Thresholds Page 4

  "Yeah, Jugger, I know all that. I read your damn engineering report. You did an exceptional job of identifying issues but failed to mention solutions," Sam replied. "My question is what the fuck do we do about it? The structure's seating on the property means we're basically blowing out the entire front of the house to get in there."

  Matt traced his finger over his knee, forming shapes while he mumbled numbers and calculations to himself. Eventually he said, "We'll do it like the Italianate job."

  "We're never letting you work on another Italianate," Andy said. "Clearly, it's corrupted you."

  "Clearly," Sam agreed.

  One of Matt's properties, a gorgeous but severely neglected Italianate in the South End, recently hit a major industry association's short list of best restorations this year. The honor was great, and it topped Sam and Patrick's heavy shelf of awards. It was a surprise to all of us, perhaps most of all Matt, but now he couldn't help himself.

  "I think I've figured out why we're crammed in here like marlin in a sardine tin," I said, glancing around the room. "It's Matt's ego. If he left, the rest of us would be very comfortable."

  "Let's try that," Patrick said, hooking his thumb over his shoulder. "Go sit in the hallway, Jugger."

  "Fuck you all." Matt stood and dragged his chair to just past the doorframe. "Better?"

  "So much," Andy said. A chorus of murmured agreement and nods went up.

  "Can we talk solutions now? I need to straighten this out before work begins next month," Sam said.

  Matt held up his hand. "At the risk of being hammered for this, you know I'm right. I'll take care of the structural rehab specs, Sam."

  "Great," Sam murmured. He shook his head as he typed. "That was only ten times more complicated than it needed to be."

  "Hark! The herald angels sing," I whispered.

  "Moving on," Patrick said.

  "But," Matt continued, "just so we're clear, we are doing it like the Italianate job."

  I sighed at my burrito. "Get some restraint, son."

  "Who knew a little public acclaim would turn you into an asshole?" Shannon asked. She threw her pen at the desk. It skittered over the surface and bounced off Patrick's arm. If he noticed, it didn't show. After more than a decade of working alongside her, he'd probably tuned out her intermittent pen throwing. "You used to be the nice one around here."

  "We're going to take away your design credits if you're going to be such a douche canoe about it," Patrick said.

  "Even Riley handles good press better than this," Sam added.

  "Excuse me, what?" I asked. "Are you suggesting I'm anything short of professional?"

  "No, I'm not suggesting anything," Sam replied. "I'm stating it clearly."

  "I take offense to that, sir," I said.

  "Your jeans are unzipped," Sam said. "Come talk to me about professionalism when that's handled."

  "I hear some offices have holiday potlucks," Andy mused from her spot on the floor. "We have verbal brawls and pissing contests."

  "But instead of saving those events for one-off holidays," Shannon said, sweeping her arm out, "we do it all year. It's what sets us apart. Competitive advantage, if you will."

  "I'm leaving in ten minutes, regardless of whether we're finished," Tom announced. "You should also know that, if I meet a husky Canadian with good hands and some chest hair, I won't be returning in January." He glanced up from his screen. "Good hands, chest hair, and a job."

  "The holy trinity," Andy said.

  "Is that all I am to you?" Patrick asked, his gaze cutting across the room at Andy.

  "No," she replied, "but it's a good foundation."

  "You're coming back," Shannon said, her letter opener pointed in Tom's direction. "Bring the husky Canadian home with you."

  "Then we're running through the properties," Patrick said. "Get your updates ready."

  "My update is that everything is fine, on budget and on track, and I'm ready to start this vacation," Sam said.

  "What he said." Andy pointed her pen at Sam.

  "Same," Matt echoed from the hall.

  Everyone shifted to stare at me, expectant. I took my sweet time paging through my notes and sipping my coffee before responding. Like a true professional. "Yeah, I'm good."

  Tom slapped his laptop shut. "I'm out," he said. "Happy Christmas. Merry Hanukkah. A joyful solstice. Pleasant tidings to all."

  "Good luck finding that hairy-chested husky boy," Andy said. "I'm rooting for you."

