chapter
Four
Wayne Jansen pulled up in a sleek silver Jaguar. Not a fleck of oil or a smudge of dirt dared mar its polished surface. Its shiny hood ornament gleamed mid-pounce.
I’d arrived an hour early and had been over every detail, with and without the foreman, who gave me the grand tour and then vanished, overjoyed that someone else was taking this guy on.
For all its absurd grandiosity, the house was superbly and solidly built—glazed lava countertops from France, artisanal Amish-built cabinets, Waterworks faucets, Brazilian hardwoods, and single-pane floor-to-ceiling glass walls in the master bedroom, overlooking a walled, landscaped garden with a fifteen-foot waterfall fountain in the corner. The craftsmanship and materials were top of the line.
There was no reason whatsoever for this client to be disappointed with a single detail, so there were only two possible explanations for his groundless rants.
Less likely: he could no longer afford the house and was trying to weasel out of the contract and take his big fat pile of earnest money with him. After perusing the file, I’d called Cynthia, and she’d shared that during the recent economic recession, especially at the onset of it, they’d had a few clients press for that escape and leave JMCH holding the bag on a half-completed custom home—customized for them. But I’d checked Wayne Jansen’s financing, and he was good to go. If reneging on his contract without paying out the nose was his motive, he was going to fail.
The reason for the incessant confrontations, then, probably had nothing to do with JMCH or price and everything to do with Wayne Jansen’s personality: his self-worth, his self-image, his colossal but fragile ego.
I had less than five minutes to figure out which version fit the bill with this jerk—the overreaching, in-debt-to-his-eyeballs asshole or the dude with a tiny penis and a big, swinging dose of arrogance to make up for it.
My money was on tiny penis.
Pulling the heavy front door closed behind me, I raised my chin, displayed my premium, competition-winning smile—wide eyes, just the right amount of teeth—and strode down the hand-placed-slate path to greet him. Time to unravel this guy’s issues—sufficient to get him to sign off on the ostentatious monstrosity my father had built for him, anyway.
He exited the car and sauntered forward while I dissected the superficial clues. Expensive haircut and color. Likely Rogaine addict. Mirrored aviator Ray-Bans. Neon-green Hugo Boss golf shirt. Pressed khaki slacks. Two-tone loafers—handcrafted by the look of them—that hopefully had the fairway spikes taken out. If he meant to score that imported wood floor on purpose, I would shove those fancy shoes—spikes attached—where the sun had never shone.
“Mr. Jansen—thanks so much for coming.” Smile intact, I stuck my hand out as he stepped up onto the curb and stared down at me from behind those reflective lenses, his lips a thin, flat line. He enclosed my hand in a grasp meant to fracture digits, but I had forearms of steel and a grip to match from years of cheer drills and strength training. Nice try, mister. I fake-winced to salvage his ego—no sense antagonizing it further—and glanced down at the left hand balled at his side. No wedding band, so no Mrs. Asshole to pity.
“Lovely to meet you,” I lied, gushing as if he were the legendary golf pro his outfit implied instead of the all-too-common rich bully he was.
He grunted in response. Grunted.
Daddy loathed guys like Wayne Jansen, and I was pretty sure Hank was shielding him from this shitshow while hoping Isaac could get the project back on track without my father ever knowing the details. “Defective” and “substandard”—them was fightin’ words. My father had anger-management issues and was liable to meet the guy rage for rage like a couple of Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots. At home, he was all bluster, though he did tend to yell and bang on things and send poor Jack struggling to wedge himself behind the nearest sofa, where he had a doggie panic attack, whining and shaking, until Mom pulled him out by his butt and fed him treats. In public though, Daddy had been known to throw a punch or two back in the day.
I wasn’t supposed to know about those, so I pretended I didn’t.
“I’m Erin McIntyre, and your satisfaction is my number one priority at the moment! I know you’re more than ready to get into this gorgeous house and start entertaining. Your friends are all going to be green with envy.” I touched a finger to the sleeve of his bright lime-green shirt and smiled, turning to lead the way up the path before my inner blech took control of my face.
When we reached the front door, I pushed it open and stood back so he could enter ahead of me and get an unencumbered view of the two-story-high ceiling of the huge foyer, which boasted tons of natural light somewhat spoiled by a spectacularly garish chandelier—five feet wide, gold-plated, dripping in crystals, with more bulbs than I could estimate from twenty-five feet below. He’d selected it, of course. I was surprised he hadn’t papered the halls in C-notes.
He removed the sunglasses and walked through the door, his fists on his hips, sneering as if he were a conquering warrior-king who was none too pleased with all he surveyed. For all the vicious emails and voicemails, let alone our phone conversation not two hours ago, I was kind of shocked that he wasn’t already off on a vocal enumeration of JMCH’s offenses. He hadn’t said a word.
“I’ve made a mental note of each of your worries,” I began, “but why don’t you show me the things you’re unable to sign off on, and we’ll see what we can do to make you happy?” And then I waited for him to launch into his exhaustive list of grievances and accusations. It wasn’t a long wait.
“The kitchen cabinets.” His tone was drenched in predictable disdain. “There are protruding knots in the wood. The whole mess is unfinished and dark. They look like the side of a decrepit, termite-ridden barn, not cabinets that belong in a luxury home.” He spit luxury as if it was the farthest thing from this structure.
As I turned toward the hallway leading to the kitchen, I took a breath, imagining how my father would respond to this. Not. Well. “Okay. Let’s go have a look.” I heard the scrape of toolboxes and scuff of work boots in the distance, laborers scurrying out one end of the giant room as we entered the other. This guy had the whole team freaked out.
