I clear my throat. “First, a furniture store.”
“Oh joy.”
“I’ve already vetted them for your aesthetic and narrowed it down to a few pieces I think you’ll like. It should be quick, so we can get to the important part of the night: Christmas.” This is why I’m not management material.
Beau sighs. “Would it be easier to give you the card and let you buy everything?”
“Oh, undoubtedly. But maybe unethical. You have to at least give things a cursory glance before we commit to them.”
In the store, I nod to the salesman and he leads us to the section we discussed earlier in the day.
“This is exciting for Loot,” he whispers to me as Beau looks over the selection.
“If it works.” I cross my fingers on both hands. “Could set us apart if we can offer something no one else does.” And I’m really enjoying it. Today I drew out some plans for Beau’s office, trying to see where everything should go and how much he would need, while making calls to get businesses to work with us. Like I thought, it combined creativity with business in a way that no other part of my job has.
I need this to work, because knowing how much I enjoy this work and then giving it up is going to behard.
“I’m rooting for you, because this could be great for us too.”
“Sonia, what do you think about this piece? Between these two?” Beau asks.
I move to stand next to him. He’s looking at two leather couches that are almost indistinguishable, except for one detail.
“Pick the one with the scroll arms. Classier.”
“You don’t think it’s too flashy?”
“Do I think the brown leather couch is too flashy? No. I think you’re good.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
After fifteen minutes of intense negotiation with the seller, with promises of sending more business his way, I get a modest price reduction. Looking out for Beau’s start-up costs like a good interior decorator.
“Excellent,” Beau says when I tell him. “And we’ll take these desks too.”
“Great,” I say in surprise. This job might be over faster than I think now that Beau’s warming up to the decorating idea.
Hmm. Mixed feelings about that. I want him to leave, but this might betoofast.
“Where are we going now?” Beau says as we walk out of the store.
“Only one of the hotbeds of Christmas in the city. You won’t like the number of tourists there, but if you learn to lean into people watching, it might grow on you.”
Beau compresses his lips and looks at me without saying a word. And yet, so many words are communicated.
“Okay, maybe not,” I concede. “But you might not hate it as much as you think you will. Just trust me.”
We walk another six blocks before we get to our plans for the evening.
I break away from the man and rush in front of him to present the scene to him like Vanna White. “Ta-da! Rockefeller Center at Christmas! Soak it in.” I take a deep breath, turning in a circle with my arms out to soak a bit of it in myself.
“It smells like week-old trash and urine.”
Well, he’s not wrong. “Maybe soak it in with your eyes. The tree is almost a hundred feet tall. It had to have scaffolding.” I jazz hands toward the tree.
We stand at the ledge and take in the tree, decorations, and the open-air ice-skating rink on the level below.
Rockefeller Center is all decked out in its best festive finery, with its grand Norway spruce at the head, lights twinkling on its branches. The smaller trees that surround the plaza year-round also get their own decoration, their branches trying to outshine their seasonal cousin. Angels blowing trumpets compete for the crowd’s attention with snowflakes projected on the buildings.