  "All right. We're done for the year," Patrick announced. "Everyone out."

  "Joy to the world," I sang.

  * * *

  "I'm ready for hard liquor," Patrick said as he pulled on his coat. He'd been behind closed doors with Shannon for the past two hours while Matt, Sam, and I worked on that Bay Village restoration. More precisely, Sam worked and I smacked Matt upside the head every so often to keep him in line. "Copious amounts of it."

  "Seconded," Matt called.

  "Why do I have the feeling we're going to have group therapy over lunch?" Sam asked.

  I stood in Matt's office, my outerwear in one hand, my phone in the other, but I was struggling. Boutiques with girly shit and sparkly things weren't going to help me in the least. While the liquid lunch sounded fantastic, it wasn't getting me any closer to solving my gift issues.

  Unless I blew off the rules and went straight for an engagement ring. I'd considered that a time or twenty but it didn't feel right. I had no doubts about Alex or marrying her but this wasn't my moment.

  At least, I didn't think it was my moment. I'd know, right?

  "Would you rather we eat and drink in silence?" Matt asked Sam.

  "Sam wouldn't make it three minutes," Patrick said to Matt. "He complains the most, and then he unloads the most baggage."

  "You two are in ripe moods," Sam grumbled. He gestured to me. "What's the story here? Get yourself together. We're going to lunch." He pivoted, glancing at Matt and Patrick. "Where we'll conduct group therapy."

  "I think I'm going to skip that," I replied. "I do love unwinding your problems but I have to deal with a few of my own this afternoon."

  "Which problems? You didn't raise any issues in the meeting," Patrick said. "I want to know if there are issues."

  I shook my head and waved him off. "Put your worry boner away, okay?"

  "Charming," Sam murmured.

  "Whatever you have on deck can wait a couple of days," Matt said. He zipped up his coat and stuck his hands in the pockets. "We have a table for four. It's the special beer, bourbon, and burgers menu, too. Your favorite."

  "I know, I know. It's tempting." I dropped my outerwear onto a chair, officially signaling my decision to stay at the office. "I'm not feeling like bourbon this afternoon."

  Matt pointed at me. "That, gentlemen, is the look of a man freaking out about his first major gift to a woman."

  Patrick rubbed his jaw as he stared at me. "Doesn't get any easier," he murmured.

  "Not at all," Matt agreed.

  "You two are obviously incompetent," Sam said. "There is nothing easier than shopping for Tiel."

  "You are full of shit," Matt replied.

  "Completely full of shit," Patrick agreed.

  "If it's so easy," Matt started, "what did you get her?"

  Sam crossed his arms over his chest as he glowered at them. "I haven't selected anything yet but I have several ideas in mind."

  "Likely story," Patrick replied.

  "Yeah, you're one merry band of motherfuckers," I said. "Maybe I'll catch up with you later."

  "Text me if you change your mind," Matt said.

  They shuffled out, leaving me alone in Matt's office. With all of our support staff gone for the holiday, the building was as quiet as I'd ever heard it. Silence punctuated only by some incessant pen tapping replaced the constant hum of printers and copiers.

  I rounded the corner from Matt's office to Shannon's, and knocked on her open door. "Do you have a minute?"

  She
waved me in, nodding, as she scribbled a note on the margin of a contract. "Why aren't you out with the boys?"

  With a dramatic sigh fitting of my current circumstances, I flopped into the wingback chair in front of her desk. "Shambles, Shannon. Shambles."

  "I can't wait to hear this." She hit me with an arched eyebrow but returned to her contract. "Start at the beginning."

  "The boys are going shopping but I'm not allowed to shop. Alex and I decided we'd give each other homemade Christmas gifts," I said. "That would be fine if I could figure out what to give her."

  Shannon shuffled her papers into a file folder and tapped her pen on the desk's edge. "Aren't you supposed to be the creative one here?"

  "Why does that sound like an insult when you say it?"

  She shifted in her chair and twisted her ponytail around her fingers. "Don't make me throw things at you."

