Engaging Deception, page 26
“Not telling you was selfishness on my part too,” she said. “If you disapproved, I’d lose access to your library . . . and I love your library.”
His mouth twitched as if on the verge of making an impertinent remark, but he reined himself in. “You’re welcome to come consult it whenever you’d like.” The generous, expansive Mr. Scott had returned.
“Maxfield, you know I’m not going to drop in unannounced and peruse your collection.”
His eyes widened at the use of his name. “What if you were invited? Would you come? How about tonight? Dinner with me and the kids. They miss you. You can read while I cook, then read while I bathe them and put them to bed, and then read while I sit bored in the next room wishing I had someone to visit.”
Olive sobered. “I don’t think that would be wise.” He’d just learned that she had her own profession. She had her own office. As much as she missed the children, it was too soon to go back.
“I see.” He sighed. “If you want to keep it professional, I’d love to see what you’re working on now.” Pointing to a sketch on her drafting board, he said, “Is that something you can show me?”
After months of waiting for any spare knowledge he might have dropped, any tidbit of wisdom he might mention, he was offering to look at her work. It was the opportunity she’d wished for all along.
Olive pushed aside the stack of books to see what he was pointing at. With a swish of her skirts, she swept around the corner of her desk to the board. She gathered her notes and pushed the clutter away from her plan.
“It’s not final but it’s getting very, very close,” she said. “You’ll see the unique challenges that a design like this presents. I guess that’s why I enjoy this project so much.”
His forehead wrinkled as he turned the paper to himself. “It’s a very narrow space. . . .” Then his eyes lit up. “It’s the railcar, isn’t it? Mr. Buchanan mentioned that he had a local architect working on a design. I never dreamt it was you.”
She ducked her head, afraid he would see how elated she was at his excitement. “They’re family, so it’s only natural they’d commission me.”
“Nonsense. The Buchanans know dozens of architects. They have the world at their disposal, and they picked you because they know you have unique and creative ideas. Now, let me take a look at this.”
She was doing it. They were doing it. They were talking about their projects together as peers. Olive moved from the center of the board to give him room. She traced her finger over the hallway. “The passage crosses from the left side to the right, midcar, and while that’s not ideal aesthetically, it helps distribute the weight of the rooms and furniture across the axles of the railcar.”
“There’s a consideration I hadn’t thought of. I suppose you can’t have one side of the car weighing more than the other.”
“Jay Gould’s Atalanta has the hallway along one side, but I thought I could improve on the design. Besides, if the evening sun is coming in on one side, there will be cooler rooms on the other. Also, all the utility spaces like the food storage and the kitchen need to be in the front of the car. That way the servants can come and go from their railcar without passing through the family’s private quarters.”
“So this room at the very back of the car . . . ?”
“It’s the family parlor, and for it to be at the back of the train is essential.” She grasped the edge of the drafting board and stretched to her full height even though she still couldn’t meet him eye to eye. “I didn’t realize until Willow told me, but their private car is always at the back. Not only is it the safest, and the most private, but it also has the best view of the landscape that they’re passing. See here, how the windows wrap around the entire room? Just imagine sitting on your sofa and seeing the countryside on three sides as you pass through.”
“Sounds like the best way to travel.”
Olive couldn’t help but be a little wistful that he would stop studying her design and look into her eyes again. But he seemed genuinely interested, and that was amazing in itself.
“It’s remarkable how spacious you made it feel, given how narrow the car is. Was the placement of the furniture part of the commission too?”
Olive nodded, still in disbelief that they were having this conversation. “Willow told me what pieces they wanted, and since most of them are built in, they have to be considered from the beginning. Graham has the Herter Brothers doing the cabinetry, so I had to consider their style with my design. I think the artisans we have in Joplin are just as skilled, but the Herter name was important to the Buchanans.”
“Knowing Marlowe, I understand.” Finally, he was looking at her again. “The railcar, the Blounts’ house, and the department store—you have a thriving firm. Congratulations.”
Olive felt her cheeks warming at his praise. Absent was any trace of jealousy or censure, but she was too aware that some of her success had come at his expense.
“It’s too much,” she said. “I can’t possibly do it all. That’s why I’m going to tell Mr. Christman that he needs to rehire you. It doesn’t matter what Mr. Dennis has going with his home. I know you’re capable of doing both.”
Max crossed his arms over his chest. “Our friends Mr. Dennis and Mr. Blount are preventing us from moving on to new, more profitable projects.”
Olive leaned one elbow against the board. “And according to Mr. Blount, there’s no sense in stopping until Mr. Dennis has stopped, because he’s going to add on until his house is bigger.”
“And according to Mr. Dennis, he will keep adding rooms until he has the biggest house in Joplin. The contest will last forever.” He looked at her evenly, a friendly, fair gaze as if they were partners solving a puzzle together. There wasn’t a touch of romance in it, just respect, and Olive felt more known and understood than ever before.
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
“Work together,” he answered. “We can figure out a way to bring this to an end.”
