Chapter 23
Just as Sheila walked into the lounge, the ship lurched and she found herself plastered against the wall. Her bag went flying and the items in it splayed all over the tiled floor. After she gathered herself and all of her things, she stood up, brushed herself off, and proceeded to walk.
David of David’s Designs was sitting at a table already, but he was speaking into his cell phone. He was dressed casually, in khakis and a white-striped golf shirt. There was a woman seated next to him who rose and greeted her.
“It will be just a moment,” she said in a professional voice, but tinged with apology. “Please have a seat.”
Sheila sat down. This was awkward. She didn’t want to listen to his conversation—or for it to appear that way. So she very obviously looked out the window at the ocean, which appeared to be choppier than it had been this morning.
“He got what he deserved,” David said into the phone. “He broke up a happy marriage. What did he think? That there would be no revenge?”
She could not believe what she was hearing. Was he talking about Harold?
A waiter came up and asked Sheila what she wanted to drink.
“Water with lemon, please,” she said, thinking she’d kill for a sweet iced tea. But apparently it wasn’t on the menu; she’d tried to order it several times. What did you have to do to get a sweet iced tea outside the South?
“Theresa is right about that. But listen,” David said, looking at Sheila, “I need to go.” He placed his phone on the table. “Ms. Rogers,” he beamed. “So good to meet you.” He held out his hand and they shook. His handshake was firm and his manner charming. But one minute he was talking about revenge and the next oozed charm.
“This is my associate, Heather Reynolds,” he said.
“She’s in charge of my scrapbooking line. We work very closely together. I give her as much creative free range as possible. But everything gets run by me before it’s released.”
“If you were to describe our designs in one word, what would that word be?” Heather asked.
Sheila thought a moment. “Classic.”
A huge smile cracked across David’s face. “Indeed. Now, let’s talk about your designs. I’d call them shabby chic, wouldn’t you?”
Sheila sat a bit taller. “Absolutely,” she said. “But I have designed some classic paper and so on. I also have ideas for a nostalgic line inspired by a carnival.”
His eyes widened. “Sounds interesting. You know, you really are very talented. I’m not one to beat around the bush. I don’t have time for it. We’d love to have you join us.”
“Really? Me?”
“Why do you seem so surprised?” Heather asked.
Sheila shrugged. “I had this meeting with Theresa Graves and she wasn’t impressed with my work at all.”
David and Heather looked at one another. Heather rolled her eyes.
“Theresa wouldn’t know good design if it jumped up and bit her. I don’t like talking about colleagues, but that woman’s company is a design mess,” he said. “You don’t want any part of that.”
Interesting, Sheila mused. She thought the designs were okay—some lines better than others. But she was astounded by the competition between the scrapbooking companies. With such a family-oriented hobby business, Sheila had assumed that all of the big shots were friends.
The server brought Sheila a glass of water. She squeezed the lemon perched on the edge of the glass and dropped the peel into her water.
“So, tell me,” Heather said, after taking a sip of some kind of dark soda. “How would you see yourself fitting in to our company?”
Sheila’s heart raced. David’s Designs was interested in her. She hadn’t anticipated this at all because Theresa had said her designs were amateur. She hadn’t rehearsed this moment, which is what she would have done if she thought she stood a snowball’s chance in hell. Twinges of excitement pulsed through her.
“What I’m looking for is freelance design work,” she told them. “I still have children in school in Cumberland Creek. I have a complete home office and studio and see no reason why I couldn’t manage to work from there.”
“Would you be able to come to New York, say, once a month?” David asked her.
“Certainly,” she said.
“I’d like you to consider coming to work for us. I like to put this all up front. When you work for me, you sign a contract. You can’t work for anyone else. And I own your designs. It’s a standard work-for-hire agreement.”
Surely not! This doesn’t sound right at all. She felt her eyebrows knitting.
“I’d suggest you think it all over,” Heather said.
“You’ll be getting other offers, I’m sure. Please let us know something within a few weeks. We’d love to have you on board. What I admire about your work is your sense of color. I’ve not seen such inspiring work in a long time.”
“Thank you,” Sheila said. “How kind of you.”
“I like the way you’re comfortable with both digital design and traditional design,” David said. His eyes sparked with passion. Design really mattered to him; Sheila saw that. “I loved that scrapbook of yours, the one you entered in the competition. Where is it?”
“That’s a good question,” Sheila said, and then explained the situation with the scrapbook.
“How utterly maddening,” David said. “I’ll put in a word for you with security just to reiterate that you are to get that scrapbook back.”
“I hope they find it soon,” Heather said. “In the meantime, you have pictures, don’t you?”
Sheila nodded.
“Oh, thank goodness,” she said. “We wanted to buy the rights from you to create a prototype and actually sell scrapbooks with your design.”
Sheila’s mouth dropped open.
“Are you okay?”
She nodded. “Yes, it’s exactly what I wanted.” Except for the rights issue—and I’ll deal with it later.
“Fabulous. We’ll draw up some contracts and treat this project a little differently than the freelance work,” David said. “I’ll text legal right now.”
What a perfect meeting it had been. Sheila slipped away into her room for a breather before she had to teach her class. She took a photo of herself on her iPhone and looked at it. This is what an artist looks like.
She mailed it to herself and uploaded it onto her computer, then pulled it into her scrapbooking program and journaled about her day. She chose a pallet of blue and green with waves, clouds, and starbursts.
She typed in the word “artist” large across the top of her picture and read over her journal.
At forty-four, I am finally an artist. I am a mother, friend, wife, businesswoman. I can be all of those things and be happy. I stepped into my own skin today as one of the biggest designers in the country spoke to me—as if I mattered. I always thought of myself as a little bird of some kind, struggling to fly. Hell, sometimes struggling to walk. But I have pretty, colorful feathers. Today I felt like an eagle. Strong and soaring.
She stepped back, considered her face on the screen with all of the color and words around it. Not bad. Not bad for an old broad from Cumberland Creek.