AOL has big plans for his future. Francesca’s words slithered through Mel’s mind like a king cobra. Will’s job was also taking an upward turn toward the stars. So even if they did get back together, how could it possibly work? He couldn’t leave Washington and she certainly wasn’t about to return. Not when her career was taxiing down the runway of success.
The Hotel Rico was going to be Mel’s launching pad into the stratosphere of big-time decorators. The research, travel, and creative time involved would leave no time for working out romantic relationships. Melanie could not afford to squander this opportunity by letting anything or anyone get in the way. Nor could she ask Will to do the same.
She sat down at her computer and signed on to America Online. There was absolutely no point in trying to rekindle a relationship that could never work. She proceeded to compose and send her message to Will, uninviting him to the christening and asking him to understand.
Mel crawled into bed, her earlier euphoria evaporated and gone, replaced by a heavy and lonesome melancholy. As the tears snuck down her cheeks, Melanie pulled the sheet tight around her chin, swaddling herself like a newborn. Maybe, once her professional dreams came true, her personal ones would follow.
As Melanie strolled through Carlson and Tuck’s model shop, her thirty-inch strand of vintage black pearls swung from side to side, keeping time with her heart, which was pounding with nerve-racking intensity. Mel glanced around with admiration at the dollhouse-sized trophies of John’s work. There were buildings and hotels she recognized and some she’d actually stayed in. She sighed, feeling a mixture of respect, pride, and nagging anxiety weighing on her.
The thought of working so closely with John Carlson concerned her. Although she was no longer fearful of the man, the pressure to produce for this architectural demigod was tremendous. John had handpicked her for this coveted assignment and Melanie was eager to please him and prove herself worthy of his demonstrated faith in her abilities. The time had come for Mel to live up to the incredible potential that people, including herself, always claimed she possessed.
Melanie knocked softly on the open door. Talking into his telephone headset, John looked up from his drafting table and smiled broadly, gesturing her into the room. While he finished up his phone call, Mel took the opportunity to inspect his new work space. Unlike the stuffy conservative décor upstairs, this space was light, airy, and sparsely appointed. Next to his wooden drafting table stood a desk topped with a computer and a pile of art and architectural books fringed with fluorescent Post-its marking items of interest. On the opposite side of the room was a sand-colored leather couch and glass coffee table topped with two large silver jacks. Above the sofa hung a large canvas of female faces, displaying the same unique style and earthy color palette of the work hanging in John’s upstairs office.
“Melanie, welcome,” John said, stepping down from his stool to greet her. “You certainly look nice,” he said admiring her slim, pink wool skirt, brown leather jacket and high-heeled boots.
“Thank you.”
“So how do you like my new office? Does it pass muster?” John asked, feeling boyishly awkward.
“It’s definitely an improvement, and you get extra points for the jacks.”
“You like jacks?
“I don’t just like jacks. I rule at jacks. Mr. Carlson, you’re looking at the jacks champion of Page Elementary School,” Melanie revealed with a chuckle.
“Come sit,” he said, laughing and pointing her toward the sofa. “Can I get you something?”
“No, thank you, I’m fine, and thrilled to be working with you on this hotel. You’re making my dreams come true.”
“Then I guess we should get down to work,” John said, trying to hide the fact that her comment pleased him immensely. “I’ve got to warn you that this might get pretty intense. We only have a few months before we make our presentation to the clients.”
“Not a problem. One question, though. Why are you bringing me in so early on in the project? Aren’t the building plans usually further along before you bring in the interior designer?”
“Usually, but this project is a bit different. Unlike the large resorts we usually build, this is a boutique hotel in South Beach, Miami. There will be only twelve rooms and two penthouse suites. I want to go to the owners with a unique concept that is unlike anything else they’ve seen down there,” John told her. He was satisfied that his explanation sounded totally plausible. There was no reason for Melanie to suspect that he’d taken this job hoping that by stepping away from simply overseeing company projects and concentrating on actually producing something himself, he could jump-start his own creative batteries.
