old to find another.”

“So she retired?”

“If you can call it that. She’s a professional volunteer, her current passion being the library in the Vermont town where they summer. She’s busier than ever.”

They continued to talk over grilled snapper and rack of lamb, and when Chip ordered a side of sour-cream-and-chive fries, Jamie was in heaven. They lingered over cappuccino until thoughts of getting back for the sitter intruded, but they hadn’t made it out the door when it was his turn to be stopped.

“Buffalo blew it when they sent you to Pittsburgh,” said a man who was clearly a hockey fan. “You were the best right wing they had.”

Less indulgent than Jamie, Chip thanked him, no conversation, and guided her to the car. “I always hate that,” he muttered as soon as he slid behind the wheel.

“Why?”

“Buffalo traded me because I was a problem.”

“You were a great player.”

“Yeah, when I was on.”

“You think of the bad behavior, Chip. People like him are thinking of the good stuff.”

Taking a deep breath, he grabbed her hand and held it tightly as he drove off. “Keep reminding me, please?”

*   *   *

By mutual, unspoken consent, they avoided PDA at the restaurant. The fact that both of them were recognized validated that decision. The last thing either of them wanted was to find a cell phone shot posted somewhere online.

After the restraint, though, they touched constantly during the drive home. When Chip wasn’t holding her hand, it was on the back of his neck or his thigh. He kissed her with promise when they pulled into his driveway, and made good on the promise after taking the babysitter home. She fell asleep in his arms, well and fully satisfied.

*   *   *

Jamie had trouble thinking about designing when she was with Chip, but she had fallen behind after Roy’s death and was nowhere near catching up. She had always been focused on work, always. So it was near-compulsion that had the wheels in her mind spinning when she woke at five on Saturday morning. Naked beside him, she lay for a time just taking in the sounds and smells of the house. Her condo had few. Well built and new, it smelled nondescript, it didn’t creak underfoot, and its systems were silent. This house was different. She smelled Chip, of course, all clean male, on her skin and his as he slept beside her. She also smelled wax on aged wood floors and heard the rattling of cool air through heating vents that had been adapted for AC only four years before.

Absurdly, she thought about flying. She was always more comfortable when the plane was hitting a steady stretch of gentle bumps. They gave her the illusion of being on the ground.

Likewise, the sounds in this house were grounding. Or maybe what gave the house roots were silent echoes from Chip’s parents’ time. They had raised a family here and had been happy. Jamie could
feel
that, as if the house had a character that lived beyond its inhabitants. It wasn’t unlike Caroline’s house in that sense. For the first time, she understood why her mother loved the Victorian so. Especially at a time when one’s life was new, roots helped.

The AC cycled off, and Chip’s rhythmic breathing was more noticeable. Turning her head on the pillow, she studied him—dark hair, shadowed jaw, broad shoulders, and good heart—and felt such a swell inside that she was beside herself. His body warmth was welcome in the air-conditioned chill he liked, but he wasn’t physically holding her down. Rather, he had a hand tucked to her hip, as if the reassurance of her presence was all he needed.

But those wheels in her mind continued to whir, now joined by a little voice that cried,
Work!
That voice had been silent, not a peep since she had broken her engagement with Brad. And it wasn’t snide now, just insistent.

With care, she gently slid away from Chip, but as soon as she sat up on the edge of the bed, he mumbled, “Where are you going?”

Miming writing, she whispered, “Work thoughts.” She returned to kiss his cheek, then reached for a robe and crept down to the breakfast nook, where she sat with a paper and pencil making a list, by client, of work to be done. When the list grew daunting, she began shifting tasks to a second list, this for her assistant, and when that one grew daunting as well, she sat back.

Caroline was right. They needed to hire another architect. Jamie could still do everything herself, but did she want to?
No.
She loved designing homes, offices, and stores. But she had to learn to delegate, and some parts of her work couldn’t be done by an intern. Oh yes, she might have trouble finding a licensed architect willing to take her runoff. Or not.

This would be a lifestyle change for Jamie. She had always been narrowly focused on one thing, first tennis, then architecture. She didn’t go out with friends, didn’t cook, and, other than yoga classes and the occasional tennis game with a local pro, didn’t have any hobbies. But life wasn’t all work. For the first time now, she wanted a mix.

Oh, and one more thing? She was absolutely, definitely, bottom-line not hosting
Gut It!
in the fall—didn’t have the time, interest, or energy. She was thinking how best to break this to Claire and what the consequences might be when Chip slid into the booth snug beside her.

“The boys are up,” came his deep, early morning voice. “I want a kiss before I go in there.”

She kissed him—so natural, so sweet—then said, “I’ll get them.”

“No. You’re working.” He glanced at her lists. “Productively?”

