Brave by Tammara Webber
He said nothing, and I waited, fighting the urge to fill the silence with follow-up questions or contentions like I mean, I was right there every day. And it wouldn’t have been weird for my supervisor to inquire about the degree I’d just earned. We even speak the same language. No need for interpreters or anything.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I should have done that. So graduate school—private practice, not research, I assume, based on your inability to stay out of people’s business?” He teased me about my innate nosiness, but he hadn’t said graduate school as though it were a pipe dream.
“Not private practice exactly. I wanted to do therapy work in a high school or a college counseling office.”
This earned me another look. “You said you had hoped to have completed grad school in five years. When do you plan to get started? Have you chosen a program path? Prospective schools?”
I all but squirmed in my seat. This was less like a job interview and more like How Much Fail at Life is Erin? “Not exactly.” Once upon a time, I’d had a list of prospective schools. Dream schools. Backup schools. Program comparisons. “I’m trying to be realistic about my future. Not that I ever spelled out detailed ambitions to my parents, but they freaked enough when I brought up graduate school.”
“Why?”
“They don’t think I’m capable of it. Mentally, or whatever.” I waved a hand as though I wasn’t affected by the knowledge that the sum total of their hopes and fears for me had nothing to do with my intellect, work ethic, or heart, and everything to do with the genetic gifts they’d bestowed. The ones that made me the perfect ornament for the family tree. The perfect decoration for someone’s arm and not much more. I wondered for the first time if that was my mother’s valuation of herself.
Isaac took the Montgomery exit and moved to the right lane behind a block of cars waiting for the light to change. This was one area of Fort Worth I was acquainted with—Mindi would be back in town in two weeks to begin her senior year at TCU, and we would meet for artisanal pizza at Fireside Pies or beer and greasy nachos at the Pour House. What had happened to her three years ago, and the fact that she’d turned to me for help and support, had been the impetus behind my career choice. She’d transferred schools twice and slowly rebuilt her life, and she’d sworn I had everything to do with that.
The light turned and he took a right, glanced at the map on his phone’s screen, and then turned into a small neighborhood of old, well-maintained houses. My father’s company built gated communities of lavish stone and brick mansions that would swallow any one of these cozy, eighty-year-old cottages with their pier-and-beam foundations, wood siding, shutters, and porch swings. Pecan, red oak, and magnolia trees curved over streets and towered above the quiet community of pretty dollhouses they shaded. Rosebushes and crepe myrtles bloomed everywhere, and vines of honeysuckle trailed along arched gates. Sidewalks invited strolls geared more toward woolgathering than exercise.
We parked in front of a tiny, one-story home, white with pink—pink!—shutters framing the two front windows. The vintage porch light was antique copper, as were the house numbers just beneath it. A letter box, painted like a bumblebee, was affixed below, as if it were buzzing around the large, flourishing pots of geraniums on either side of the front door.
The entire structure would have fit inside my parents’ garage, but I’d never been so enchanted by a house.
Isaac leaned forward to look out the passenger window. “The house is both home and studio. Tuli works in several different mediums, but her first love was outdoor murals, experimenting with plaster and concrete to add texture or create separate supporting pieces. She’s developed into an inventive genius when it comes to mixed media.”
“You’ve worked with Tuli before, then?” A tiny pinprick of jealousy took me by surprise.
He nodded without looking at me, as if considering whether to say more. I waited.
“When I was in high school, I started an anti-gentrification project that turned into a community outreach. A few local commercial backers began working with neighborhood associations and volunteers to repair and weatherize homes for owners who were elderly, disabled, or so impoverished that they were unable to afford to make repairs themselves.”
“Like Habitat for Humanity?”
He angled his head. “Sort of, but small, local, and all restoration and noncosmetic refurbishment to combat what investor-backed developers call blight, not the sort of ‘beautification’ that attracts too much outside interest. We focused on stabilizing neighborhoods by stabilizing homes and public areas, making them livable rather than doing trendy renos and adding landscaping, dog parks, bike lanes…”
“Things that attract chain stores and hipsters.” White, upwardly mobile hipsters who end up destroying the local culture they ostensibly seek. “And then higher property values and taxes force original residents out. Displacing them.”
