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Colette James was a formidable Asian woman that topped out at five-foot-two. Her jet-black hair stopped just past her chin. She didn’t look a day over thirty, though she was nearing sixty. She credited that to good genes, a militaristic skincare routine, and a glass of champagne with breakfast.
I slid my pumps off and set them on the mat inside the door, per her preference. Slate tiles snaked through the rest of the office, but lush white carpet covered Colette’s office floor. It felt like walking on a cloud. Soft classical music poured through hidden speakers, and water trickled from a small fountain resting on a glass pedestal. Incense burned and filled the air with floral and woodsy notes. Her windows had a near-panoramic view of downtown Providence.
Staring out, I could see the Red Cocks stadium, the brackish water of the Providence River, and an obnoxiously large billboard featuring Gideon Carmichael, the quarterback for the Reds.
Colette looked up from where she filled her glazed porcelain cup with pu’er tea. “Would you like some?”
I smiled politely and shook my head. “No, thank you.” I held up my vat of iced coffee from the Dunkin’ around the corner.
She filled her teacup and sipped it tentatively. “Mmm, perfect,” she said and took another sip. “Hot tea on a hot day cools you from the inside.”
Ironclad logic, but I’d stick with my dunkies. “Cora said you wanted to see me?”
“Yes, a consultation request came in today,” she said, motioning to the tufted chair across the desk. “I’d like you to spearhead this one.”
I sat down and opened our project management software on my tablet.
“The client recently purchased a penthouse downtown,” she continued. “It’s new construction, but he wants a full renovation.”
I perused the notes that had come in from the initial inquiry. Maddox was nothing if not anal about vetting clients. Colette James Design didn’t take on just any project. Although Cora complained about slim budgets, even the most conservative pocketbooks were absurdly large.
During the two years I apprenticed under Colette, I was part of the design team for summer homes in Nantucket for A-list celebrities, Manhattan high-rises for Upper East Siders, and Cambridge brownstones for Ivy League professors. Then, I spent two more years as a junior designer, building my reputation with smaller projects. Now, with three years as a senior designer under my belt, Colette gave me more freedom to fly solo on lucrative assignments.
“There’s no budget listed,” I said as Colette sipped her tea and nibbled on fried peanuts.
She nodded. “Money is no object for this client.”
I scanned the screen again. “And the client is?”
“Mr.Bryant’s assistant is Samantha Fuller. She’s our point of contact.”
I looked up at Colette. “I’d like to meet the client and discuss things with him in person. It’s his house, after all.”
Colette nodded. “Ms.Fuller said that her client is out of town but should be back by the end of the week. She’ll facilitate an introduction.”
Maddox was nothing if not great at his job. There were floorplans and specs already added to the project file. The design project was a two-bedroom penthouse in downtown Providence. It was walking distance from the Red Cocks stadium and my office, which would make life a million times easier during football season.
My knee throbbed just thinking about the upcoming season. Maybe I should have gone with flats over pumps today. Then again, maybe my ACL ached because I’d hauled four boxes of subway tile up two flights of stairs to finish a backsplash. What Colette didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
“Anything else?” I asked, closing out the project management software.
Her eyes flicked down to my skirt, then back to me. “Designers design, Wren. Leave the heavy lifting for the subcontractors.” As if on cue, she let out an exasperated sigh. “But I saw the photos of the backsplash in the A-frame. You did a lovely job.”
“Lovely job” was high praise coming from Colette.
I saw myself out, slipped back into my office, and fired off an email to one of my site managers to ensure we were on track. Samantha Fuller was next on my agenda. I dialed the number that Maddox had put in the file, but got her voicemail.
“Ms.Fuller, this is Wren Porter from Colette James Design. I’ll be overseeing the renovations for Mr.Bryant’s penthouse. I would like to meet with Mr.Bryant later in the week if his schedule allows.” I rattled off the number she could call and included my email for good measure.
I pushed away from my desk and opened the mini-fridge hidden underneath. It was disguised behind a cabinet door I had crafted with scrap wood and spare hardware from a project last summer. I grabbed my meal-prep box and tossed it in the microwave shrouded by paint chips.
Damn, I really needed to clean my office. Unfortunately, spring—well, summer—cleaning would have to be a task for another day. I needed to inhale a few hundred calories before rehearsal. My standard football-season dinner called my name.
I yanked the steaming container out of the microwave at the trill of the timer and stabbed a chunk of steamed sweet potato. I’d be eating the same damn thing for a while. Five weeks of preseason, seventeen regular-season games, a few postseason games, and nothing to look forward to but sweet potatoes, grilled chicken, and brown rice. Hardly a thrilling diet, but a small price to pay.
While we were technically a team of professional dancers, the Ladies in Red were the cheerleaders for the Rhode Island Red Cocks. Few professional cheerleading squads rivaled our reputation for excellence or the Americana of the iconic red boots we danced in.
Cheering for the Reds wasn’t full-time—even at the height of football season. It was challenging to balance my position on the squad with my work at the firm, but the prestige of the uniform was worth it.
I stared at the photos on my desk, and memories flooded my mind.
My rookie year; my second and third seasons; Jewel and I performing during a summer USO tour.
And last season.
The season where everything changed.
My mom. My knee. My ex-fiancé.
“One more season,” I whispered between bites of chicken and rice.