She shrugged. “It helps when I organize things, but I need to hire another architect.” Suddenly, though, she wasn’t thinking about work. Laying her head on his shoulder with an ease that should have been years in the making, she said, “How can something so new feel so right? I keep waiting for a hitch.”

“I like my house cool.”

She smiled against his warm skin. “I noticed.”

“And I leave the toilet seat up. Do you hate that?”

Still smiling, she raised her head to meet his gaze. “I might in the middle of the night, but hey, I like my bottles of hand soap, body lotion, and cologne lined up just so.”

His blue eyes grew mischievous. “I noticed. I knocked them out of line last night when I was shaving, I think.”

“It’s probably good for me. I’m not exactly OCD, just organized. And clumsy? That’s plain embarrassing.”

“It’s plain adorable. Like your freckles.”

She spread a hand on her face. “I hate them.”

He removed the hand, threading his fingers between hers, just as a call came from upstairs. “I need another kiss.”

The second one was as sweet and satisfying as the first. It held comfort and ease and promise and love—yes, love. So bizarre, the speed of that.

“Can I make breakfast?” Jamie asked as he slid out of the booth.

He trailed his thumb along the line of her jaw. “I like cooking, you don’t. I’ll do breakfast, you do laundry.”

*   *   *

Breakfast and laundry. They were mundane things to begin a day of mundane things that kept Jamie busy enough not to think once about work. When they hit the supermarket, she learned that Chip hated Brussels sprouts, liked his peanut butter chunky rather than smooth, and bought only organic milk. When they hit the drugstore for Buddy’s allergy medicine, she learned that he refused to wear sunscreen himself but wanted 70 SPF on the boys. And when they hit the children’s room at the library, she learned that he preferred nonfiction and read his books on an iPad.

Wherever they went, they were physically close. He seemed to need it as much as she did, which stunned her when she stopped to think. As touchy as she and Caroline were, she had never been this way with Brad. She hadn’t thought it was in her nature to want to crawl all over a man.

That said, they were discreet. Seeing people they knew went with the territory in as small a town as Williston. Each time it happened, Jamie thought of Caroline. By rights, Caroline should be the first one to see her with Chip.

But how to see Caroline and not mention marriage? Because that was where they were heading. Once the boys were down for a nap, Jamie perched beside Chip on the arm of his living room chair. While one of his own arms steadied her, the other worked his laptop, which was open and searching. They found an inn in New Hampshire whose proprietor would issue a marriage license, officiate at a short ceremony, and provide music, flowers, and food for a wedding celebration, all on a Sunday.

“A gazebo,” Jamie breathed in delight when the picture appeared on the screen. “I want it there.”

“Then we’re doing this?” Chip asked softly.

Sliding an arm around his neck, she searched his eyes. On level with hers, they held the same bits of terror, excitement, and determination that she felt. “I want to,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t. It’s insane. But I want to. You?”

“More than anything. I love you.”

She returned the words in a kiss, lingering with it until she couldn’t any longer put off the only other major decision. “What do we do about our parents?”

Chip frowned, clearly struggling with that, too. “I’m not sure. They’ll put a damper on this.”

“The voice of reason,” she remarked. By all standards, what they were planning was rash.

“They’ll say we’re rushing into this without thinking it through. They’ll say it’s infatuation, not love.”

“They’ll say I’m on the rebound from Brad.”

“Or that I’m after your money,” which he wasn’t. He had shown her an investment statement in Friday’s mail. He had way more money—and growing—in his name than she had in hers at the moment. That would clearly change once her inheritance came through, and Tad’s inheritance would cover him for life.

“They’ll worry that I’m desperate for a co-parent,” she said.

“Or me a live-in maid.”

“Or that I’m reacting to my dad’s death and not thinking clearly. But I am. I feel like I’m thinking more clearly than I ever have, like I understand more what I want
because
of everything that’s happened. We’re not eighteen, Chip. We’re fully grown, sensible, down-to-earth people.”

He smiled. It was a sweet smile that matched the adoration in his eyes. “We are,” he said, but his smile faded. “They’ll still tell us to wait. They’ll say we should take the time to plan a traditional wedding.”

“Do you want a traditional wedding?” Jamie asked and caught the tiny shake of his head. “Me, neither.”

“But if we elope, they’ll be hurt.”

She exhaled. “Yes.” If there was any reason to wait, this was it. She had never met Chip’s parents, but everything he said pointed to solid, loving people. He was as close to his family as Jamie was to Caroline, and then there was Theo. They would all be hurt.

Taking her hand, Chip pressed it to his mouth. His breath was warm against her skin, his eyes earnest. “All I know is that I’ve been happier in the last week, even when we were just talking on the phone, than I’ve been since I can remember. I love my son, but it isn’t the same. I know what I want in a life partner, and it’s you. We can rationalize this nine ways to Sunday, and it won’t change how I feel.” He kissed her knuckles, brushed them with his thumb. “We could wait.”