“But who will win? Mr. Blount or Mr. Dennis?”
“Neither. It’ll be us who wins.” His eyebrows raised as if daring her to argue. “You wait and see.”
CHAPTER
26
When Max and Olive had parted on Tuesday, he’d asked her if he could visit her office again, as they had projects to collaborate on. It was no secret that she had misgivings. Now, as he pushed open the door to the Byers Building, he had to admit he understood why. He’d discredited her skill when she’d revealed it. In fact, he’d refused to believe her at all. Of course she was wary of him. He would have to prove to her that he wouldn’t commandeer her projects. He had to prove that he saw her as an equal.
Perhaps working together on Christman’s department store would give him the chance to reform. Despite his resolve, Max knew himself too well to think his mistake had completely humbled him, but he’d do whatever it took to change.
Whether he took the lead on the department store or she did didn’t matter to Maxfield. He’d won the bid on the new city offices and was being queried about constructing an apartment building downtown but, more than anything, he wanted to be finished with Mr. Blount and Mr. Dennis. Though the competition between them had brought him and Olive together, now it was in the way. They had to come up with a solution.
The door to her office was cracked open. He caught a glimpse of Olive standing at her drafting board, leaning her weight against her straightedge to hold it firm while she whisked her pencil along its side. Not wanting to cause an error, Max waited until she lifted her pencil to knock.
How did her expression change upon seeing him? Was she relieved? Cautious? Her cheeks were already flushed from the warmth of the room. Her eyes fluttered back to her board.
“Good afternoon.” She moved her straightedge around to make another line. She’d been professional taking care of his children. Why had he wondered how she’d act at her office? “I’ve been preparing for your visit,” she said, keeping her gaze on her work.
“I would’ve come sooner, but it . . .” The only reason he hadn’t come earlier was he wanted to give her time. He didn’t want to seem too eager. Too suffocating. “. . . it seemed too soon.”
Now she looked up. Her lips parted, then pressed together with a slight shake of her head. “I’m in the middle of something. If you’ll give me a minute—”
“You’re working on the railcar?” He motioned to the draft.
“Willow and Graham had some changes they requested. Their furniture makers have some definite ideas on the size of their pieces. I’m trying to accommodate them without jeopardizing the integrity of my design.”
“People imagine that we sit alone in an office and construct fairytale castles out of the air. They have no idea all the input, all the opinions, all the compromises that have to be made.”
“I have a lot to learn.” Olive took a soft eraser and rubbed out an interior wall. “But I can’t think of anything I’d rather be learning about.”
“I can leave if I’m bothering you. Or I could wait. I’m in no hurry.”
She didn’t answer but returned to the sketch.
Max dropped the department store blueprints on the sofa and took one of his old books off the shelf. He stole a glance at Olive. She looked happy. Supremely happy. Then he was happy too.
He made himself comfortable, flipping through the textbooks. While he rested his mind on the essentials of his art, he began to process through ideas for the apartment building he’d been commissioned to build. Would it match the tone of the neighborhood, or would it be the first of a new trend? Palatial welcome or a homey embrace? He knew the personality of the man commissioning it, but what kind of people would rent an apartment there? What were their preferences?
Slowly ideas were rejected, while others he set aside for more investigation at his convenience. The time spent relaxing in her office was beneficial. It was relaxing to hear her moving about, whispering to herself, while still giving him the space to arrange his own thoughts. The new space gave him fresh thoughts, and knowing she was near meant that his thinking was calmer and clearer.
“There.” He looked up to see her stepping away from the desk with arms crossed over her chest. She reached down to straighten the paper one last time, then nodded. “I think that will do it. Thank you for waiting.”
“I made good use of my time.” He closed the book and placed it back on the shelf. “There’s a direction I want to try on a new project. This helped narrow that down.”
“Perfect. And now, what did you want to work on first? The department store or our two banty roosters?”
The description was perfect. Two cocky men who were fighting over who would rule the henhouse. “Are we agreed that we won’t pick a winner? They both need to think they have the biggest house in Joplin?”
“Yes, and I think I have a solution.” She reached for a roll of paper leaning in the corner. “We need to find some ambiguous footage. Some feature that one builder might count as footage, but the other wouldn’t.”
“Like a basement?” he asked.
“Did you count the footage in the basement?”
“Yes.”
“Me too, so that’s already off the table.” She spread her plans of Blount’s house on the board. “Here’s what I’ve added. When you finish the upstairs addition, the Dennises’ house will be fifty feet larger than the Blounts’ even with this extension.”
“Which is why Mr. Dennis won’t let me finish until you are finished. I guarantee he’ll make his add-on bigger once we know what we’re aiming for.”
She straightened the little bow at her collar. “That’s why I decided to add a screened-in porch.”
“For whom? Blount?” Maxfield asked.
“Yes. I’ll tell him that I have exact measurements of Mr. Dennis’s house and that we’ll build this porch on to put him in the lead once and for all. But the windows will be screens, not glass.”
