SHE COULD HEAR them at the water cooler talking as if she wasn’t there. Whispering and giggling as if she didn’t matter. There were two of them this time, but there had been others at other times. The ones who didn’t participate weren’t exactly casual spectators either, as they sat around their tables in the break room, laughing and beaming with pleasure.
Jennifer Swallows stood, arms folded over her massive bosom. She had a round and scowling face, pitted and lean-lipped, her nose a quick beak. She wore drab grays and dull darks over an otherwise dumpy frame. If her bullet-point breasts were any indication, Deena guessed the bra she wore was as old as her career.
“I’m telling you, it’s some huge housing development venture. It’s going to be a private subdivision in Brickell. And that’s after she disappeared for a month.”
Jennifer shot Deena a look of contempt and Deena froze, tuna rye halfway to her lips.
“It’s on Fisher Island, Jennifer. Only one of the wealthiest zip codes in the nation.”
That was Walter Smith, a bright-eyed and slight architect who prided himself on an unscrupulous sense of fashion.
“It’s not Fisher Island it’s Brickell. And at twenty-five years old.”
Walter fished in the pocket of his charcoal slacks and came away with loose change. Jennifer followed him to the vending machine and he made a selection.
“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” he said. “The sort of talents a girl has to have to land a gig like that. Architecture aside, of course.”
“Of course.”
A smattering of laughter echoed through the break room and Walter flashed an innocent, yet pleased smile. But when Daichi entered, they fell silent.
He made a beeline for Deena.
“Stop eating.”
Deena froze, sandwich in hand. They had the attention of the room.
“What’s wrong, Daichi?”
“I had no idea you took lunch so early.” He frowned at his watch. “In any case, I’ve made reservations at Del Mar so we can start—”
“Del Mar!” Walter cried.
Daichi turned on the man, a brow raised.
“You’ve an objection, Mr. Smith?”
Walter took a step back. “No, sir. It’s just—well, with all due respect—”
“Walter, please. I find such a statement to be contrived and insincere.”
“Well, I just wanted to say—well, everyone wants to say really—”
“Everyone?” Daichi scanned the break room, with better than twenty architects present, and found that not one would look at him. “Has there been an election Walter? Are you now an elected representative?”
“No sir. I only—”
“My patience wears thin, Walter.”
“Sir, does seniority not play a part in your decisions? I’ve been with this company for seven years and—”
“Please, Mr. Smith, I’ve not the aptitude for company politics. If you’ve a direct statement please make it at this time.”
“I just think that you could’ve picked someone more qualified to assist you on whatever project she’s helping you with. Someone who knows more than her. Someone who doesn’t take unauthorized vacations for weeks at a stretch.”
Deena swallowed.
“I see.” Daichi scanned the room. “Who feels that they would’ve been better suited for the Skylife venture?”
Slowly, all hands went up.
“I see,” Daichi said. He scanned the mutineers with interest. Abruptly, he turned to their elected representative. “Walter! Tell me this. What are the three principles of firmitatis utilitatis venustatis that all good buildings must satisfy?”
“I—I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Deena.”
She leapt to her feet.
“Yes, Daichi?”
“The three principles. Name them.”
“Durability, utility and beauty, sir.”
Daichi brushed past Walter, his eyes falling on a lean and gray-haired peer.
“You, Madison. Give us a common interpretation of Islamic architecture.”
The gray-haired man blinked. “Islamic, you say?”
“Deena!”
“The repeating themes in Islamic architecture evoke Allah’s infinite power and suggest infinity.”
Daichi moved quickly, to a long and raw-boned man with blond hair and small eyes. “Hudson. Criticisms of sustainable architecture. Now.”
“Sir, I wasn’t aware that—”
Daichi turned away. “Deena.”
“Sustainable architecture isn’t a discipline within our field exclusively, but a concern for the construction industry as a whole.”
Daichi turned to Jennifer Swallows. “Shall I question you as well, or was their humiliation sufficient enough?”
“More than sufficient, thank you.”
Daichi nodded. “There now, not so grim, pupils. You’ve earned more fodder for your rumor mill. Now you and your peers can speculate as to how you will be gainfully employed.”
With a nod towards Deena, Daichi exited the break room. Quietly, she tossed her sandwich and scurried after him.
They met at the close of each day to discuss her progress on Skylife. In the early stages, these meetings ran only until dinner, with Daichi questioning or making suggestions and Deena sitting, pen in hand, eager to lap up his thoughts. But as the year went on, and her dream team assembled—Hudson, Marshall and even Mahmoud—their meetings grew longer and took on an altogether different tone.
“Your design has been garnering quite a bit of excitement,” Daichi said, his eyes on Deena as she scooped pad Thai from the take-out container they shared. They’d gathered again for dinner in his office.
“So I’ve heard.”