“Yeah.”
If those comically arched brows were any indication, I’d surprised him again.
“My, uh, minor was sociology. You started an impressive project like that by yourself? As a teenager?”
“With a couple of friends—one of whom was Tuli. It was a senior project.” He grabbed his iPad from a seat pocket as we exited the car. “We graduated, I started at UTA, the other guy went off to OSU, and Tuli moved to Fort Worth to care for a terminally ill aunt, so we turned the project over to the community leaders and helped them manage it until they got the hang of rejecting the offers of assistance that come with strings attached—like developer money.”
“That’s so cool.”
“I’ve loaded the images of the wall, before and after, to my iPad,” he said, bringing us back to the purpose of our field trip. “If she says she can do something with it, then we’ll see what the Andersons think. If not, well, we’ll cross that bridge before we light it on fire, eh?”
We stepped onto the porch, where a colorful welcome mat instructed: WIPE YOUR PAWS.
“You trust her evaluation and artistic skill quite a bit.”
He nodded and pressed the doorbell, which produced a muffled tinkling of wind chimes inside the house. Even the doorbell was adorable. “I do.”
“Then I trust her too.” I wasn’t lying; I was completely disposed to trust his stupendously talented, artistic friend, who lived in the most precious house I’d ever seen.
But I’d never realized how like heartburn jealousy was. My throat burned with it. I swallowed and stuffed my heart back down where it belonged. But I couldn’t seem to help the malicious wish that formed in my head: Please don’t be cute. Please, please don’t be cute.
chapter
Thirteen
Tuli was small and dark-haired with smooth, tawny skin and friendly eyes. She was the very definition of cute. “Isaac, my God, look at you!” she said, grinning up at him. “You look like some sexy, bougie banker. Such a difference from your trademark worn jeans and V-neck tees.”
Trademark what now?
Dear image of Isaac dressed down: get out of my head, please and thank you.
Tuli’s features were Indian, from the almond shape of her eyes to her patrician nose, but her lips were full, and she wore her hair in intricately braided dreads that were fastened at her nape. A bright fuchsia tank peeked out from white, paint-splattered overalls cuffed midcalf.
“C’mon, girl, you seen me looking professional before. And at church back in the day. Quit playin’.” His lips pressed tight, he crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. He was embarrassed at her frank declaration that he was hot, while his dialect and posture were more relaxed than I’d ever witnessed. The Isaac Maat I knew was clearly not the Isaac Maat Tuli knew.
“You never filled out a dress shirt and slacks like this in high school or I’da taken notice, church or no church. Mmm. Mmm.”
Isaac shook his head and sighed, charmingly self-conscious. Who was this man?
“Tuli Bell, this is my coworker, Erin McIntyre. Erin, Tuli.?
She turned her smile to me, not the slightest bit repentant for disconcerting him in front of a stranger. “It’s great to meet you, Erin.” She pushed the door shut behind us with her foot. “I’d shake your hand, but you might come away with a bit of clay. I’ll just go wash up real quick. BRB.” Her ballet flats moved silently across the wood floors and canvas drop cloths.
“Thank you for taking the time to meet with us,” I said, my heels clacking with each step into the room.
Artwork of assorted types and stages perched, leaned, and hung everywhere. A newly begun painting waited on an easel by one window and a hand-thrown bowl sat on a pottery wheel. Sharp smells of drying paint and solvents mixed with wet clay and fresh-cut flowers.
The main room was one long space encompassing the entire depth of the house, front to back. At the opposite end of the room, a half-light door flanked by two large windows showcased flowers and fruit trees in the backyard. Tuli disappeared through a doorway on the left, likely the kitchen. A short hall leading to a bedroom was visible through a doorway on the right. I was used to soaring ceilings, so hers felt low, but the effect was snug, not oppressive. This was the atmosphere JMCH couldn’t replicate. Cozy. Comfortable. Homey.
