Sharon heard the electric door rise and John’s Lexus slowly back down the gravel drive. She poured herself another cup of Earl Grey, tore open a packet of Equal, and watched the white powder slowly descend into her cup and dissolve into the hot liquid. She picked up the lemon wedge and squeezed so hard that a lone seed popped loose from the pulp and flew across the table. This morning’s discussion with her husband, like every other conversation they’d had about moving, had left her feeling as steamed as her morning cup of tea.
She had agreed to sell the house and move, but Sharon refused to let John rush her. She fully intended to spend one last Christmas in her home. If that meant postponing Realtors and contractors or taking her time to find the perfect decorator, so be it. In Sharon’s view, the longer it took to move, the greater the chance that John might change his mind.
The phone rang and before answering Sharon waited long enough to send a wish that it not be John calling from his car. Relief came when she heard Gwen Robinson’s perpetually cheerful and soothing voice over the receiver.
“I was about to hang up. I just called to see if we were still on for lunch in New York tomorrow.”
“Of course. Let’s meet at Restaurant Aquavit on West Fifty-fourth Street. We can eat lunch, and then head over and hit the sale racks at Bloomie’s,” Sharon said, attempting to replace the exasperation in her voice with cheer.
“Sounds like the perfect day. Veni. Vedi. Visa. I came. I saw. I did a little shopping.”
“Gwen, you and your greeting card philosophies.”
“That should have at least evoked a chuckle. You okay? You sound upset,” Gwen remarked, concern coloring her voice.
Sharon was once again amazed by her friend’s ability to read her emotions so well. It was a knack she’d had since the two had met nearly twenty years ago when they both worked for John’s fledgling architectural firm. She could picture Gwen now standing in her home office in Montclair, New Jersey, her face painted with genuine worry.
“John and I were just talking about the apartment. He wants to move in by Christmas.”
“How do you feel about it?”
“I want to spend the holidays here in my home.”
“Did you tell John?”
“Not in so many words.”
“You know, my friend, you’d be a lot happier if you’d simply say what you mean and mean what you say.”
John sat back in his chair and thought about his earlier conversation with his wife. On the drive into his office he’d realized that he’d been wrong to try and push her into moving before the holidays. Sharon adored Christmas in Stamford. It was selfish of him to ask her to give up her Yuletide pleasure, especially when she was still so lukewarm about moving at all. He would agree to wait until the renovations and decorating were finished before they moved in, but John had every intention of spending springtime in Manhattan.
John hated the idea of taking Sharon away from the home she loved, but he was desperately hoping that this major reorganization in his life would somehow shake loose the growing malaise he was experiencing. He had been honest about feeling burned out, but, wanting to protect his wife from worry, John did not mention that his fears were compounded by the recent loss of two major projects, a new theme hotel in Las Vegas and a hotel/spa in Singapore. Both had been awarded to lesser-known firms with fresher ideas. Additionally causing concern was the company’s slippage from number three to number ten on the list of the top fifty firms, and the fact that heading toward the fourth quarter the firm’s projected yearly revenue was down by approximately one-third.
John’s mental monologue was interrupted when his secretary buzzed, reminding him of his next meeting. His domestic life was pushed to the back of his mind as he strolled the opulent office space that housed the international headquarters of Carlson and Tuck. When he and Milton Tuck merged companies, neither had any idea in a short fifteen years they would carry a global employee roster topping two hundred and be among the two most sought-after architectural visionaries in the world. The award-winning partners specialized in the hospitality market, designing and overseeing the construction of some of the most luxurious and talked-about hotels, resorts, and restaurants frequented by the world’s rich and famous.
When Milton insisted on retiring two years ago, it was this impressive reputation that brought on a flurry of offers from other companies to buy or merge with Carlson and Tuck. Instead, John bought Milton out, leaving the company name intact. It was now up to him to make all the important decisions that would ensure that their legacy would grow and flourish. But lately John was feeling the pressure of running Carlson and Tuck solo. He just didn’t seem to care as much as he knew he should. Maybe Milton had had the right idea after all. Perhaps it was time to sell the company and retire.
And do what? he queried as he entered the boardroom and greeted the group of ten employees assigned to the Vogue Belize hotel. With a price tag of $85.8 million, including the firm’s ten percent fee, it was the largest and most pressing project presently on the firm’s drawing board. John took his usual seat at the head of the large conference table. Before beginning the weekly Tuesday staff meeting, he took a moment to view the scale model of the impressive hotel. John usually loved seeing his projects in this three-dimensional state. But now all the models were based on other people’s ideas—mostly his young staff. Downstairs, in the design shop on the fifth floor, each basswood-and-chipboard mock-up was preserved as a diminutive representation of his life’s work. Lately John found himself sitting among them and reminiscing about easier times when all he had to worry about was translating his blueprint conceptions into concrete realities.
“Morning, folks, how is everyone? Good,” he said, acknowledging the group’s affirmative nods and smiles. “Let’s get down to business. What’s doing with the Vogue? Have we resolved the zoning issue?”
“City officials and the client seem to be pleased with our compromise and I’m anticipating the final go-ahead this week,” Austin Riley, the project manager, reported.