  I held up my hands, ready to block any projectiles coming my way. "Help me figure this out," I said. "I will do anything. Put me to work. I'll patch roofs and unclog drains. Fold laundry. Do your grocery shopping. Whatever you want. Just help me find a gift for Alex so I don't fuck everything up."

  "I want lunch," she said, her words coming out like a dare. "I need to eat every two hours or I get nauseous."

  "And I'd be happy to buy you three or four lunches to prevent anything that might involve vomit," I replied.

  "I have some errands to do," she continued. Another dare.

  "I'll be your chauffeur." I dropped my hands and leaned forward. "Seriously, Shannon. Give me some ideas and I'll be your slave for the day. Pretend I'm Tom, but without the sexy turtleneck."

  She rubbed her belly as she considered my offer. "I'm good with sparkly gifts, Riley," she said. "I can pick out engagement rings and crystal vases. I'm not sure I can help you with homemade goods."

  I flattened my hands on her desk. "You're good with gifts that are thoughtful, meaningful, and perfect. You know how to make people feel special with the right present. I just want to make her feel special and I can't figure out how to do that by myself."

  She waved her hands in front of her face as she blinked. "Goddamn," she whispered. "You can't say things like that to me right now unless you want me crying all over the place." She yanked a tissue from the box and dabbed her eyes. "All right, fine. But I was serious about lunch."

  "So was I," I replied, popping to my feet. "I'm a growing boy."

  * * *

  "Make her dinner," Shannon suggested from behind her menu. "The whole deal. Flowers, candlelight, four courses."

  "That's brilliant," I said. "All I need to do is find four complementary breakfast cereals for those courses because that's the extent of my cooking capabilities."

  She turned back to her menu. "Then cooking is out."

  "Cooking is definitely out."

  The waiter arrived at our table, and Shannon fired off a barrage of questions about several different dishes. "Can you tell me how the bread is toasted?" she asked. "I hate when it's toasted on the griddle."

  Because I loved absurd explanations as much as the next guy, I asked, "And why is that?"

  "I don't like meat-flavored bread," she replied, as if it was a universal truth. "It tastes like everything that's been cooked on that griddle since the dawn of time. Bacon, cheese, eggs, onions, and—worst of all—meat. If I wanted my bread to taste like a cheeseburger with bacon and onions, I'd order that."

  "It's toasted on the griddle," the server replied, the anguish obvious in his words.

  Since she wasn't close to making a decision on her order, I zoned out while she fired off another round of cross-examination. I barely noticed when she finished. I was too busy growing old and weary.

  "Make one of those cute little coupon books," she said after the waiter left the table. "You know what I mean. Back rubs, letting her choose the movie, that sort of thing."

  I reached for the salt and pepper shakers, sliding them from hand to hand. "I suppose that could work," I said with all the reluctance in the world. "But those things aren't gifts. They're not even examples of playful compromise. They just seem like the sort of thing you do when you've been married for six years and require some handwritten vouchers to tolerate each other."

  Shannon recoiled, her eyes widening. "You might be exaggerating a bit."

  "Thank you for the idea," I said with as much diplomacy as I could muster. "I'll revisit it if needed."

  Shannon fired off more suggestions while we waited and between bites when our lunches arrived. A mason jar of date night ideas on little slips of paper. A drive to the Berkshires. An evening of pillow fort shenanigans. A tour of Cliff Walk mansions in Newport. A movies-and-staycation weekend in the apartment.

  None of them worked. They all felt juvenile or unimpressive or uninspired. This gift had to check all the boxes—except the spendy and store-bought boxes—and communicate everything. But none of them were right, and I needed something right.

  "Make her a comic book," Shannon said as we walked back to my car after eating. "You have all those drawings of her in your notebook, in that superhero costume you invented. Take that to the next level."

  "Yeah, I'd do that if I wanted to rip off Seth Cohen and The O.C. circa 2003," I said with a scoff. "I'd like to think I'm better than that."

  "I'm not sure what you're talking about right now," Shannon said as I helped her into the passenger seat. "You might be speaking in tongues."

  "Hilarious." I leaned against the open door, watching while she worked the seatbelt around her belly. "What's the next stop, Black Widow?"

