54
“DAVIDA, IT’S BEEN A PLEASURE.” I closed my leather portfolio and rose from the stylish open-back tête-à-tête. “My assistant, Thomas, will email you the contract. I look forward to working with you and your husband to make your lovely home even more so.”
“I’m beyond excited to work with you, Claire. After reading about your finding the hidden room in that press release . . .”
We chatted as I followed her through the maze of rooms and hallways to the palatial front double doors. After weighing options with the three firms, I’d accepted a lucrative position with Anna Baker Bruce Designs, one of Atlanta’s top designers. Anna herself was already over the moon after my first week with her firm. Counting this appointment, I’d landed contracts with the first four potential clients referred to me, with individual budgets projected between a hundred thousand dollars and half a million.
Buckhead had money. I’d seen spectacular homes before, just not so many back-to-back. And needless to say, the financial independence this job afforded me was welcome as divorce still loomed. Despite my wanting to believe Stephen’s sincerity was real this time, my heart had a good memory.
Friday afternoon traffic was light, and I headed for my three o’clock appointment, my last. It was in a high-rise condo near where Stephen lived in one of the firm’s apartments. Land that one and I’d be five for five.
It seemed all the clients wanted to talk about—besides their own projects, of course—was what I had discovered. I assured them they would be invited by our firm to preview the Homes of Christmas Past Tour in December, and that I’d be happy to personally show them the hidden room and its treasures.
I arrived early, parked alongside a shaded curb outside the gate that led to the condos, and aimed the AC toward my face while I read a text from Paige:
It would be wonderful to see her. She was always there for me, even from so far away.
I returned calls and texts, all while watching the clock. Exhilarating didn’t come close to describing this new position. Being in demand, clients giving me carte blanche, working for a top firm in a market that garnered national attention. It was everything I’d ever dreamed of.
Following Anna’s announcement that I’d joined her team, a gorgeous flower arrangement arrived from Schaffer & Associates Design in Denver with a note of congrats from Sandra. Sandra had texted as well:
And that was true. So why did I still feel as if I were coming apart? The loneliness I’d tried to bury with this exciting new challenge pressed back with a vengeance.
Live like you’re looking back from the threshold of eternity.
Those words had become a sieve, sifting my thoughts, my choices, even what I chose to watch or read in my downtime. I laid my head back and stared through the sunroof into the thick canopy of oak and poplar. “Charlotte,” I whispered. “I think maybe you’ve ruined me for this.”
I laughed so I wouldn’t cry. But really, what was wrong with me?
In a blink, a shaft of light pierced the growth overhead and bathed the interior of the car as warmth embraced me. And though at one time I would have doubted this, I knew the Lord of Heaven’s Armies had heard. And answered. I closed my eyes and drank in the overwhelming truth of being known by him, and I prayed to know him more. Give me wisdom, Lord, to know what to do.
I missed my old life. I missed Maggie. And Bryan. If I could have, I would have driven to the cemetery for a late-afternoon visit. But Denver was another world away. As was my son. And daughter. And Stephen, too.
The loneliness gained ground.
Stephen’s Hong Kong trip had been extended another week. He hadn’t dropped off the divorce papers before leaving, nor had he mentioned them since. Lonely as I was, even considering the corner of civility Stephen and I seemed to have turned, whenever I tried to imagine being intimate with him again, those images of him with another woman returned. I didn’t know how to get past them, or if that were even possible. Did living life from an eternal perspective mean I needed to stay married to Stephen despite what he’d done? If yes, then why did the Bible allow for divorce in cases of adultery?
Just before pulling through the gate to the condo, I reviewed the file my new assistant, Thomas, had provided for what I hoped would be client number five. Eleventh floor one-bedroom condo. I scanned the data Thomas had gathered and was stunned to find a projected budget of twenty thousand dollars. That didn’t even begin to meet the minimum required for Anna Baker Bruce Designs.
But the notes also read: Friend of a friend of Anna’s. File it under Favors. Minimum designer commission guaranteed. Requested you personally.
I could live with the pressure of the woman’s connection with my new boss, and it was always nice to be personally requested.
I punched in the code Thomas had provided, and the concierge greeted me in the lobby. The furnishings were sleek and modern, definitely upscale. Nothing like the homes I’d visited that week, but still Buckhead-worthy.
At the condo, I knocked twice and started to again when the door opened. “Hi, Krista, I’m—”
“Claire Powell,” she finished for me. “And you’re right on time. Which is not an easy feat in this city.”
Krista Pearson proved cheery, early thirtyish, with auburn hair in a messy bun. She was barefoot in snug-fitting denim cutoffs and a low V-neck T-shirt revealing cleavage she was apparently proud of. More cute than pretty, she was shapely and toned.
“How about a cup before we get started?” she asked. “It’s my fourth today, but who’s counting.”
I smiled. “Woman after my own heart. I’d love one. Thank you.”
“Coming right up! Just put your stuff in the great room. We’ll meet in there. I’m excited to talk about your ideas. I’m ready to give this old decor an update.”