“Great. Now, with approval pending, let’s move ahead with interior design. Where do we stand on finding a replacement for Total Image Design?”
“The response to the pitch requests has been damn near one hundred percent. Not many firms are willing to turn down an opportunity to attach their names to Carlson and Tuck, even if it does mean coming in after the project is well under way,” Austin reported. “We’ve narrowed it down to four firms and we’re scheduled to hear presentations beginning next week,” he said, handing John a list of names.
“Whose this BenAlex Group? I’m not familiar with their work,” John admitted.
“They’re the outfit who designed the lobby bar at Tribeca Royal,” architect Dianna Powell said.
“Trendy bars are a world away from a huge resort hotel. I think size and experience matter here,” John commented.
“They have a real freshness to their work. I think it’s worth listening to what they’ve got to say,” Austin said.
“My instincts tell me otherwise, but since you’ve already extended the invitation, we have no choice. What’s next?” John asked.
“The owners have boosted the budget up to twenty-eight million on the Hotel Rico in South Beach. They really want us to take on the project and would like an answer by month’s end,” Austin informed the group.
“Pass. Carlson and Tuck stopped doing boutique-sized hotels years ago.”
“It could be fun,” Dianna suggested. “A chance to get really creative.”
“Not interested,” John insisted. “Anything else?”
The group spent the next forty minutes going over additional firm business before adjourning. While his team dispersed and cleared the room, John lingered behind, staring at his reflection in the window. He had just turned down almost three million dollars in revenue for Carlson and Tuck. Three million dollars. A huge price to pay for being bored.
Chapter 4
Melanie sat in the lobby area
of Carlson and Tuck, nervously twisting the silver chain around her neck and trying to retain the serene and positive feelings from her morning meditation. She still couldn’t believe her good fortune at being asked to sit in on this major presentation. Even though she wouldn’t be speaking, she’d gone over each detail of every room, just in case anyone asked her a question. She’d dressed sharply too, figuring even if she just flipped presentation boards, she’d make a good impression. Her boss had told her that the BenAlex Group was up against some stiff competition and their firm’s experience was not what it should be for a job of this size. It was a coup that Carlson and Tuck had even given them the chance to present their ideas. Melanie was thrilled to have the experience of presenting to such an important client.
She crossed her legs and accidentally kicked over her large black portfolio case containing the presentation boards. It fell to the floor with a dead thud. According to plan, she’d brought all the necessary materials from the office and was to convene with her boss Paco and his assistant, Alisa Scott, at the meeting site. As she reached down to retrieve the case, Melanie checked her watch for the sixth time in ten minutes. It was 2:56. Four minutes before they were scheduled to begin the firm’s most important presentation to date, and the senior partner was nowhere to be found.
She heard the ding of the elevator and anxiously turned around, hoping to see Paco Benjamin walk through the glass doors. Instead, a young woman exited the elevator and treaded in the opposite direction.
“Excuse me, Ms. Hitts, there’s a call for you,” the receptionist informed her. Melanie reached over to the table at the end of the leather couch and picked up the phone. She said hello and in return heard the frantic voice of Paco’s design assistant.
“Melanie, it’s Alisa.”
“Do you know what time it is?” Mel asked, trying to remain calm and keep the volume down on her voice. “Where are you guys?”
“At the hospital. Our cab was in an accident.”
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay, just banged up my knee pretty bad. Paco hit his head on the Plexiglas divider. He’s seems to be okay. The doctor is in with him now, so I guess we’ll know for sure soon.”
“Ms. Hitts, they’re ready for you,” the receptionist interrupted. Melanie smiled, held up her index finger in acknowledgment, and continued talking. She hoped that the stress she was feeling within was not displayed on her face.
“They’re calling me,” Mel informed Alisa. “Maybe we should just postpone this until Paco or Whitney can be here. Or how about Jude?” she asked, referring to the firm’s other designer.
“Can’t. It’s now or never. Carlson and Tuck made it very clear that they are in a hurry to hire someone, so all presentations must be made this week. Paco says just to wing it the best you can.”
“Tell him to feel better. You too. And Alisa…”
“Yeah?”
“Say a prayer. I could use a little help.” Melanie hung up the phone, stood, and nervously smoothed out the front of her gray silk shantung dress. She picked up the portfolio, her tote bag full of tile, fabric, and paint samples, took a deep breath, and steadied herself on her favorite shoes—burgundy patent-leather pumps with stiletto heels. No comfortable kicks today. She always wore high heels to important events. Physically they lifted her diminutive five-foot-one frame up to a more womanly elevation, while psychologically they quieted her lifelong short person complex, making her feel confident and powerful. Cinderella knew the deal. Never underestimate a great pair of shoes.
Mel followed the receptionist down the hall into an empty room dominated by a large conference table. At this moment Mel felt like a walking Calvin Klein ad for Contradiction perfume—apprehensive yet excited, confident yet petrified. While thankful she’d boned up on the material last night, she hadn’t anticipated carrying the entire presentation on her own. But opportunity was knocking and Mel refused to deny it entry. You can do this, she assured herself.