She came back, drying her hands on a tea towel.
“Your home is lovely,” I said, wishing I were here alone so I could explore every nook and cranny.
She laughed. “I’ve seen what y’all do—on the internet, anyway. This little house is my favorite place in the world, but it can’t compete with the luxury materials and square footage you’re used to working with.”
“Oh, you’re so wrong. I just matched up a client with a specific decorator a couple of weeks ago because this is the sort of vibe she wanted. A home that feels like a welcoming, peaceful space apart from the world instead of a hotel lobby. To get that kind of ambiance in the gigantic house she bought from us, they’ll have to fake it. This is the real thing.”
She beamed. “Well, thank you.”
I glanced at Isaac, who stood silently observing me with his dark, enigmatic eyes.
“Let me show you our predicament,” he said to her, his eyes still on mine for two heartbeats before he pulled up the photos of the Andersons’ ruined great wall, then handed over the iPad. “We’re hoping you can dream up a miracle.”
• • • • • • • • • •
An hour later, we left Tuli’s studio with numerous sketches of her ideas and images of completed projects scanned into Isaac’s iPad. Initially, she’d needed several minutes to recover from her immediate recognition of the artist’s work and the fact that my donkeyhead of a brother hadn’t taken basic precautions to safeguard a piece of irreplaceable artwork instead of battering right through it.
“I think it would be best if I never met whoever did this,” she’d said, glowering at the wall’s “after” pic in horror. “I am not a violent person, but I might end up in jail. Seriously. This is sickening.”
She had also needed time to adjust to the idea of collaborating—after the fact—with this same world-renowned artist, but once her brain began firing off potential solutions, she started sketching design concepts. Marching past her initial reverence and trepidation, she began to draft bold ideas I never would have conceived.
“Da Vinci’s Last Supper required restoration to preserve it, and if someone can man up to do that, I can do this,” she’d mumbled to herself.
In the face of her confidence, my not-unreasonable fears about the Anderson project receded from the edge of certain loss, and I began to feel optimistic for the first time.
“What now?” I asked Isaac, attempting to outrun the voice in my head telling me how together Tuli’s life was. How unfettered and creative and beautiful. I found myself in a peculiar mental space. Still jealous, but optimistic and grateful.
“Now we convince Sheila Anderson,” he answered.
“Okay.” I released a pent up breath and clicked my seatbelt into place. “How?”
The motor hummed to life and the AC blasted warm air that turned blessedly cool in seconds.
Facing me, Isaac quirked a brow. “That is your job, Ms. McIntyre.”
Well, damn.
As we reached the end of the picturesque street, he asked, “Would you like to grab lunch before we go back? It’s a little early, but we could beat the crowd here.”
“Sure. There’s actually a new taco place on 7th I haven’t tried yet—”
“Velvet Taco.”
“Yeah—that’s it. The one in Austin was good. You’ve been?”
“I live across the street from it.” He laughed. “I probably go too often.”
“Oh, well, we can go somewhere else. So wait—you do this commute every day?”
“I could eat tacos on the daily. And yeah, the commute is why I got this overpriced car. Figured if I was going to be on the road that long every day, I should be comfortable. I should have better considered the gas mileage though.”
“Be jealous—my Prius gets like fifty miles to the gallon. It always surprises me when I need gas because I never need gas. I wanted something more earth-friendly.”
“Admirable.” He smiled at me and thankfully looked back out to the road, because Christ on a porch swing, my face was warming up—literally—for a full-on blush. From a compliment about my environmentalism.
When was the last time Erin McIntyre had a real live crush on a boy? Middle school? Kindergarten? I did not crush; I was crushed on. I pointed the AC vent right at my face like I’d seen Mom do when she was going through The Change, as she called it.