  "There's a sandwich shop in Cohasset I've been thinking about all week." She gave me a sheepish glance. "If you don't mind driving down there, we can stop at one of the listings I'm considering, too. Would that be okay?"

  "I've never declined a sandwich," I replied. "I can't see why I'd start now."

  We headed out of the city and into the glut of holiday weekend traffic, and I shifted our conversation to investment properties. We could agree on the basics there, and I knew her restoration ideas wouldn't include mason jars or a rant about meat-flavored bread.

  Walking the property didn't take much time. The structure was in rough shape, and Matt was going to enjoy taking it apart and putting it back together again. But it was a storybook stone cottage with an ocean view, and we'd make a killing on a thorough restoration. I didn't know how she did it, but Shannon could pick those diamonds right out of the rough.

  "We should get out of here," I said, knocking my boot against the foundation. The stone disintegrated on impact. "I can't feel my fingers or toes, this thing is a structural mess, and that path"—I pointed at the brick walkway near the front door where Shannon stood—"is uneven and getting icier by the minute. Do you have what you need?"

  "I'm all set," she replied. "Sandwiches?"

  "Several of them," I replied, holding out my arm to her. "In case it's not obvious, I'm happy to drive you from one eatery to another any day of the week."

  "What about that?" Shannon asked. "Make Alex a list of all the restaurants you want to visit together. All she ever talks about is the great spots you two visit. It would be perfect for her. Thoughtful, too."

  "The only homemade thing there is the list," I argued. "I could give her a list of destinations we should visit or places I'd like to fu—"

  "Finish that sentence and you don't get a sandwich," she interrupted.

  "My bad," I said. "But I don't want to give her a list. I need to do better than that."

  Shannon nodded as we reached the curb. "I'll keep thinking."

  "Could you?" I asked with a wry laugh. "I'm running out of time here."

  After Shannon placed a call to the realtor managing the listing to discuss an offer, she dropped her phone into the cup holder and folded her arms over her chest. "What do you think Alex is giving you?"

  I shook my head as I merged into traffic. "I have no idea," I admitted.

  "That doesn't help," she murmured. "What about a le
tter? Something flowing and heartfelt."

  I snorted. "Do I look like Sam to you?"

  "Weren't you telling me her bathroom needs a remodel? Why not draw up plans?"

  Another snort. "Now I look like Matt?" I asked. "Regardless, that's not going to work. First, she doesn't own the apartment. I don't want to deal with extra layers of bullshit on top of the regular bullshit that comes with building on Beacon Hill. Furthermore"—I held up four fingers; it seemed like I'd made that many points—"she doesn't intend to stay in there long enough to thoroughly enjoy the benefits of that type of work."

  Shannon blew out a breath, closed her eyes, and rested both hands on her belly. She winced, and I couldn't determine whether I was to blame, or the baby.

  "Fine. Whatever. Don't redo the fucking bathroom. I don't care," she said eventually.

  "Is everything okay over there?" I asked.

  "Fine," she repeated. "But don't talk to me until there's a sandwich in my hand."

  * * *

  "What about a photograph?" Shannon stabbed her fork at me as if she was trying to pin the idea onto my skin. "You take enough of them—"

  "Hold it right there," I interrupted. I was not prepared for this conversation. My preference for X-rated photography had no place in our second lunch. "We're not talking about my—our—that. We're not talking about that."

  There will never be a time when my siblings didn't focus on systematically hammering me over one incident where I sent one intimate photo via group text. They'll mention it in toasts at my wedding, they'll tell stories to my children, and they'll engrave it on my tombstone.

  Shannon arched an eyebrow. "I wasn't talking about that either. I'm just saying, I'd love a tasteful image of myself from an era before stretch marks colonized every part of my body. I'm sure Alex would appreciate a photo that represents the way you see her."

  "That's not homemade." I sighed. "The photograph might've been taken at home, but I'd have to print and frame it. That would break the rules."

  "Fuck the rules," she said. "I'm sure Alex isn't adhering to a literal interpretation of the agreement. I could argue that everything is, in some form, a violation of the rules."