“Why are we deciding this? Don’t the owners already have a concept?”
“The only way I would agree to take on the project was if I had total control from concept to finish,” John explained.
Melanie’s eyes grew wide with complete awe. What power this man commanded. By reputation alone he could inform savvy businessmen how he intended to spend their millions, and they acquiesced, knowing that an investment in John Carlson’s genius was well worthwhile.
“Then I guess we’d better get down to some serious brainstorming,” Mel said, standing up to remove her jacket, revealing a pink, body conscious silk T-shirt. John was struck by the graceful sensuality of her innocent movement.
“So I suppose we start with exactly who is the preferred clientele. With a name like the Hotel Rico, or Rich Hotel, I’m assuming we’re not talking Holiday Inn crowd.”
“No, we’re talking wealthy businessmen, celebrities, rock stars, models, each spending eight hundred to fifteen hundred a night.”
“Well, for that kind of money they’ll be expecting luxurious accommodations.”
“One would think, but not necessarily. South Beach is all about trendsetting gimmicks.”
“And art deco,” Melanie remarked.
“We need something different.” John had done his homework on the area, carefully checking out the competition, measuring their strengths and weaknesses. Unbeknownst to Melanie, he had unsuccessfully been racking his brain trying to come up with something special to wow his clients. But he’d quickly shot down every concept conceived for being too contrived, too hokey, or too unoriginal.
Melanie began to pace the room and John studied her. She glided across the floor like a dancer, gracefulness in her stride, intensity in her face, as she processed her ideas. “We’re going about this all wrong. It’s not about the hotel, it’s about the guests,” she decided aloud. “John, you’ve built and stayed in some of the finest hotels in the world. What do you look for?”
“Comfort, elegance, something that feels familiar but different.”
“Doesn’t sound hip and trendy to me.”
“I guess I’m too old for neon-lit elevators and communal dining tables.”
“My point is hip and trendy has already been done over and over down there. So why not provide guests something elegant but modern, artsy but…” Melanie stopped in midsentence as her eyes fell upon the canvas of painted faces above the couch.
“Artsy but…?”
“Pablo Picasso once said, ‘Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.’”
“And?”
“And outside of business, why do folks check into hotels? To escape everyday life.”
“I’m not sure I’m following you.”
“Why not build a hotel-cum-gallery that showcases the amazing array of international art?” Mel suggested.
“It’s too subjective. One man’s work of art is another man’s garbage. It would be too difficult to get a consensus,” he stated, playing devil’s advocate.
“Which is exactly why we mix it up with African-American, Haitian, and Hispanic art, abstract, modern, classic—span the entire spectrum!”
“Go on,” John prompted. He could see the spark behind her eyes that fueled her creative process, and it intrigued him.
“Maybe the
public spaces exhibit the classic reprints of the masters like Picasso, Renoir, and Monet, while each room could be a miniature gallery displaying the work of world renowned contemporary artists. You know—the Diego Rivera/Frida Kahlo Bridal Suite, the Lois Mailou Jones Suite, the Andy Warhol Suite. The décor for each room would be designed around the artwork, but it wouldn’t be cold and sterile like a museum. Each room would be warm and full of texture—exuding the sensuality of the art.”
“The building could also carry out that sensual theme—lots of curved, soft lines, materials that beg to be touched,” John thought aloud, his wheels beginning to turn at full speed.
“Original pieces by local artists could be displayed in the restaurant. And we’d have a sculpture garden on the roof and an outdoor studio adjacent to the pool. The hotel could hire someone to teach art lessons,” Mel continued to brainstorm.
“Even the bottom of the pool could be a print,” John suggested, getting caught up in Mel’s contagious enthusiasm.
“The Swimming Pool,” they both cried out in unison, recalling the paper cutout masterpiece by Henri Matisse.
