Second Chance for Romance

Chapter 2

By Monday we had the house more or less unpacked. Most of our matching furniture, courtesy of Wren’s mother, went in the main living room.

Trip had set up his expensive McIntosh stereo in the octagon room, along with a vintage console TV that took more than a minute to warm up. We filled the room with odds-and-ends furniture that didn’t fit anywhere else.

Christy and I claimed the two small bedrooms on the third floor. Their windows faced south, so they offered plenty of afternoon light. They’d originally been servants’ rooms, but we wanted to use them as studios.

She arranged a couch and a couple of beanbags in hers. They were castoffs from the Nixon-era decor that Trip’s stepmother had inherited when she married his father. She also added a small desk that had been mine when I was much younger.

My studio boasted a pair of mismatched cloth easy chairs and a large bookcase. I used an old writing desk in place of a drafting table I didn’t own yet, along with an ugly Naugahyde barstool that would do the job of a drafting stool until I found a proper one.

Christy didn’t have much to do in her studio, so she helped me unpack.

“I didn’t know you liked art so much,” she said as she arranged books on the bottom shelf.

“What do you think architecture is? It’s functional art. The best of it, at least.”

“I know. But I guess I never think of it that way. Art is sculpture and paintings.”

“Art is lots of things. I mean, most of the best Renaissance artists were

also architects. Michelangelo, Raphael, da Vinci. Heck, Brunelleschi is the guy who discovered linear perspective.”

“Who?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

She shook her head.

I rummaged for a book and sat next to her on the floor. “He was the world’s worst loser.”

“Huh?”

“He lost a competition to Ghiberti—”

“I know him! The Gates of Paradise, right?”

“Right. Well, after Brunelleschi lost, he threw a huge temper tantrum.”

“Sounds like someone I know.” She said it with a grin but flinched when she saw my reaction. “Me! I was talking about me!”

“Oh. Okay. Sorry. Well, anyway, Brunelleschi went on to build the dome of the Florence Cathedral.” I paged through the book until I found what I was looking for. “See? He used a catenary arch, like the Gateway Arch in St.

Louis, along with chains that acted like barrel hoops…”

Trip and I spent half a day going over details for Sayuri’s houses. She was surprisingly organized. She had all the original contractor’s estimates and invoices, as well as everything from the new contractor, including bid documents, specifications, construction drawings, and more. Trip pored over the paperwork, while I studied the drawings.

I thought I’d be disappointed, but I was wrong. The drawings were professional and thorough. Trip grunted a few times but didn’t find any problems either.

“What’s the verdict?” I said at last.

He straightened his stack of papers. “I think,” he said slowly, “that you and I should be working for this guy.” He nodded toward the drawings. “You find any red flags?”

“Nope. I couldn’t do better myself. To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever done as well.”

We gave the news to Sayuri but warned her that the houses themselves might not reflect what we found in the planning.

She smiled a secret little smile. “I check a few times,” she said. “Work looks good.”

“Let’s hope so,” Trip said. “We’ll take a look and let you know.”

We crossed the street to the first house. We found the site foreman and told him that the owner had asked us to take a look around. He answered our questions, albeit grudgingly. He didn’t say so aloud, but his attitude made it plain that he thought we were snot-nosed college kids sent to second-guess him. He was right, in a way, but he didn’t know the whole of it.

“Listen,” Trip said about halfway through, “we aren’t here to make your life difficult. The owner asked us to look out for her interests. All right? So give us a break.”

“Her first contractor really screwed her over,” I explained.

“First contractor?” the foreman said. “Who? We started this job.”

“On that house.” Trip pointed to ours.

“Oh. Okay. Well, that’s different. Who was it, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Trip told him.

The foreman rubbed his jaw. “Yeah, that guy. I don’t like to speak ill, but…”

“We’ve seen his work,” I said. “We’ll probably be fixing things for the next couple of months.”

“Who? You?”

“Yes, us,” Trip said. “I’m a general contractor, and he’s an architect.”

It was a white lie, but I didn’t correct him.

The foreman laughed before he realized Trip was serious.

“Don’t let my age fool you,” Trip said. “I’ve been doing it for years. Him too.”

“Where? In Knoxville?”

“No. Franklin, outside Nashville. And Atlanta this year.”

The foreman looked dubious but decided to humor us.

We finished our tour of the house and didn’t find anything wrong. Trip asked most of the questions, while I kept my eyes open and poked around in the background.

The foreman walked with us to the second house. “Haven’t done much here,” he explained. “Won’t start demo for another six weeks.”

“Not till you get closer to done with the first house,” Trip agreed. “I read the bid documents.”

The man looked surprised. Again.

“Listen,” Trip said in exasperation, “I can look into these houses like a building inspector, or you can just believe me when I say I know what I’m doing.”

“Whatever. I just work here.”

“Yeah. And we’ve kept you too long. Thanks for your time.”

“No problem,” he said insincerely.