Over spicy tikka chicken tacos and creamy cups of elote, Isaac restarted the faux interview, asking me to cite skills I possessed that would recommend me for the job.
“Wow, you were for hella real about conducting an after-the-fact interview.” I wiped my lips and considered the best way to answer. “Well, I’m a likable people person, evidenced by my election to sorority leadership—I was recruitment chair. I have ample customer service skills as shown in my success as a host. I’ve also been professionally trained to analyze, diagnose, and treat behavioral deviations and abnormalities, which will help me locate the root problems of our clients and resolve them.”
He took his time replying, as usual. “You aren’t worried about overstepping? Getting too personal? JMCH is a business, not a therapy office.”
A week ago I would have taken offense, but today I was basking in the glow of thwarting Leo. Also, I already had the job. “There’s a reason for that old adage Home is where the heart is. Our product is a home. Where a person sleeps, eats, spends time with family, friends, and pets—it’s inherently personal. How they feel about that place is crucial to their happiness.”
After another lengthy pause for reflection (fifteen seconds, like the wait for the crotchety elevator; yes, I counted) he said, “Our marketing department could use your help, I think.”
“You trying to get rid of me Maat? Sales wants me, too, you know.”
His eyes flashed. Oops.
“I said no.”
I counted to fifteen, but this time he made no reply.
As we were sorting our lunch containers into the trash and recycling bins, he asked, “So what do you believe your time at JMCH will do for you? My theory is that good workers make better employees when they gain as much—in the form of new skills, stronger confidence, clarity about where their career is ultimately going—as they contribute in labor.”
He unlocked the car, which had already returned to cookie-baking temperature. With no shade like the trees on Tuli’s street provided, the seats were too hot for bare skin. I slid my sunglasses on and closed my eyes. I had no idea what I would get from working at JMCH except a deferral from making a decision about my future, which stretched out before me like a barren landscape, devoid of solutions or even indistinct clues.
“We can stop if you want,” he said.
“Can we find a Starbucks while I formulate my unbelievably clever a
“Sure.”
My tormented night of insufficient sleep was taking its toll. Between the excitement of the first half of the day, a full tummy, and the warmth of the car, I was struggling to stay awake. I wanted to volley another astute answer back to him even if it was half-fudged. I wanted him to think he might have hired me himself if given the chance. I wanted him to like me.
A whole-body jolt made me realize I’d fallen asleep for a few seconds.
“You sure you’re feeling okay?” He looked concerned. “You’ve been asleep the past several miles.”
Oh. My. God. Several miles? What if Isaac had said something and I didn’t hear him? What if I snored like Daddy? Or drooled? I touched a finger to my chin, which was thank-you-Jesus dry. “Yeah, fine—I had a rough night. Didn’t get much sleep.”
Swoop. There went that quizzical eyebrow of his, and my belated realization of what I’d just said.
“Um, I mean, I had some bizarre dreams. Probably just surplus stress from this whole wrecked-wall situation—failing at life, Daddy in an uproar, the desire to commit a wee bit of fratricide, the usual.” My heart clenched at the lie, but there was no way I could tell him the truth—that I couldn’t come to terms with my ex-boyfriend’s death. Not when I’d caused him so much pain in the last months of his life, even if it was unintentional.
“Your father just wants the problem resolved. And your brother? I can’t be an accessory, but I’d testify for the defense. You have a sound case for justifiable homicide.”
I laughed. “Don’t start planning for your deposition just yet. If Tuli comes through, Leo will survive to ruin other people’s lives. Hopefully I will be far, far away from his next disaster.”
We got drive-through coffee, and just when I’d assumed he’d forgotten all about the interview, he reminded me of his last question: What would working for my father’s company do for me and for my career?
I wanted to release a dramatic, angst-filled groan, but I pulled myself together and went for broke. “If I was going to be honest, I guess I’d have to admit that landing this job would give me the opportunity to regroup and decide what I want to do next.”