Page 19 of How Dare You
Allie’s eyes light up when she sees the magazine sticking out of my handbag. “Is that Noon?” she gasps. “I haven’t seen one of these in so long.”
“You know this is Devon’s absolute all-time favorite magazine?” she asks Bea, reaching for it to flip through the pages. “Some kids have posters of band members or cars or athletes or whatever on their walls. Not Dev, she had a massive corkboard filled with all her favorite modern architecture.”
“There is nothing about that that surprises me.” Bea scoots around the table, so she can see the magazine too. “Ooh, let’s see if we can guess which house is her favorite now.”
They give me a minute to flip through and make a choice before turning each page and discussing the virtues and downfalls of each design. Allie’s convinced that as my best friend of more than fifteen years she’ll win, but Bea exerts that as a designer who works closely with me, she’ll know better.
“This one is so gorgeous,” Allie coos, pointing at a wooded two-story cabin.
“Devon would never choose anything with more than one story,” Bea tsks.
“I was saying I think it’s gorgeous. Also, I happen to know that Devon’s all about a split-level,” Allie teases.
Bea looks at me in question and I shrug in apology. “They’re impractical, but I have a soft spot for them.”
Ultimately, it turns out my favorite is extremely predictable, because they both pick the correct one, a modern, ranch-style home with floor to ceiling windows covering at least fifty percent of the exterior walls tucked into nature with no neighbors for miles.
This magazine is part of the reason I wanted to be a designer in the first place. For decades they’ve featured modern design. Clean lines, natural light, minimal detailing, a few smart, functional, custom details. It’s my favorite style to live in and design, and having my work published in Noon has been a lifetime career goal. Flipping through it with my friends has me feeling more determined than ever to achieve it.
“It’s coming, Dev,” Allie squeezes my hand, “and until then, I’ll just keep pulling out the pages with Trina’s stuff on them.”
Chapter 8
Rhett
Got my washer and dryer hooked up at the property. No more clothesline!
-From Rhett’s Most Important Things notebook, August 15th
“Excuse me, ma’am. Are you aware this is a party?” I ask the poised blonde typing on her laptop at a bar at seven-thirty during a charity event.
“Hello, Rhett,” Devon answers, gaze focused on the screen before her.
Taking up the stool next to hers, I lean my elbow across the quartz countertop. “Are you at least enjoying the open bar?”
Devon raises a dark brown eyebrow at me, looks at the untouched martini gathering condensation on the bar between us, and returns her eyes to her screen without slowing her typing.
“Devon’s got a deadline,” Allie, the charity’s host, explains from behind the counter, pride for her friend clear in her voice. “Whatever it is she’s working on will be done on time, and it will be perfect.”
“Don’t doubt that for a second,” I agree.
Devon continues typing, eyes trained on her screen, but I know she’s listening. I’ve learned over the last couple months that she’s always listening. It’s not unusual for her to answer a question, always correctly, in a neighboring conversation without looking up from whatever task appears to have her attention.
“Dev,” Allie says, tapping the glass stem of Devon’s ignored drink, “I made this just the way you like it, extra olives and everything.”
Devon looks up from her work, shining an unrestrained smile reserved only for friends at Allie. She takes a sip of the drink, followed by sliding a gin-soaked olive off the cocktail stick between her peach pink lips. I’m tempted to believe she made the motion particularly sensual just to torture me.
“It’s perfect. I promise I’m almost ready to get up and enjoy all of the hard work you put into this, Al.” My eyes follow Devon’s as she looks over her shoulder at the party around us. People laugh and drink, their voices barely carrying over the loud music. Trays of food are being replenished by staff, including Bradley who smiles at me from across the room. A display of meats and cheeses are set out on the new bar height tables that Devon designed and I built. Along the windowed wall that’s shared with the closed-for-the-evening motorcycle shop next door, people hover over a row of folding tables covered with black tablecloths, perusing the silent auction that benefits the Coachella Valley Senior Dog Rescue. Through the window, half a dozen adoptable dogs are playing with guests from the event.
“I’m sorry I’m working. This week has been littered with design disasters,” Devon accents the last two words with an eye roll. “I’m behind on this presentation Bea and I have in the morning.”
“She promised she wouldn’t miss the event,” Allie explains to me, then tells Devon, “Even though I wouldn’t have held it against you if you stayed home. You need a break very soon. Maybe even a little vacation.”
“No reason I can’t be here,” the leggy blonde says, smiling warmly before focusing back on her computer.
“I’d never complain about an opportunity to be in the same room as you,” I add, catching the faintest tick of Devon’s mouth at my statement.
Allie smiles, glancing between us before passing me a pint of beer and walking away to help another guest.