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WREN
Three Weeks Earlier
Pitbull’s “Fireball” blared in my ears and sweat dripped from my brow. The maintenance staff hadn’t gotten around to our sputtering AC, and the July heat didn’t care.
A claw clip held my hair back—one of many rehearsal-ready blowouts ruined by the meanest month of the year. I flipped through one swatch book and fanned myself with another.
Cora—my work wife at Colette James Design—popped her head inside my lunchbox-sized office and knocked on the doorframe. A purple scarf held up her afro, and perspiration glistened on her face.
“Hey, you,” I said, removing my headphones.
She arched an eyebrow and admired her freshly manicured nails. “Game day songs?”
“Guilty,” I said with a laugh. “Just getting in the zone before rehearsal tonight. What’s up?”
“Colette wants to see you in her office,” Cora said and stepped forward to peer over the swatch collection on my desk. “What project is this?”
“The waterfront A-frame in Newport. I need drapes for the great room.”
“What’s your budget?”
“No limit.”
She huffed dramatically. “Why do you always get the rich as hell, unlimited money clients? I’m stuck with the Harwicks and their champagne taste with a box-wine budget.”
“You had the Lawsons in Manhattan last month,” I reminded her. Isaac Lawson was richer than King Midas, and his wife, Hannah, had excellent taste. Cora created a stunning nursery for their baby girl.
“Only because you weren’t available.” She plopped onto a chair tucked between two bookshelves, rested her feet on a stack of project binders. The chair—a wingback in ruby velvet—was covered in stacks of fabric, but it didn’t stop her. She used the tile samples on the floor as a footstool and crossed her arms. “I’ll send them a gift once their daughter is born. Clients love that. Maybe they’ll pass my name around their circle. What do you give to people who have more money than God?”
“I’m the wrong person to ask,” I said and turned my attention back to the swatch book in front of me. “You’re the networking magician.”
A sheer shade of Chantilly caught my eye. Perfect. I could imagine the homeowners throwing open the windows and letting the fabric billow in the sea breeze. It wasn’t the heavy beige drapery that the clients had hinted at during our first meeting. Still, I could sell them on it if I installed retractable Phantom Screens and automatic shades.
My fingers flew over the keyboard as I put in the work order for the window treatments. It was one of the last things on my to-do list before I could consider the A-frame done. Once I got that renovation off my plate, I could breathe easy for a day or two.
Preseason rehearsals with the Ladies in Red were about to begin, and I didn’t want to be driving back and forth from Providence to Newport. If Colette asked to see me, it was probably about a new assignment. I checked the clock. There were still a couple of hours to get stuff done before I had to be at the studio.
I grabbed my tablet and iced coffee, then followed Cora to the hallway. We parted ways at her office, and she returned to her work. Her office was so pristine that Marie Kondo would weep tears of joy. Mine, however, looked like a design school had vomited all over the place.
I cut through the break room, snagged a slice of cheddar apple pie from the communal pastry box, and hurried to Colette’s office. Her guard dog and personal gopher, Maddox, was stationed at his desk just outside her door. His gaze barely lifted from his screen. “You have paint on your skirt, Wren.”
Shit. Colette wouldn’t be happy about that. Designers design, Wren, Colette would chide, punctuated with an annoyed huff. Leave the heavy lifting for the subcontractors.
But why let others have all the fun? Doing the heavy lifting myself was far more satisfying.
I gave Maddox a patronizing smile. “And you have a resting bitch face where a customer service smile should be.” I dropped the slice of pie on his desk.
He eyed it skeptically, then pursed his lips. “You know we mortals can’t eat like you do, right? Unlike you, I hate cardio. One slice of pie and my waistline is done.”
I snickered. “I bet you’d have a little more luck wooing the lawyer from the fourth floor if you put a smile on your face. Carbs and sugar make you happy. People like people who don’t look like they’re going to commit murder. It’s science.”
“He’s a divorce lawyer,” Maddox said, eyeing the plate of sugary, apple-y, cheddar-y goodness. He sighed. “I might as well eat the pie. Not like I have a chance when he specializes in failed marriages.”
“Eat the pie and be happy.” I pointed at the door. “Can I go in?”
Maddox waved me into Colette’s office with a flourish of his hand before pulling a fork out of his desk drawer and stabbing the pie.
I crept inside and used my tablet to hide the emerald-green paint streak on my pale pink skirt.
