“Have you ever seen me wear brown?”
“I don’t catalogue the colors of your clothes,” I say, sinking deeper into the couch. All this time spent here has been a waste. I glance at Skylar—she looks shell-shocked.
“I don’t have a single item in brown. Not even boots,” Mom continues.
“I don’t look at your shoes.”
“The only thing I like that’s brown is chocolate,” she adds, punctuating her point.
I roll my eyes. “Message received.”
Skylar clears her throat, then beckons for the phone. I’m all too happy to hand it to her.
“Maggie, is it just the color?” she asks diplomatically, recovering quickly from her surprise.
“Yes! It’s loathsome.”
Skylar takes the comment in stride. “But the style? How do you feel about the style?”
“It’s hard to see past the color,” Mom admits, but there’s a hint ofintriguein her voice—atell me morekind of tone.
Skylar trots off with the phone, moving so fast through the couches I might need to jog to keep up.
I find her at…a gray version of the same couch.
“It’s dove gray,” Skylar is saying. “And as I’m sure you know, you can throw a pretty sage green or dusty rose fleece over the back of it to give a pop of color. That way, too, you can alter the look to feature cooler shades in winter and warmer umber-toned ones in fall.”
Mom narrows her eyes on the screen, studying Skylar as she settles into the new couch now, patting the cushions, stretching out an arm along the back of it.
“Dove grayispretty, isn’t it?” Skylar asks.
More silence on the other end of the line, then at last, a nod. “It is. Dove gray is one of the unsung shades.”
“Yes! I was saying the same thing the other night,” Skylar says.
Andholy shit…did she just—charm my mother?
I think she might have, since Mom is saying, “I like that one.”
“Good. Let me show you some tables.”
Skylar weaves through the store, effortlessly navigating Mom’s rapid-fire opinions on the pieces we selectedearlier to show her—some are dismissed outright, others earn a considering hum. Through it all, Skylar listens intently, pivoting when needed, adjusting her choices without hesitation. And the best part? I don’t have to handle my mom.
Skylar’s doing it perfectly.
When we finish at a pale-yellow breakfast table that Mom approves since it’ll catch the sun just right in the morning, Skylar asks, “Should I arrange to have all these items delivered to the Sausalito home? I can stage them, take pictures, and do another video tour once they’re in place. I have an arrangement with the store—try before you buy. If anything doesn’t work in the space, we can return it.”
Mom shifts to me. “Ford, why don’t all stores do that? None of the previous designers offered that.”
I don’t bother pointing out that we never got to the furniture-shopping stage with them. “It’s one of the mysteries of the universe.”
Mom checks her watch, then says, “I should go soon.”
Skylar leans closer, almost whispering, like she has a secret, “Before you do…would you like to see the Eames chair up close? The one I had them set aside for you?”
“I’ve only been dying to get another look since I saw the first photo,” Mom says.
Skylar confidently guides the floating screen head of my mother through the store once again, leading us to a back room where Bastian, I presume, lets us in. Skylar spins the phone around, showing off a pink chair that looks like it’s from theMad Menera. “And the best part? It’s a dusty-pink.”