Trip was in a surly mood as we walked back to report to Sayuri.

“I don’t like the foreman,” he explained to her, “but I didn’t see anything wrong.”

“Neither did I. Like Trip said, the foreman was a bit of a jerk, but the work is good.”

“That is all I ask,” Sayuri said.

“We’ll check on progress every week, if that’s all right with you,” Trip said. “And I can review any invoices before you pay them.”

“That would be fine.”

“Otherwise,” he finished with a shrug, “I don’t know what else to tell you. The crew is doing a good job. And I’ll be honest, they’re doing it for cheaper than I could do in Atlanta.”

“That is also good to know. Christy said you have a wealth of experience for your years.”

“She’s right about that.” Trip warmed to the compliment. “We’ll definitely make sure you’re getting your money’s worth.”

“I already am,” Sayuri said with a smile.

Classes started on Thursday. Trip and I didn’t have a single one together. He wasn’t disenchanted with architecture, but he knew he’d never love it like I did. So he’d decided to avoid the intense competition of Professor Joska’s class, not to mention the long hours. He was taking an extra business class instead.

I felt a little lost when I entered the design classroom and took a seat in the first row. I also dreaded seeing Gracie. I didn’t have anything against her, but was pretty sure she didn’t feel the same about me. Part of me hoped that we might be friends again, but another part told me to let it go. Besides, the

things I didn’t like about her had only grown in my memory.

I was talking to someone else when she entered. She sat at the other end of the row and pointedly ignored me. I halfway expected the air to freeze between us.

Freddie DeFeo saved me from brooding about it. He dropped his bag on the floor next to mine and gave me the full paisan treatment, including a back-slapping hug straight out of The Godfather.

Professor Joska arrived and started class with his usual brusqueness. He gave us the third-year version of his speech and then handed out copies of the syllabus and schedule. I skimmed them and groaned at the last page. We had a quarter project to design a building, from proposal to final drawings, as though we had a real client at a real architecture firm. It was a third of our grade and in addition to our normal coursework.

Joska seemed to read my mind. “Your lives will only get busier from this point forward. Fourth- and fifth-year students have almost double the workload.” He unscrewed the cap of a fountain pen. “I will sign withdrawal slips if anyone wants.”

No one did. Most of us had understood what we were getting into when we signed up for his class. I was a bit surprised that Freddie was there, but the others were familiar faces, the best and most competitive third-year students, including yours truly.

Wren made a special dinner for the end of our first week of classes. It had only been two days, but we still felt the need to celebrate. We polished off several bottles of wine and lingered over our empty plates.

“You think you have it bad?” Wren said, after Trip complained (again) about his course load. “Christy and I are seniors. So all our courses are 4000

level.”

“Two of mine are technically graduate classes,” Christy said.

“Yeah, okay,” Trip agreed, “but Architecture is a five-year program. So it’s even tougher than a regular degree.”

“Says who?” Wren shot back.

Christy sipped her wine and nodded.

“I’m taking six classes,” Wren continued, “plus a senior seminar in mass

media.”

“And I found out today,” Christy added, “that Siobhan wants me to exhibit at a major show in November. November! That’s, like, barely two months away.”

Trip refilled her glass. “Drink up.”

“I’m going to need it,” she muttered, and took a long sip.

“So,” I asked her, “do you have a piece in mind?”

“For what?”

“For your exhibition?”

She shook her head. “I have a bunch of ideas, but…” She shrugged. “I’ll think of something.”

“What about you?” Wren asked me. “You’ve been unusually quiet tonight.”

“Deadlines as far as the eye can see. Crushing workload. Be surprised if I have time to breathe.”

She snorted and opened another bottle.

“How’s Joska?” Trip asked with a heartless grin.

“Are you kidding? He’s half the deadlines himself. We have a huge project for his class. A design proposal, case study, full set of drawings, a model, the works.”

“Professor Liang is pretty laid-back,” Trip said. Then he frowned.

“Management class will more than make up for it, though.”

“Told you it wouldn’t be easy,” Wren said.

“You were right. I’m playing catch-up, ’cause I’m not a Business or Finance major.”

“Yeah, but you have real-world experience,” I said.

“This is different.”

“How?”

“You know what it takes to build a house, right?”

“More or less.”

“Nothing like design class, is it?”

I snorted.

“It’s theory versus real world,” he continued, mostly for the girls’ benefit.

“They teach you how to design buildings, but it’s totally different on the job site.”

“Most construction guys think architects are idiots,” I told them.

Wren arched an eyebrow. “Are they?”

I glared and held out my glass for a refill.

“Most of them, yes,” Trip admitted. “At least when it comes to practical construction.”

Christy glanced at me to see if I agreed or not.

“Sadly, he’s right,” I said. “Most people in class couldn’t design a workable building if their lives depended on it. You should see some of the projects from fifth-year students.” I shook my head in mock disappointment.

