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“You spend more money in here than either of us wants to count,” she says, shaking her head. “A scone now and then is the least I can do. Have a great day.”
“Back atcha, friend. Oh!” I turn back to her. “How’s Angela?”
“Settling in,” Shannon says. She took in a foster child about two months ago, and it’s been a tough time for both Shannon and the sixteen-year-old. “Every day is a little better.”
“I’m glad. Let me know if you need anything.”
I wave and hurry out into the brisk, late-autumn air. It’s the first week of December, and cooler days have settled over Seattle, making the leaves crisp. They crunch under my feet as I hurry down the sidewalk to my first appointment, which happens to be, conveniently, just down the street from my condo.
I’ve been an interior designer in Seattle for a decade, and I feel like I finally came into my own over the past couple of years. I’ve gone from working for a firm to co-owning my own with two other women that I adore.
We can’t keep up with the demand. We surpassed our five-year goals in just nine months.
It’s been incredible, to say the least. And it’s how I’m able to afford a gorgeous condo in the Belltown neighborhood of Seattle. My home is my favorite portfolio of my work. I busted my ass—and my wallet—making it a masterpiece.
If this new, generous client wants Christmas work done, that should be easy enough. I’ll draw up a design for some trees, lights, garlands, and have a crew make it come to life. If I’m lucky, it’ll only take a couple of days’ work on my part, and our firm will be much richer.
It’s definitely worth the late nights and early mornings.
It might even be worth missing out on my massage this afternoon. I usually have a weekly standing appointment, but I’ve had to cancel three weeks in a row. If I keep this up, my therapist will fire me.
That would be a damn shame.
I sip my coffee and breathe deeply, enjoying the crisp air. Everyone else I know loves summer so much, but I enjoy autumn in Washington the best. Especially on days like today, with the sun shining and the air cool.
With a happy, optimistic mood, and the caffeine rolling through my veins, I hurry in for my first meeting of the day.* * * *So, basically, I’m just running late all day, and there are few things higher on my pet peeve list than people who always run late.
I’m prompt. It’s a matter of respect and courtesy.
But today? Today, the gods have it out for me.
After my first meeting, which ran long, I caught my heel in a crack in the sidewalk, it breaking in the process, and I had to hurry home to change. I allowed myself exactly twenty-seven seconds to mourn the loss of those Guccis, then hurried back out for a lunch meeting.
Which also ran long.
I’m doomed because now I’m sitting in traffic, making my way north to the super fancy Magnolia neighborhood of Seattle. It’s near the water, and based on the address—and what the client is willing to pay—I’m excited to see the house.
If I can ever get there.
I blow a breath through my lips and tap my fingers on the steering wheel. Finally, once I pass a fender-bender on the right, traffic loosens up, and I’m only one minute late when I pull into the driveway.
Thank goodness.
I gather my bag and iPad and hurry to the front door. I ring the bell and wait, but no one answers.
So I try again.
Still, no answer.
Am I at the right address? Did they cancel and Ali forgot to tell me? Am I going crazy?
I pull out my phone and text Alison.
Me: Did you confirm my 4:00 appt?
I tap my toe and wait, longing for the massage I should be getting right now, as Ali replies.
Ali: Yes! He’s expecting you. His name is Reed.
“Huh,” I mutter, looking around. “Reed’s not here.”
The house is a glorious Cape Cod-style home, and it does indeed look out over Puget Sound. Ideas are already taking shape for the outside. With a landscape architect and an electrician, I could turn this into a stunning work of art.
But Reed’s not answering.
So I turn back to my Lexus. Just as I do, I hear a child yelp in either delight or pain from the side of the house. I walk around, investigating, and find a little brunette girl with the sweetest face I’ve ever seen laughing hysterically. A man, with the same dark features, is holding her, blowing raspberries into her neck.
“You defied the king!” he yells, tickling her.
“The king is dumb!” she yells back, earning more raspberries.
I stand back, not wanting to interrupt, and smile in delight at the fun display before me. I should clear my throat or something to get their attention, but I’m enjoying them too much.