“Melanie, this is a great idea. Better than great, ingenious.”
“We’ll call it the Casa de Arte,” she suggested, her grin broad and unrelenting.
“Perfect. This is going to be a world-class hotel when we’re done, and you, Ms. Jax, are going to be a highly sought-after designer.”
She could only smile and try to contain the excitement bubbling up inside of her. Melanie’s instinctive reflex was to give John a big, grateful hug, but concluding it would be unprofessional, she opted for a handshake.
They both smiled as their eyes and hands touched. For the brief moment, he and Melanie stood, connected by sight and touch. The energy exchange was palpable. It shot around the room like a lit fuse, igniting the vulnerable edges of their mutual admiration. John’s grin narrowed as his eyes took in her appealing bronzed loveliness. The woman was truly talented, and with him as her mentor and her as his muse, who knew what professional heights they could reach together?
Melanie nervously bit her lower lip before gulping slightly and willing herself to break their powerful magnetic gaze.
“Well, I…`uh,” she managed to stutter. Her words were halted by the unprovoked flow of black pearls dropping from her neck and spraying across the sisal rug. “How bizarre. I wasn’t even touching them. Oh, well, what can you expect from fifty-year-old beads?” she remarked nervously after reclaiming her hand.
“Kinetic energy,” was John’s simple explanation as he got down on all fours to help Melanie pick up her beads. “The power of positive energy is a force to be reckoned with.”
They scurried around the floor in silence, both picking up pearls while contemplating what had just occurred between them. Deep in their individual thoughts, neither heard the tap on the door, nor focused on the presence of John’s secretary until she let out a surprised and bewildered gasp, followed by uncontainable laughter.
“You two look like a couple of preschoolers on an Easter egg hunt,” Gale said with a chuckle.
John smiled as he looked up from the floor, his shirt pocket full of pearls, his heart full of wonder. The exchange of energy between them was indeed real and John could not help pondering the question: If investigated further, could this force between them be harnessed into a positive flow that would enrich and benefit both their lives?
Chapter 6
Send Instant Message
STILLWILL:
Hey, where have you been hiding? I’ve been watching my buddy list like a hawk waiting for you to sign on.
LOLLIEPOP:
Hi Will. So AOL is really an alias for “Big Brother”?
STILLWILL:
Very funny. How are you, Candace. How’s life in the Big Apple?
LOLLIEPOP:
Great. The case I’m working on is a bear, but I’m handling it. But why waste time on me when you’re really interested in how my roommate is doing?
STILLWILL:
For the record, Counselor, I am interested in how you’re doing too. I really appreciate you helping me out like this.
LOLLIEPOP:
What are friends for?
STILLWILL:
You’ve been Mel’s friend much longer than you’ve been mine. It’s got to be hard for you to spy on her like this.
LOLLIEPOP:
I like talking with you. Secondly, I don’t consider myself spying on Melo. I’m just keeping you in the loop while she’s getting herself together. She’ll thank me for it later when you two are back together.
STILLWILL:
So how is she?
LOLLIEPOP:
Up to her silver hoops in work and loving every minute.
STILLWILL:
Sounds like she’s working a lot of late nights.
LOLLIEPOP:
To answer the question you’re not asking: Yes, she’s too busy with work to have much of a social life. The little she does have revolves around me.
STILLWILL:
So, no new boyfriend on the horizon?
LOLLIEPOP:
I was wondering how long it was going to take for you to ask outright:-). Don’t worry, your girl seems to have neither the time nor the interest in anything remotely related to a love life. I think she’s just scared and confused right now. Give her some more time. I’m sure she still loves you.
STILLWILL:
My girl. Thanks for that little piece of hope. By the way, do you remember my friend Griffin Bell? You met him at the engagement party.
LOLLIEPOP:
Vaguely. Why?
STILLWILL:
He’s scheduled to be up your way soon.
LOLLIEPOP:
And I should care because?
