the last house on the street by diane chamberlain

“Do you have any pictures of your home?” I ask. Ann Smith’s house sounds like it needs a cozier aesthetic. Bader and Duke Design hired Jackson and me specifically to bring a more contemporary element to the decades-old North Carolina firm. It probably cries out for a sunroom and I’ve designed plenty of them, but I’m not sure I’m the right architect for this project. I can imagine the way it smells and the tight feeling of the walls as you pass from room to room. “Where is it?” It’s weird, speaking to my own misshapen reflection in her glasses. She looks around my office as if searching for something. Her nails are long acrylics, the red polish sloppily applied, and her voice is deep. “I want to put an addition on my house,” she says, folding her hands in the lap of her khaki slacks. I see only my warped reflection instead of her eyes. She doesn’t return my smile as she sits down in the red Barcelona chair I offer her. I didn’t have you on my schedule today-something must have fallen through the cracks-but I have about half an hour. “Ann Smith?” I ask, smiling and curious as I reach out to shake her hand. She wears mirrored sunglasses that mask her eyes, but nothing can camouflage the way her red lipstick bleeds into the lines around her mouth. No, Ann Smith looks closer to sixty-five or seventy, though she appears to be fighting her age with vivid red shoulder-length hair. She’s not at all my usual client-those thirty- or forty-somethings who’ve amassed enough money to build the home of their dreams. “You can send her in.”Ī woman appears at my open office door as I wrap up my call and get to my feet.

I’ve only been back to work a couple of weeks and don’t completely trust myself to think straight yet. I should see the woman in case the screwup is on my end. “I don’t have any appointments today,” I say, glancing at the time on my phone. “This woman is in the foyer and she says she has an eleven o’clock appointment with you, but I don’t have her on your calendar.” She looks worried, as though afraid she’s already screwed up. I’m in the middle of a call with a contractor when Natalie, our new administrative assistant, pokes her head into my office.

The last house on the street by diane chamberlain