“People are saying it’s where eco-friendly will finally meet opulence.”
Deena rolled her eyes. “Eco-friendly is a vague and commercialized term with no real value. And even if it weren’t,” she paused to brush bits of crushed peanuts aside with her chopsticks, “it would be an inherent contradiction.”
He sighed. After all, they’d had this conversation again and again. “The best architecture in the world is contradictory, Deena.” He paused long enough to scoop food in his mouth, chew and swallow. “Have you prepared the briefs on site selection yet?”
She nodded. “I have a clear favorite, but of course, the choice is yours.”
She pushed aside a stack of papers on his desk, reached into her briefcase and handed him the briefing.
“And your favorite is?”
“Key Biscayne. South Pointe is second.”
“Fine. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Daichi scowled, watching as she picked through her food. “Why don’t you just have them omit the peanuts? Why do you always go to such trouble?”
He dug a bottle of Perrier from the fridge behind his desk and handed it to her, before taking another for himself. Behind him, the window blinds were open, revealing the city skyline and the ocean just beyond, enveloped in darkness.
“Because you like peanuts. Whenever we have Thai you get extra.”
“Peanuts are an excellent source of protein. You shouldn’t omit them from your diet without careful consideration.”
Deena rolled her eyes. “I like peanuts fine. Just not with my chicken.”
Daichi took a sip of water before returning to his carton for more pad Thai. “Have you seen the latest copy of Issues in Design? There’s an excellent article on the benefits of beach nourishment.”
He was referring to the replacement of sand lost through erosion.
“I read it.”
“And your thoughts?”
“You know my thoughts. It’s a risky enterprise. When improperly executed it has a drastic impact on the ecosystem. Even when properly executed the rate of erosion is unprecedented. The article completely skirted that issue. It read like propaganda.”
Daichi grinned. “But you must realize the advantages. You live on a stretch of beach that has benefited from just such a practice. There’s ample research to indicate that the breadth of a beach has a direct impact on storm surges and—”
Deena waved a dismissive hand. “I know the research. And as always, you speak in absolutes.”
“Absolutes?”
“Yes. As if there are no alternatives.”
His smile widened. “Like revetments.”
“Exactly.” Deena maneuvered more pad Thai into her mouth with chopsticks. “Beach nourishment is a commercial enterprise fueled by the tourism industry and it needs to be presented as such. Don’t tell me about the benefits during a hurricane when the real issue is the benefit during tourist season.” She chased her food with a gulp of water. “By the way, I can’t stay late tonight.”
“No?” A flash of disappointment crossed his face.
“I’m going to a baseball game tomorrow. It’s a long drive. Five hours. And it’s really important to me that I be there.”
After all, she thought, it wasn’t every day that Kenji made it to the state championships.
Daichi eyed her carefully. “There’s work to be done.”
“There’s always work to be done. And I always do it.”
Daichi nodded. “You must be quite the fan. I never would’ve envisioned it. You, among the drunkards, reveling in America’s favorite pastime.”
“I’m a big fan of one player in particular.” Your son, she nearly shouted.
These were the cracks in the dam, when her reverence for him battled the reality of him being a shitty father. Before her disappointment could leak through, her cell phone rang. She fished it out and answered it.
“Hey there, sweetheart. Dad still holding you hostage?”
It was just past seven p.m., and a Friday night.
Deena smiled. “Yeah. Sort of. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be. We’re just now eating.”
“Tell him I said not to make you wait so long. You know you get those headaches when he overworks you.”
Deena laughed. “I’ll do no such thing.” She glanced at Daichi, who was scanning her briefings with a frown. “Listen, I’ll catch a cab to your place and let myself in.”
“At which point you’ll tie me to the bed and overpower me for rough hot sex, right?”
Deena laughed. “Right.”
“So say it.”
“I will not!”
“Repeat after me. Say, ‘I’m sorry Daichi but I have to go fuck your son now’.”
A shriek of laughter escaped Deena and she clamped a hand over her mouth. Out the corner of her eye she caught Daichi staring. “I’m hanging up. You’re making me look like a fool.”
“Fine. I’ll see you when you get off. Try not to make it midnight again. We leave early tomorrow.”
“Yes, Ta—” She froze with the slip and was met by Tak’s laughter. “Don’t be so thrilled,” Deena said. “I’ll see you soon.”
She closed the phone and looked up.
“Boyfriend?” Daichi said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Not surprising. You’re an attractive enough young lady.” He returned to his food. “Has he been with you since the start of the project?”
Deena nodded.
“It’s a difficult endeavor you know, balancing professional ambitions and personal entanglements. Some of us are less successful than others.”
His comment made the air thick, awkward. Deena shifted, her eyes trained on his cluttered desk. He had no idea just how well versed she was on his personal shortcomings.
