“That’s the pinkest orange I’ve ever seen.”
“I don’t look good in pumpkin orange.”
Yeah, right. She would look good in anything. “Can I come in and put this candy down?”
She steps aside and waves me in. I set the flats of candy bars on the accent table in her entryway, which is easily the size of the office in my house.
I turn to look at her again. “Unless you want to be a Real Housewife of Austin, you need to get less trendy and more cringey.”
“Just because you went with foam muscles—” She reaches out to poke one, but her finger meets actual muscle, and she stops talking.
“You were saying?”
She makes a miffed noise. “I guess I’m going to be a Real Housewife because I don’t have any costumes.”
“I’m kidding. Your hair isn’t high enough for Real Housewife. But we can pull together a costume. You have a pair of cowboy boots, don’t you?” Her family owns Copperhead Boots. She may not wear them, but I bet she has some.
“Yes.”
I open the door and pop my head out, scanning the street. “The trick-or-treaters aren’t out yet, but we don’t have long.” I shut the door and turn to her. “This will go faster if I can look at your closet, see what we have to work with. I might have an idea.”
She opens her mouth like she wants to object then pauses and sighs. “Let’s go.”
I follow her upstairs to the end of a hall, trying not to gape at the idea of one person living here by herself, let alone one person my age. I don’t even work on houses like this for clients yet. The most ambitious project Dan has given me has been a freestanding pool house behind a wealthy client’s mansion.
She leads me to the main suite, and I pause to admire the vaulted ceiling, a series of three mission-style wooden beams cross-sectioning it to meet a perpendicular support beam running down the center.
“You’ll have to come through my bathroom,” she says. “Promise not to judge.”
I promise and she leads me through it. I want to take in every detail, but mostly what I notice is that Madison confined most of her work to the first floor. Upstairs, everything still has a model home feel with the builders’ choices in gray and white, and if Kaitlyn ordered her own linens, she went with even more gray and white.
She’s classic, yes. But her outfits always have some small detail that gives away more about her if you’re paying attention, like the sleeves of her sweater tonight. I expected her house to contain subtle-but-revealing details too, but that all stopped the second we climbed the stairs.
Her bathroom counters are bare, no clutter to hint about her beauty routine. Only a potted white orchid tries to soften the space, but I’d bet the hundred dollars in my wallet that it’s silk, not real.
It’s hard not to go slack-jawed when we step into her closet (twice the size of my office). It’s immaculate, but the sheer volume of clothes overwhelms me. It makes sense for someone whose fortune comes from the fashion industry, but I didn’t expect to walk in and find the equivalent of an exclusive boutique in her house. There’s so much color and texture that I can’t take it all in.
“You said you weren’t going to judge.” Kaitlyn sounds defensive.
“I’m not. I’m strategizing.” There are shelves full of shoes. Shelves. Many shelves. Of only shoes. It’s like being in a movie. “You said you have boots?” There’s a whole bay of nothingbutboots, and she walks over to grab a pair from the bottom shelf.
“These are Western.” She holds up a pair of intricately stitched and patterned suede boots in a fawn color.
“Are those Copperheads?”
She shrugs, like that’s answer enough. Of course they are. I glance around the closet, seeking and not finding denim.
“Jeans?” I ask.
“What kind of costume are we talking here?”
“Cowgirl. Easy, fast, and you probably have everything you need.”
She goes to a long drawer and slides it out to reveal at least a dozen pairs of jeans, all folded like an origami expert did it. Did she do that? Or does she hire help? She reaches for a pair near the back and shakes it out.
“Wranglers, if you can believe it,” she says. “My brother-in-law made me get them when I visited his family’s horse ranch.”
“Did he happen to make you get a cowboy shirt too?” I ask. “Plaid? Do you have plaid?”