“And some would consider that an outdoor feature, not part of the house.” Again she had surprised him.
“That way, I can give Mr. Blount the number he’s looking for, and you can assure Mr. Dennis that a porch is not included in the square footage by most accounts, so he can think he has the bigger house.”
“It’s inevitable that they’ll find out what we’ve done and have a big argument over it.” Max tried to look contrite. “I hate to confess that I really look forward to hearing about that fight.”
She grinned, making all his trouble worth it.
“Me too,” she said. “By then we’ll be finished with these two projects and if they decide to hire someone to start up the construction again, it won’t affect us. But we do need to get accurate measurements before we get started.”
“The Dennis family has started moving in. It’d be easier to get it done before they leave the hotel for good.”
“Tonight? We could do it while the Blounts are at the theater.” She tilted her head to the side, waiting for his response.
“After dark, secretly sneaking around? That sounds like a very Kentworth thing to do.”
A flicker of pride flashed in her eyes. “I might be the tamest of all the cousins, but I still have a wild streak.”
Max adjusted his necktie. Yes, she did, and he was extremely grateful.
She should have known when her suggestion brought on a comparison to her mischievous cousins that it was a bad idea.
Olive hugged her knees to her chest as she waited in the shadows of a wheelbarrow. She didn’t have a wild streak. Not really. Olive could have asked the Blounts for permission to measure—she was the builder, after all—but instead, she and Maxfield had dodged around trees and dived behind bushes just to prove that she had more mettle than he’d credited her with.
Keeping up the bravado, Olive had suggested they start measuring the footing even before the Blounts had left for the evening. She held one end of the measuring tape tightly as Maxfield dashed to the opposite corner of the house. As arranged, he tugged on the tape, letting Olive know he was in position. With a dread look at lit windows, Olive pressed herself against the brick corner of the house. To get the measurement accurate, they had to stand so the tape would rise around the porch steps and lie flush against the wall.
Maxfield emerged from the bushes at the same time she did, his face illuminated by the streetlight. He held her gaze—silent, patient. When she was close to him, she was guarded, unsure. Seeing him across the way reminded her of the good times. The exhilarating roller coaster ride when he’d taken a bruising for her sake. The peaceful neighborhood walks talking about their journeys through grief. Could it be that he was thinking the same? The wistful set of his mouth made her wonder.
Another tug. Oh, yes. They had a job to do. Olive cranked on the little handle to tighten up the slack in the measuring tape. The line went taut. She’d just marked the tape when the front door opened.
She only had time to see Maxfield’s grimace before he ducked beneath the bushes. Olive ducked too, but there was no hiding the tape that was stretched across the porch. Quick as a wink, she tugged downward, forcing the tape hard against the threshold. Maxfield must have had the same thought, and just in time, because Mrs. Blount walked over it without a second glance.
Mr. Blount stepped on the tape and pivoted.
Olive caught her breath, waiting for his exclamation. But he’d only turned to lock the door, then follow his wife to the buggy.
She knew the minute Maxfield released the tape. With shaking hands, she rolled it up, and as soon as the buggy drove away, Maxfield was at her side.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun taking a measurement.” Gone were all the careful manners he’d adopted around her lately. This was the easy, sociable Mr. Scott that she’d first become comfortable with. “Did you get the measurement? I’ll write it . . .” He felt in his coat pocket. “Did you bring paper?”
Olive pulled a pad of paper from inside her vest. “Of course.” When she got her pencil in hand, she paused just to see if he was watching her with that wry look.
He was.
“It’s the curse of the organized to always be rescuing those of us who aren’t,” Maxfield said. “Guard against that in your career, Olive. You have original ideas that will require your time and attention. Don’t sacrifice your opportunities because others don’t want to do the drudgery.”
It was good advice, especially given her desire to help people. She hesitated, then pushed the paper and pencil to him. “You sketch the footing. I’ll go to the next corner.” Hooking her finger in the end of the tape and giving him the roll, she jogged away, but not before she saw the pride in his eyes.
Maxfield Scott was proud of her.
She hadn’t realized her hands were shaking until she tried to hold the measuring tape against the corner. She took a deep breath, all the way to her knees, and let it out in a long sigh. He not only believed her, but he was proud of her.
With that, she began to hope again.
Between their crawling through landscaping and untangling a measuring tape, the laughter grew more frequent and the ease between them returned. But not too much ease. As friendly as they might be, there was a longing for more that Olive had to keep in check.
Once finished with Blount’s house, it was time to go to Mr. Dennis’s. After measuring the ground level, Olive waited outside as Maxfield crept through the second story of the unoccupied home. The second story was where the changes had taken place, and Olive didn’t feel right sneaking through a former rival’s house. He could do it on his own. Besides, she needed a break from the heady rush of whispering with him in the darkness. Olive was watching the windows, looking for the light of Maxfield’s flashlight, when she heard voices that made her shrink back.
“I think it’s Maxfield in there. We can’t go in there until he’s gone.” It was a lady’s voice. A young lady.