“You know, Deena, you don’t strike me as the sort of woman satisfied with the trappings of mediocrity.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“The trappings of mediocrity. Commonness, if you will. I strain to envision a Deena Hammond satisfied with a subservient role as wife and mother.”
She raised a brow. “When I become a wife and mother my role will be as equal, not subordinate.”
Daichi shrugged. “Perhaps. But do you suppose you might find happiness in a life weighted with the roles of mother, wife and career woman? These are not complementary responsibilities. Often, you’ll find that your success as an architect will be at the expense of your duties as a wife and mother. Perhaps even now you can see it in your shortcomings as a romantic interest.”
Deena paused. “My boyfriend’s very understanding. His father is…a successful businessman, so he knows the demands.”
Daichi watched her. He cleared his throat and leaned back in his seat.
“Make your choices wisely, Deena. Too often, it appears beneficial to sacrifice leisure for career, family for success. I, more than anyone, am guilty of this transgression. You see, one cannot succeed in one regard, without failing in another. Time and People call me the face and future of architecture but my wife and sons call me a stranger.”
BEFORE NEW YORK, Tak and Deena spent each evening together, and after New York, each night. Sometimes Deena would watch Tak’s work unravel on canvas, other times it was her who brought the office home—frowning over drafts or fussing over notes. Most evenings they were content to walk along the shore, brooding over nothing, over everything. They would whittle away their time, cooking elaborate and sometimes disastrous meals, musings really of what they thought they had at a Mexican or Thai, Italian or French restaurant just days before. And the weekends, why, Deena’s weekends were chock full now: Saturday nights at a club, Sunday afternoons sailing, and Kenji’s baseball games, whenever they happened. Nowhere in the mix was her family, and for that, she was grateful.
When Deena let herself into Tak’s place, it was just before nine. In one hand was leftover pad Thai, which was promptly taken from her with a kiss on the cheek by Kenji, and in the other, her purse and briefcase, taken and tossed aside by Tak. He greeted her with a warm and lingering kiss before following Kenji into the kitchen to help dispose of their father’s take-out.
As she stretched out on the couch, pumps discarded, they joined her, two heaping plates of pad Thai in tow.
“So what did you guys go over?” Kenji asked as he took a seat.
Deena shrugged. “Oh, the usual. The vision for Skylife—my vision, his vision, the investor’s vision. How we can all be happy and stay within budget.” She gave a tired laugh before turning to Tak.
“Did you get much done today?”
“Some. Not much. Mostly just bullshitted with Kenji today.”
Kenji grinned. “By that he means practiced the drums.”
Tak shot him an impatient look. “If you could call that practice. Seemed more like a tutorial to me. Apparently, all of us thought that we were on a month-long vacation.”
Kenji blushed. “So, Deena, the project is going well you say?”
“Very.” Deena tried not to smile.
“And working with my dad? Being around him? That’s okay too?”
“Surprisingly.”
Kenji stared at her. “What’s that like?”
“What’s what like?”
“Being around him. I mean, what’s he like?”
Deena froze with the realization of what he was asking her.
Tak got up, set down his plate, went into his bedroom and closed the door. Kenji watched him before turning back to her.
“Did I do something?”
Deena shook her head. “No, of course not.” She glanced at Tak’s closed door then back at Kenji. “You—you wanted to know about your father?”
He nodded. “Is he, like, angry all the time with you, the way he is with me?”
Deena blinked. “What makes you think he’s angry with you?”
Kenji shrugged. “I can tell. I don’t see him much, and even when I do see him, he doesn’t look glad to see me. Sometimes he calls me names.”
“Names? Like what?”
“One time he called me a mute because I never talk around him. But I just don’t know what to say.” Kenji paused. “Did you know that he didn’t even want me?”
“Kenji! Why would you say something so horrible?”
“Cause it’s true.”
“And how could you possibly know that?”
“I overheard him once. He said that it was irresponsible for them to have a second child since he’s gone all the time and Mom’s a drunk. He said that they took the proper precautions and he didn’t see how it could happen.”
Deena cringed. “He still loves you, Kenji.”
“Love me? He doesn’t even like me. I’ve said more to you in this conversation than I have to my dad in the last twelve months.”
“I know it’s hard, Kenji but—”
“Hard? I never see my dad. How much worse could it be?”
Deena hesitated. “Have I—have I ever told you about my father?”
He shook his head. “Is he like my dad? Always busy?”
Deena smiled. “No, sweetheart. He’s dead. My mother killed him.”
Kenji frowned. “Well, what did he do?”
“Do?” Deena echoed, the word tasting foul in her mouth.
“Yeah,” he said. “People don’t just…kill people, right? So, what did he do?”
Deena swallowed. It was an obvious question, but one she’d only had to answer once before, with his brother.
She sat back, eyes blurring momentarily.
“I’m going to bed, Kenji. Good night.”