Page 35 of Smooth Sailing
“Don’t ‘honey’ me.” Her voice climbed higher with each word. “This is a museum-quality piece of timber. I didn’t spend three months tracking down the perfect slab to have it stained before it’s even finished!”
“Mrs. Thompson, it was my fault,” Max said. “I was showing Paloma the flowering specimens for the indoor garden, and I—”
“I don’t care whose fault it is!” Elodie cried. “This isn’t any piece of wood. It’s an old-growth Indonesian walnut. Do you know how many tables I had to reject before finding one with this grain pattern?” She ran her fingers along the edge of the slab as if checking for further damage. “What if it seeps into the grain? What if it leaves a permanent mark?”
Paloma covered her mouth. The urge to throw up was all-consuming. Her carefully built professional reputation teetered on the edge. The Thompsons were important not only in Brighton but all of Michigan. One complaint about the careless handling of materials could sink Paloma faster than a stone in the harbor. And if they found out what really happened…She couldn’t even think about the consequences.
“I can have a specialist look at it immediately,” she offered, her professional demeanor wavering under Elodie’s fury. “There are treatments we can try—”
“Treatments?” Her laugh could have frosted glass. “This isn’t some mass-produced piece of furniture. This is functional art. And now it has a . . . a . . . flower stain on it!” She gestured at the mark, her perfectly highlighted hair swinging like a weapon.
Bill cleared his throat. “Honey, I’m sure it can be fixed. Remember what that specialist did for the teak when we had the water damage in Aspen?”
Elodie’s shoulders lowered a fraction, but her lips remained pressed in a thin line. “That was different. That was sealed wood.”
“Mrs. Thompson,” Paloma said, forcing herself to maintain a steady voice despite her racing heart. “I know someone who specializes in raw timber restoration. He worked on the Guggenheim’s Brazilian walnut installation. I can have him here first thing tomorrow morning.”
Elodie’s perfectly manicured fingers drummed against her thigh as she considered this. “A Guggenheim piece?”
“Yes.” Paloma pulled out her phone with trembling hands. “I can call him right now. He owes me a favor after I sourced that rare purple heartwood for his gallery showing.”
“Fine,” Elodie huffed. “But if there’s any hint of discoloration, any variation in the grain . . .” She left the room, her husband following, but her threat remained.
“What the hell is a butterfly pea?” Paloma hissed.
“It’s a flower. Its scientific name is Clitoria ternatea.” He shrugged. “I freaked out. It’s the first thing that came to me.”
She’d laugh if the situation wasn’t so awful. The Thompsons could decimate her career, which was finally in the red.
As if reading her mind, Max whispered, “Think we’re fucked?”
“I don’t know.” She ran her palm along her skirt, smoothing out any imperfections—but she was the imperfection. Too impulsive, to the point of recklessness.
“Hey,” Max touched her arm. “Your restoration guy, is he good?”
Paloma nodded, pulling from his touch and ignoring the hurt that flashed over his face. “He is. But Elodie . . . she notices everything. If the wood isn’t perfect . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence. Losing this project wouldn’t only cost her money; it’d cost her reputation. In this business, reputation was everything.
Elodie’s sharp voice carried through the house. “I knew we should have waited for that craftsman in Copenhagen . . .”
“El, let Paloma call her contact. We’ll worry about it after.” Bill’s voice had the patient tone of a man well-versed in his wife’s moods. “Tonight, we have that thing at the Lake Club.”
“The Fall Festival? That’s not until eight.” Elodie sounded less irritated. “Though we should go early. Last year they put us next to the Hendersons.” Her words faded, then “so vanilla” floated back, followed by Bill’s muffled laughter and “I’ll call the club.”
A minute later, he returned to the living room. His gaze lingered on Max for a moment before turning to Paloma. “We like your idea of marble floors instead of wood in the main bedroom, but we’d like to look at the samples. Did you bring them?” he asked.
“I did,” she said with a bit too much enthusiasm. They’re in my car. Would you and Mrs. Thompson like to see them?”
By the time she showed them the samples, called her contact about the table, and the Thompsons were pulling out of their driveway, things were somewhat back to normal—or at least damage control seemed possible.
Paloma turned toward the house, pressing her hand to her stomach. She had to end what was happening between her and Max. She wanted Max and her career, but having both wasn’t possible. And no way was she risking her career on a man. She learned her lesson with her ex-fiancé.
Her footsteps echoed in the empty foyer as she re-entered the house. Her pace slowed when she approached the living room. She hesitated for a brief moment before entering. Her gaze drawn to the coffee table. She could almost feel the phantom press of cold wood under her, and the warmth of Max between her legs. A warm flush crept up her neck, clashing with the chill that ran down her spine.
She looked away and found Max watching her from across the room. He stood in front of his lush garden, one hand resting on a potted fern. His jaw was tense, his eyes dark, and focused on her.
“I’m sor—”
“Nothing like that can happen again,” she said, aware of how dry her mouth had become. “I told you I can’t separate business and pleasure. They almost caught us fucking on their coffee table.” Her fingers fluttered to her throat, pressing against her collarbone. “I would’ve been ruined.”
