“That’s thewholepoint,” Mabel says, and we spend therest of the show arguing about design and the client hotness scale.
Trevyn tries to goad me into ranking everyone I’ve ever worked with on a one-to-ten scale. And, like a perfect sidekick, Mabel encourages him.
But I stay strong. I refuse.
I’ve already called him Sexy Reno Guy, and that’splentyfor now.
No need to indulge any more wildly inappropriate thoughts about my tightly wound, hard-ass, hot-as-hell client.
Some people dream of relaxing on the beach. Butmyhappy place is a two-block section of the Dogpatch District that’s home to design business after design business. From lighting shops to furniture stores to a place that specializes in bio-glass, I could spend all day here. Sometimes I do.
I say goodbye to Trevyn as he drops me off at the corner, then I dive straight in. While Ford and I are going to a consignment shop tomorrow, I want to do some preliminary work today on materials for countertops or bathroom sinks—I have a feeling we might need to redo a few of those in his parents’ new home.
I rap on the door of the appointment-only Reflective Showroom, and Amika hustles over to let me in.
“Come in, come in. I read that Simon is demanding a steady supply of dog bones and biscuits,” she says, her British accent carrying a soft lilt from her years in India.
“I work for my pets,” I say.
“And why isn’t he here today? I love my little Simon hugs.”
“He needed to catch up on his beauty sleep. Apparently, there’s a Doxie law that they must sleep twenty-one hours a day.”
“Reasonable. Totally reasonable.”
“I also had to do my podcast. And Simon’s a little too chatty in the studio.”
“He has a lot on his mind,” she says.
“And you have a lot of new stuff here,” I say, my eyes widening as I scan the showroom.
“We do. Let me show you around,” she says, and just like that, I’m a kid in a candy store—running my fingers over smooth marble and snapping pics of shimmering glass, already picturing the perfect countertop.
I thank Amika and pop into the bamboo furniture showroom a few doors down, snapping pictures of some fantastic new chairs and stools with neat, clean lines. Next, I dart into the lighting shop, making notes on my tablet of new recessed ceiling lights and a plethora of LED options.
I can find all this online too, but nothing beats actually seeing the products you might recommend to a client—touching them too. Making sure the Internet doesn’t—gasp—lie.
I also check out some vintage desk lamps for Sofia Ximena, a civil rights attorney who hired me to make some updates in her new office. It’s only slightly intimidating outfitting a high-profile law practice where they all do good work in crisp navy suits as they fight the system, but hey, if I’ve been tasked to help them see their documents better, I’m up to the challenge. I snap some pics to send to Sofia.
When I’m done there, I pop outside and check the time. Mom should be here any minute for our weekly lunch, so I tuck my tablet into my tote bag and check my reflection in the window of a tile showroom, spotting Mom several feet away as I do. I spin around. She’s sporting big sunglasses, a slouchy bag she’s had forever (because, as she puts it, who needs more than one handbag?), and a warm grin.
When she reaches me, she pushes her shades into her thick mane of auburn hair, clutches my shoulder, and declares, like it’s a battle cry, “I want you to know I’m going to boycott Games People Playwhen it opens later this month.”
My brow furrows as I try to put two and two together. When it hits me, I wince. “Wait. Is that the name of Landon’s shop?”
“Yes,” she says, aggrieved, as she links arms with me and we head to Happy Cow, a few blocks away. “I’m on his newsletter list. I subscribe so you don’t have to.”
“Thanks, Mom. You’re the best,” I say, and really, she is.
“And even though I need a new stash of party games for game night, I will find another board game shop. I refuse to go to his store.”
“They do sell them online,” I say.
“Please. It’s much more fun to find a local competitor to that cad—and mark my words, I will,” she says as we reach the restaurant. Its white wood exterior and green awning, adorned with an illustration of a cow drinking what appears to be lemonade, is always inviting. A chalkboard menu out front advertises today’s specials—a mushroom burger and a lentil salad. Yum.
“You don’t have to keep doing penance,” I point out as we head inside.
“It’s not penance. It’s parenting,” she says, then turns to the hostess stand and tells a woman with a nose ring and a Happy Cow apron that we’d love a table for two, ideally by the open window.