STILLWILL:
Because I was going to suggest to him that he give you and Mel a call when he gets in town, but given your reaction…`maybe not.
LOLLIEPOP:
I’m sure Melanie can entertain him by her lonesome.
STILLWILL:
Give him a chance. He’s a cool brother. I have to run to a meeting. Thanks again, Candace. You’re a special friend.
LOLLIEPOP:
I feel the same about you. Talk soon.
STILLWILL:
’Bye.
“The wings
of a butterfly
create the wind
and the movements
of a starfish
make mighty waves
as I glance
at your lips
I can only imagine
the aftermath
of a single kiss.”
As the words softly tumbled from his lips and were swept up by the enthusiastic ears of the crowd below him, Griffin Bell smiled. As if donning a luxurious Russian sable, Griff wrapped himself in the cheers and whistles, the applause and admiration of his appreciative audience. He loved this moment when the show was over and he stood onstage holding the imagination and desires of his listeners. It thrilled him to know that for whatever brief period of time he commanded the rapt attention of the audience, he was providing them a welcomed diversion from life’s realities.
This was why he performed. It wasn’t about the money. God knows when it came to his bank account, the demands of others far outweighed his supply. No, Griffin performed for the love, both given and received. While up on that stage he had the power to fill their heads and hearts with fancy or fury, whatever the role required. And when it was all over, the rush of love that came his way was addictive. It was a rush he had yet to find in the arms of any woman or in the promise of any illicit pharmaceutical.
“Thank you,” Griff mouthed to the throng of female patrons as he stepped offstage. He wound his way through the crowd toward Melanie and Candace, his progress slowed by the constant clamor of delighted women, mesmerized by his magic and pushing for more personal attention.
Candace, dressed in a tight black leather dress and high-heel pumps, sat at the table with the aloof
confidence of a dominatrix. The only contradictory clue to her agitated emotional state was the constant swing of her foot as she watched the attention being doled out to Griffin. Instant reflex caused Candace to suck her teeth and roll her eyes.
“Can you believe how desperate these heifers are?” Candace remarked to Melanie. “This is a ladies-only poetry night, not an evening with the damn Chippendale dancers.”
“Can you blame them? He’s got that DiAngelo meets Seal thing going for him. Plus he’s smart and talented. That combo package doesn’t come around every day.”
“Whatever.” Despite her nonchalance, Candace was impressed. Ghetto-fabulous or not, the boy obviously had skills.
“Don’t tell me he didn’t get to you too. Look at you bouncing that foot up and down, dangling that CFM pump like fish bait. You do that whenever some man gets you fired up.”
“Yeah, well, if I am fired up it’s not because of Rhyming Raymond up there, but because Frank was supposed to pick me up an hour and a half ago. This shit is going to cost him. In fact, just this afternoon I saw this gorgeous David Yurman ring. It will go perfectly with my bracelet,” she said, admiring Frank’s last apology wrapped around her wrist—links of heavy silver cable ovals with an eighteen-karat gold clasp.
“So you’re telling me you don’t find Griffin attractive at all?” Melanie asked, choosing to ignore the unending saga of Candy’s floundering relationship.
“I’ll admit the brother is fine and he’s got game, just not in my league,” Candy concluded. “Like the song says: ‘You gotta have a J-O-B, if you wanna be with me.’”
More like a W-I-F-E, Melanie thought but didn’t repeat. After all these years, she still couldn’t understand Candace’s penchant for dating married men. Couldn’t understand it and certainly didn’t condone it. While Candy claimed it kept life simple and allowed her to enjoy the benefits of intimacy without the hassles of marriage, from Mel’s point of view it brought her friend nothing but certain grief and loneliness.
“What about potential?” Mel asked.
“What about it? If a man over thirty doesn’t have it now, he’s never getting it. At least not here. I’m thirty-four years old. Life’s too short for me to wait for some broke-ass scrub to play catch-up.”
Hitts & Mrs. Page 6