“Beautiful buildings, but completely impractical.” I gestured at Christy with my wineglass. “Remember the dome? By Brunelleschi?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“That’s what you get from an architect who’s also a builder. Beautiful and feasible.”

Trip raised his glass. “Amen, brother.”

The wine and conversation continued to flow until very late. We were all drunk by the time we went to bed.

Unfortunately, I was still too keyed up to sleep. I thought about jerking off, if only to pass the time, but decided against even that. Then I heard a strain of familiar music from across the hall. It was Trip’s make-out tape.

A small part of me was annoyed that they hadn’t asked me to join them, but that was completely irrational. Wren was Trip’s girlfriend, not mine. I didn’t have any claim on her. Besides, Wren didn’t want two boyfriends. She wanted Trip, with some fun on the side.

I was the fun on the side.

Sometimes.

I closed my eyes and tried to will myself to sleep, but couldn’t help listening to the faint, rhythmic sounds from across the hall. The house was old, with lots of night noises, but not so many that I couldn’t imagine what was going on.

I finally pulled on shorts and a T-shirt and went upstairs. I was standing in the foyer, still trying to decide what to do, when I heard a creak on the stairs behind me.

“You too?” Christy said.

“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep.”

We glanced toward the master bedroom.

“They weren’t exactly loud…,” she said.

“But it was kinda obvious.”

“Yeah. So, um… you wanna hang out?”

“Sure.” I made an expansive gesture toward our little studios. “My place or yours?”

“Mine,” she said after a moment.

“Good call. Those beanbags are comfy.”

She kicked off her bunny slippers and curled up on the smaller bag, an ugly orange thing with a suspicious stain on the underside. The other bag wasn’t much better, a brown blob that had been patched several times.

We chatted for a few minutes, mostly small talk. Then she dropped a bombshell.

“How come you aren’t… you know?” She glanced again toward the master bedroom.

My eyes widened. Did she know about Wren and Trip and me? How could she? She wasn’t the type to understand swinging, much less condone it.

So I couldn’t imagine why Wren would’ve told her. I took a deep breath and said neutrally, “How come I’m not what?”

“You know… with someone? Like, a girlfriend.”

“I dunno,” I said with disguised relief. “I guess ’cause I don’t have one.”

“Why not?”

My face grew still. I didn’t need another lecture about how I was a male slut.

“Oh, gosh— Sorry! I don’t mean it like that.”

“Then how do you mean it?”

“I was just making conversation.”

I doubted it, but decided to answer anyway. “I don’t really want a girlfriend. Not right now, at least.”

“Oh. But… why not?”

“That’s harder to answer.” I shrugged. “I guess I want to find myself first.”

“Find yourself?”

“I need to be happy on my own before I can be happy with someone else.”

“I think I understand.”

“Do you?”

She nodded. “So… are you? Happy, I mean.”

“I think so.”

“I can tell.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“You’re… different… from when I saw you last.”

“I had a lot to think about over the summer.”

“Wren said you turned into a philosopher.”

“Ah. What do you think?”

“Me? I dunno. I think you’re different. That’s for sure.”

“Different-good or different-bad?”

She cocked her head to the side. “Too soon to tell.”

“Fair enough.”

We fell silent.

She thought of something and smiled. “You remind me of someone.”

“Oh? Who?”

“Nobu.”

My eyebrows shot up. “The Japanese monk?”

“You remember?”

“Of course.”

She smiled again. “He used to tell me there’s beauty in everything.”

“Ah.”

“And he was always very calm. Like you are.”

“It’s an illusion.”

“What is?”

“Me. Being calm. I have to work at it. All the time.”

“I think he did too,” she said.

I let her enjoy the memory.

“I’d better go,” she said all of a sudden. “I need to get some sleep.”

“Oh. Okay. G’night.”

She left before I could say anything else.

I listened to her pad down the stairs. Then I realized that she’d left her slippers. I thought about taking them down to her, but decided to leave them where they were.

I went next door to my own studio and turned on the desk light. I pulled a book at random from the shelf and sank into the nearest easy chair. I read for a while but didn’t really see the words. I was thinking about Christy and what she’d said. After a while I closed my eyes, just to rest them for a few minutes.

I woke up the next morning in the same chair. I was a bit stiff, but not so much that a good run wouldn’t take care of it. I went to rub my eyes and realized that someone had covered me with a blanket during the night. My book had slipped off my lap and now lay on the floor, closed, but with a

scrap of paper to mark my place.

My eyes fell on a drawing in the other chair. I picked it up and looked at it. It was a quick sketch in pencil, the kind of thing I made in my own sketchbook when I wanted to remember a design.

Christy had drawn me as I’d slept in the chair, covered with the blanket that still lay across my lap. My hand rested on the book I’d been reading. The scene was still and very serene.

You looked so peaceful, she’d written across the bottom.

I smiled.

She must have come upstairs during the night.

For her slippers, I decided.