“Busy afternoon?” I asked.
We were headed into the perfunctory niceties place, but I’d learned a long time ago that things worked better if I made myself follow the steps. The answers were rarely as important as asking the questions. I slid on my shorts and T shirt before following her to the door.
“Only if I can make progress with planning and zoning, and my client makes the time to show up.”
She slid into my arms one last time, affectionate but not melty. We were done with that part.
“Go get ‘em, tiger.” I pressed a kiss to her forehead and then she was gone until next time.
2
“Of course. I understand. Next week is fine.” I leaned back in my desk chair—both beautiful and ergonomic to minimize back strain. Unfortunately, it had no effect on the tension knotting my muscles. My client had just cancelled. Again. “I can send anything Mr. Essex needs to review before then.”
I wasn’t kidding when I told Jake my afternoon depended on making progress with the parish planning commission and my client, the developer. Mr. Essex was driving me crazy, pushing for approvals at a pace that made everyone on the commission uncomfortable. His ideas weren’t bad. To the contrary, with its restaurants, shops, and conference space, the hotel he planned to build would be a great addition to the neighborhood just outside the French Quarter. I’d seen the plans. The design reflected the historic parish architecture with a modern spin. Packaged right, it might even win awards. At a bare minimum, it made a respectful reference to the past while maintaining a contemporary sensibility.
It was also the largest design build I’d worked on, and I was anxious to make sure things moved along smoothly. I couldn’t afford to lose this one. This kind of project could catapult myfirm to the next level. I could hire an assistant, and in a year or two, if things went well, maybe an apprentice designer.
The building and the business it would generate would be good for the community, too. The neighborhood had been struggling long before Hurricane Katrina made landfall. The storm and the exodus afterward almost put the final nail in the area’s coffin. Or it would have if the parish planning commission hadn’t worked so tirelessly courting revitalization money. But now that they’d hooked a big fish, they were acting as if they feared it would capsize the boat.
The committee should want to say yes to the building. I was pretty sure they would if the developer just slowed down enough to let them catch their breath. Convincing him of that, especially when he seemed intent on handling everything from his Philadelphia office, had become my most pressing challenge. He’d approached me a month earlier to do the interior designs for the common areas and to go over the plans for the guest rooms. The restaurant and retail build-out would be handled separately once someone leased the space, and his in-house design team had specced the basics for the guest rooms. My job was to add the finishing touches that would give guests the New Orleans experience.
That’s how John Essex described it. “I want them to have the full New Orleans experience,” he’d said on our first call together.
I’d cringed, imagining an East Coast version of gris-gris bags, hurricane drinks in giant plastic tubes and fleur-de-lis covered textiles. The city so often became a caricature of itself. It was worse in outsiders’ hands, but some of it we did to ourselves in an attempt to lure tourists and hold their short attention spans. But that hadn’t been what Mr. Essex wanted. He talked fast and pushed hard, but he respected the places he built. I’d seen it in his portfolio before I agreed to take the job.
I thanked Mr. Essex’s personal assistant for calling and opened my digital planner to enter the new date. A tiny periwinkle dot marked the corner of today’s date. I used the dots to indicate my time with Jake. We’d both rescheduled from time to time. Anyone who happened to see my calendar would have no idea the benign little dots marked my midday debauchery. I smiled to myself, imagining my friends trying to make sense of the dots randomly scattered every few weeks. I hadn’t really been paying attention, but they’d gotten closer together as the months went on.
Pushing aside my disappointment at the cancellation, I crossed my office to the wall of cabinets I used to hold my fabric, wood, and tile samples. I still had other clients to tend to and staying ahead with them meant I’d be ready to take time whenever Essex bothered to show up.
The cabinets had been one of the few fixtures I’d added to the Creole townhouse I’d turned into my living and office space. With its huge six over six windows, French doors, and the wrought iron railings added after construction, the building had more than its fair share of local period architectural details. I wanted the interior finishes and furniture to enhance the vernacular without pigeonholing my design sensibilities into French baroque low country. Clients needed to see the space and feel comfortable, believing I could handle whatever aesthetic they wanted.
Personally, I preferred modern design with a reference to local architecture. My upstairs apartment reflected that. People assumed it was just one note, but New Orleans architecture stretched from Creole and Greek Revival through Colonial Revival, Arts and Crafts, and everything in between. The Essex project excited me for its respect of that diversity. But the most important thing to me was making a beautiful space that worked for my clients.
Growing up, being beautiful mattered more than anything to my mother—both her appearance and mine. I learned early on my value came from how I looked. I learned a bit later that it wasn’t true, but I’d never been able to let go of the idea completely. Instead, I shifted the focus to spaces rather than myself. Healthier and marketable, and it meant I could eat again instead of starving myself into some false ideal.
Mrs. Benoit hired me to take the first floor of her center hall cottage from the shag carpet and avocado design choices of the ‘70s back to the aesthetics of the mid-1800s when the home was built. This time with closets and wiring that would support Mr. Benoit’s tech obsession. We’d started with the kitchen, exchanging the decades old cabinets, Formica countertops, and linoleum flooring for furniture style built-ins with marble tops and wide plank floors.
I’d been proud of the design, and the client was thrilled with her kitchen. So thrilled we’d moved on to the library. The contractor should finish demolition in a week or so. The cabinet maker was on deck for the installation of the custom bookshelves the week after that. Which just left choosing the fabric for the club chairs and the chaise.
I pulled swatches of fabric I knew would work with the dark wood tones and the rich gray-blue wall color. Spreading the swatches on my reclaimed wood work table, I rocked back on my heels and waited for inspiration to strike.
I was no closer to a decision when my phone vibrated. I glanced down in time to see Charlotte’s name flash across the screen. Swiping open the phone, I hit the Call button without bothering to read the text.
“That was quick,” said Charlotte, the smile clear in her voice.
“My afternoon meeting cancelled. I’ve got a hole in my schedule.”
“That’s brilliant. Not the meeting, but the opening. I know it’s short notice, but can you meet us for coffee at Meredith’s in about an hour? I can promise cake.”
“I don’t think it counts as you delivering on the cake if it comes from Meredith’s bakery. I can be there, but I thought we were getting together on Saturday for Alex’s honeymoon debrief. Did something happen?”
I’d never turn down a chance to see my friends if I could make it. I loved them. They were hands down the best part of me, but their careers were every bit as demanding—more in the case of Charlotte, the divorce attorney, and Kindra, the therapist—as mine. Alex and Charlotte had significant others in their lives too. A new husband, in Alex’s case. Scheduling time to get together was becoming a challenge. The Saturday meeting had been on the calendar since before the wedding. Alex arrived home at the end of the week from her honeymoon with Erik in Greece, and we were going to catch up on all the juicy details.
“I have news. I don’t want to wait.” She sounded breathless, which wasn’t normal for Charlotte.
“Ford news?” Everything changed when my happily ever after doubting friend fell in love with celebrity chef Ford Landry. It helped that he fell first. I loved this new chapter for her.
“I’ll tell you when I see you. Hurry, please.”