Floor-to-ceiling windows provided sweeping views of downtown Buckhead, though the furniture and cluttered decor were more traditional—and dated—than I expected. But from what I could see, the condo itself had great bones.
I caught a whiff of something vaguely familiar. Her perfume maybe? Then I spotted a reed diffuser when I joined her in the kitchen and assumed it was a scent I’d used before. “Your condo has marvelous views, Krista. Great light, too.”
“Yes, it does. I was lucky a unit came open in this building. A friend lives in this area, so I wanted to be close to him.” She paused. “Do you take cream, Claire? Or should I say Mrs. Powell?”
Her sparkling brown eyes revealed no hint of the condescension I thought I’d heard. “Claire is fine. And yes on the cream, please. So how long have you lived here?”
“I just recently moved in.”
Recently did not jibe with all the furniture, knickknacks, and pictures. Still, she was the client. “You’ve certainly done a lot of unpacking already.”
“Oh, no.” She laughed. “I, um, bought the place fully furnished. So now I get to make it my own.”
Minutes later, back in the great room, we sipped and chatted. “Where’d you move from, Krista?”
“Kansas. So Atlanta is a whole new world.”
“I bet. But so far, so good?”
She eyed me over the rim of her cup with a slow smile. “Time will tell for sure.”
I got the impression she was sizing me up, trying to decide whether I was worthy of being her decorator. I didn’t know what to make of her yet, but if she was connected with Anna Baker Bruce, I was determined to make her happy. I opened my portfolio. “So, are you envisioning new furniture, or are you open to keeping certain pieces and adding more of your own style?”
“Definitely the former.” She wrinkled her nose. “None of this is me. But I do have a budget.”
Already aware of that, I knew we could only do so much with twenty thousand. And a hunch told me that wasn’t going to cut it. She struck me as a woman who wanted it all, all at the same time. “Are you thinking the entire condo or only certain rooms?”
“The whole thing!” Her eyes went wide. “How do you feel about T.J. Maxx? I think they’ve got some pretty great stuff.”
“Definitely,” I said. That would certainly help with her budget. I detailed several possibilities of what could be done to the great room and the kitchen.
She watched me intently, her expression neutral. “Maybe you could draw up some sketches for me? I’m really more of a visual person.”
Alarm bells went off. “Sure, I could do that.” Her uncertainty indicated she didn’t really know what she wanted, which usually meant a lot of trial and error and money wasted. And rarely a satisfied client.
She showed me her bedroom and a massive four-poster bed. “I know,” she said. “Horrible, isn’t it?”
“It’s not the bed. The room is simply too small to accommodate it. I’d suggest something lighter in color and style.”
She opened a sliding door and stepped out onto a roughly five-by-eight-foot concrete balcony. I wasn’t afraid of heights, but neither was I fond of only a thin, black railing between me and certain death eleven stories below.
“Do you think we could fit two chairs out here?”
The fact that she seemed to want me to ask about her love life made me determined not to. “Perhaps, if we stay toward smaller sizes.”
“Good. I’ve got someone who’s very special to me.”
“How wonderful.” Notwithstanding the “friend of a friend” component, I knew where to draw the line. “Why don’t we head back inside, and I can get some final details from you.”
As we left the bedroom, a coffee table book on the dresser caught my eye. Denver, the Mile High City. I gestured. “That’s where I moved from. We lived there for more than twenty years. You’ve been there?”
“A few times. Beautiful state.”
Back in the great room, I laid out tentative plans, along with a budget. She responded positively, if not enthusiastically. Perhaps she’d never worked with a decorator before or found the pending financial commitment daunting, but I sensed she needed more time. “Tell you what, Krista, why don’t I send over furniture, decor, and paint samples? You can browse at your leisure and decide which direction you want to go.”
She smiled. “Sounds like a plan. Thanks, Claire.”
I gathered my portfolio, eager to be done. “Thank you again for reaching out to our firm, and for requesting me personally. How did you hear about me?”
She stared, a deer caught in headlights. “I-I—didn’t. I just called the firm, and they gave me your name.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. The note in the file . . . Well, it doesn’t matter. My mistake.”
She opened the door. “It was really good to meet you, Claire.”
Eager for that elevator, I smiled. “Until next time then.”
Back in the car, I texted Anna:
Not fifteen seconds later, she responded:
A minute later, my phone rang, and my assistant’s picture popped up. “Thomas, what are you doing? And why are you still working?”
“Hey, Miss Claire! I’m just getting into my car. But I wanted to say thanks for putting in a good word for me with the big boss.”
“I only said what’s true. I don’t know how I ever could have done all this without you.”
He laughed. “Well, have a good weekend. You deserve it.”
“Ditto! Oh, and Thomas? Your notes on my three o’clock said she asked for me personally.”
“Yeah, she did. Once I learned her budget, I tried to assign her to someone else, but she insisted on you and said she was a friend of a friend of Anna’s.”
“Got it. Thanks, Thomas. You’re the best. See you Monday!”
As I drove away, I glanced at the condo building in my rearview mirror, puzzled why Krista Pearson would lie about something so innocuous.