The cabinets were indeed rustic, but they weren’t crawling with termites by any stretch. They were durable and distinctive. My mother would kill for them. She’d had her kitchen redone right after I left for college four years ago. She’d gone all ornate cherry woodwork and quartz countertops, right before high-end turned to varnished concrete and butcher-block counters and one-of-a-kind, custom made, artisanal cabinets—like the ones in Wayne Jansen’s kitchen.
He crossed his arms over his chest, sullen. Apparently his knowledge of what constituted sophisticated luxury ended with golf clothes.
I took out my iPad and pulled up several saved interior design sites, each of which proved that this kitchen was all that and a bag of money. Swiping through Pinterest posts I’d earmarked ahead of time, I pointed out the current stampede for cabinets like his. Consumers couldn’t get enough of them.
“Now, I agree that they’re a bit dark.” I didn’t, but that was a subjective point and it was his house, not mine. I stroked my fingers over one of the detested knots. I loved them. “What about a bit of sanding and a low-level varnish for polish and light reflection? That should give you what you want without sacrificing this fabulous pastoral look that everyone is dying to have.” I made these suggestions sound spontaneous.
“What about the hideous paint?” he asked.
I wasn’t sure if that meant we had just reached an agreement on the kitchen cabinets, but I wasn’t about to ask. “Again, Mr. Jansen—you chose the absolute perfect shade of cream—”
“It looks green.”
The walls did look a bit minty, but it wasn’t revolting. “As the light moves through the house during the day, the color will actually change,” I said. “The kitchen is on the east side, so this is its darker tone. Let me show you the difference between this and a room in full sun, as the kitchen will be in the mornings.” Please, God, let me not be full of shit, I prayed, hoping God wouldn’t respond with And you are?
We crossed through the entry toward the other side of the house and entered one of the guest bedrooms, which was flooded with light. And hot damn if the green cast wasn’t completely undetectable. Yessss. “See? Bright and creamy. No green.” I high-fived myself in my head. “Your guests will never want to leave. I guess it’s up to you whether that’s good or bad, eh?”
“Humph,” he said.
All righty then.
I started to leave the room, his bathroom faucets and their wide streams the next item on the list, but he cleared his throat. Linking my fingers in front of me, the picture of benign fortitude, I tried to prepare for a brand-new complaint. Cynthia Pike would choke the life out of me with her bare hands if this venture resulted in yet another objection.
“Did you say your name was Erin McIntyre?” he asked. “As in—”
“Yes, sir. Jeffrey McIntyre is my father.” Where the hell is this going?
“You get along with him then? You work for him, so I assume you don’t have a contentious relationship.”
What the? “Um, no—not at all. Our relationship is excellent.”
He turned slightly and glanced around the room. “My daughter is going to be visiting for a month. At the end of the summer. I was thinking this room would be hers.”
“That’s awesome!” Tone it down, Erin. Get him talking. “How old is she?”
“She’s eighteen. About to head off to college. She lives with her mother.” He was staring out the window, which was still a bit construction-grimy. “We haven’t spoken in almost four years,” he added.
Whoa. I’d been mad-searching for the thorn in the lion’s paw, but I didn’t think I’d find it this easily. My brain whirred and I chewed my lip, glancing around the fifteen-by-fifteen-foot room, the vaulted ceiling, a closet the literal size of my office, and its own bathroom. Plush for a secondary bedroom, but it was located at the mouth of the main hallway.
“Let’s take a look at the other bedrooms.” I led the way out the door. “Just to make sure we’ve got her in the best one for a young, adult woman. The room’s placement and furnishings should convey the fact that she’s not merely a guest. That this is her home, the room belongs to her, and she’s welcome to return, anytime.”
• • • • • • • • • •
I drafted an email around midnight, feeling so self-congratulatory I could have spread my smugness on a piece of toast. First thing the next morning, I did a quick reread, added Uncle Hank to the CC, and pushed Send before I could chicken out.
From: McIntyre, Erin
To: Maat, Isaac
Cc: Pike, Cynthia; Sager, Ted; Greene, Hank; LaCross, Kenny
Subject: Wayne Jansen
Mr. Maat,
Mr. Jansen is willing to sign off on the house and close as soon as it’s completed so long as the following changes are agreed to and implemented:
1) Gently sand and lightly varnish kitchen cabinets
2) Move custom guest closet to bedroom four (at end of the hall)
3) Add built-in window seat to bedroom four
4) Make bathroom three privately accessible only through bedroom four (remove hallway door; add door into bedroom)
He is withdrawing all other change requests/complaints and is willing to pay the reasonable cost of these changes. Preliminary addendum attached. Please let me know if this is acceptable, and also the date he may plan to take possession of the house. I have also referred him to an interior designer who will need access for measurements ASAP, especially to bedroom four.
E. McIntyre
Less than two minutes passed before I received a reply, but it wasn’t from Isaac Maat.
From: Pike, Cynthia
To: McIntyre, Erin
Cc: Maat, Isaac; Sager, Ted; Greene, Hank; LaCross, Kenny
Subject: Re: Wayne Jansen
Erin—How the hell did you do this?!?! Never mind. I don’t care how you did it. I might not want to know, HAHA. I’ll get this addendum to the contract executed as soon as I have financial approval. (Hank?) Ted and Kenny—if I were you I’d get busy on a cost list pronto and let’s get this fucker out the door. Pardon my French.
CPike
And then another. Also not from Isaac Maat.
From: Sager, Ted
To: McIntyre, Erin
Cc: Pike, Cynthia; Maat, Isaac; Sager, Ted; Greene, Hank; LaCross, Kenny
Subject: Re: Wayne Jansen
Agreed! On it!
TS
Finally my supervisor replied.
From: Maat, Isaac
To: McIntyre, Erin
Cc: Pike, Cynthia; Sager, Ted; Greene, Hank; LaCross, Kenny
Subject: Re: Wayne Jansen
Good work.
IJM