Alone and uncertain where to sit, Melanie walked toward the empty easel standing near the head of the table and began preparing for her demonstration. She opened her tote bag and neatly created several small heaps of stone tile, metal fasteners, and other materials chosen by Paco and Whitney. Next she unzipped the portfolio case and sat the boards on the easel’s shallow ledge, only to have them slide off and scatter all over the floor.
Mel quickly gathered them up, checking to see that the carefully attached fabric swatches, sketches, and photos were still firmly in place. She had just managed to restock the easel and temporarily settle her nerves when the members of the Carlson and Tuck team entered the room.
“Hi, I’m Austin Riley, and these are my colleagues, Dianna Powell and Trevor Kensington.”
“Melanie Hitts,” Mel responded, enthusiastically shaking hands and hiding her uneasiness behind a vivacious smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“We were expecting three people. Is the rest of your team here?” Austin inquired.
“I’m afraid not. Unfortunately, Paco Benjamin and Alisa Scott were in a traffic accident on their way over. It was fairly minor, just a few bumps and bruises, but they are both still at the hospital being checked out. We understand and appreciate your time constraints on this project, and thought it best that I go ahead with our presentation.”
“Great. John Carlson will be joining us in a minute, so why don’t you get comfortable?” Austin suggested.
Keep it together, Mel commanded herself as she took a seat. Mel had been prepared to speak to the Carlson and Tuck team, but not the legendary John Carlson. She settled into the cushy leather chair and glanced across the table, only to find a distressed look on Dianna Powell’s face.
“Perhaps you’d like to sit—” Dianna began. Before she could finish her sentence, John Carlson, preceded by the strong exhilarating scent of Cerruti 1881 cologne, sauntered into the room. His displeasure at having to attend this meeting was only slightly masked. Thank goodness this was the last presentation. He had a throbbing headache and the thought of having to listen to one more perky interior decorator wax on and on about the magnificence of minimalism or the triumphant return of opulence repulsed him.
John greeted his employees with a brusque nod before walking toward the head of the table. Immediately Melanie understood the disturbed look on Dianna’s face. She was sitting in the boss’s chair.
“John Carlson,” he said, stopping in front of her.
“Melanie Hitts,” she replied nervously as she vacated his seat.
John sat with uncommitted intent. Melanie couldn’t read his face for any clues. Was he amused or irritated by her error?
“I was just explaining to the others, Mr. Carlson, that due to an unforeseen emergency, my colleagues are unable to join us. Well, I guess that’s a bit redundant, as what is an emergency but an unexpected event?” Mel said, nervousness causing her voice to break slightly. Shut up, you idiot. You’re rambling on like a fool.
“So your firm sent, who…a design assistant?” John asked in a tone that straddled the line between amazement and appall.
“No, Mr. Carlson, I am a fully accredited interior design professional,” Melanie informed him, unable to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “Perhaps you saw my work featured in the latest Interior Design magazine?”
Granted, she’d only left the ranks of design assistants two months ago, but who did this man think he was to question her credentials and the appropriateness of her presence? Was it because she was black? Mel was well aware that being African-American made her an unfortunate anomaly at this enormously lucrative level, but wasn’t Carlson savvy enough to realize that underexposed did not mean underqualified? Melanie hated to go to that nasty, negative racial divide, but sometimes, with some people, you simply had to wonder.
“I knew your name sounded familiar,” Dianna piped in. “John, Melanie’s room for Kips Bay was the talk of the industry.”
“I stand corrected. Please continue, Ms. Hitts,” John said
dryly as he sat in his chair, massaging his temples.
“Thank you,” Melanie began, forcing away the thought of going upside this rude man’s head with her shoe. “On behalf of the BenAlex Design Group, I’d like to thank you for inviting us to present. We’re honored that such a well-known and universally respected company as Carlson and Tuck is interested in the ideas of a relatively new firm such as ours.”
“Exactly how long has your firm been in business?” John queried.
Melanie searched her memory for the answer, only to come up blank. She didn’t want to lie, as this information was far too easy to confirm. “Close to four years,” she fudged.
“Hmm,” John murmured impassively. “And how many design professionals are employed at your firm?”
“There are two partners and two designers, myself included.”
“I see. Do you have any idea how large a job this is, Ms. Hitts? We’re talking about a three-hundred-and-ten-room hotel, plus twenty-three suites and dozens of other public rooms. What makes you think that a company of your size could handle such a job?” John’s challenge came to the amazement of the others in the room. Lately he’d been irritable and distant around the office, but they’d never seen him quite so combative and discourteous to an undeserving stranger.
“Frankly, Mr. Carlson, though there may indeed be three hundred and ten rooms, the fact is that you’re really only conceptualizing a single design schematic. The other three hundred and nine rooms will be identical. A talented design firm of one could handle that,” Melanie retorted, all the while wondering why this man was riding her so obnoxiously.
“And if I might also add, it seems obvious that the caliber of work we’ve become known for, despite our relatively small size, has caught your discriminating eye. After all, your company did invite us to present our ideas.” Melanie punctuated her last statement by pressing her lips together in a defiant and challenging smile.
Hitts & Mrs. Page 4