LOVER COME HACK

by Diane Vallere

  “Good morning, Delbert,” I replied. I pulled off my right glove and signed the visitor ledger. “It’s cooler than usual for Dallas, but compared to the summer heat, this feels good.”

  Delbert Manning had been the security officer at Republic Tower his whole life. He’d gotten the job when he was twenty; that had been 1970. I’d only met him recently, but my obvious appreciation for the building (and numerous questions about its history) had led him to share stories about the various people he’d seen come through those doors, the business that had been conducted, and the celebrities he’d encountered. When I asked him if he’d made them sign in like I did, he insisted he had. “Rules be rules, Miz Madison. Don’t matter how important you are. That’s the way this whole world works.” He was nearing retirement age but had never once indicated he wanted anything more out of life than to greet the visitors of his building. I admired the pride he took in his work.

  I glanced at the sign-in log and ran the tip of my left, still-gloved index finger down the list of names in the book. When I didn’t see Jane’s, I asked Delbert. “Was Jane Strong here today?”

  “If her name isn’t in the book then she hasn’t been here.”

  “Her secretary told me she was on her way.”

  “Probably stopped off for something to eat at that little coffee shop under the building. She’s always got a cup of joe in her hand.” He shook his head and smiled.

  Delbert was right. Ever since I’d friended Jane a few months back, I’d learned there were two things she always had: her tablet computer and a cup of coffee. You could always tell when Jane had been present at a job site by a discarded coffee cup with a ring of apricot lip color left behind on the rim. You’d think she would have converted to a more long-lasting formula after all this time, but she seemed to view her lipstick stain as a calling card.

  If Jane hadn’t been to the DIDI offices, then she hadn’t yet filed the application to the competition. Despite the obvious confrontation we were going to have when we were face to face, it was worth my time to wait. The application in question contained months of work on a furnished apartment complex. The city of Dallas had become increasingly popular because of its tax breaks for businesses but relocating meant stress. My concept had been to design a small building of mid-century themed apartments available for short-term rentals. I’d first gotten the idea after spending time in Palm Springs, California, where interest in the Rat Pack style attracted people from all over. Jane had scouted a property and we’d pooled our similar visions for the designs.

  “Delbert, if you don’t mind, I’m going to wait for Jane in the lobby.” Delbert looked uncomfortable, and I quickly assured him that I’d be self-sufficient. “Go about your work like you always would,” I said. “I’m going to answer a few emails and return a couple of phone calls. You won’t even know I’m here.”

  “Sure, Miz Madison, go right ahead. If you need anything, you just holler.”

  Just then, a bong! announced the arrival of the elevators. I steeled myself, knowing that bong! might be the only warning I got before seeing Jane face to face.

  I was right. The doors opened, and Jane Strong strode out. Like me, she dressed in vintage. Jane’s vintage was more upscale than mine, and today’s ensemble was no different. She wore a smart burnt-umber skirt suit with a blue and umber paisley-patterned silk blouse. A matching scarf was knotted at the neck in a full bow that was slightly off center. The bracelet sleeve length of her jacket exposed powder blue leather gloves that disappeared under her cuffs. Nude stockings and low-heeled brown pumps finished the ensemble.

  In contrast, under my pink London Fog coat was a brown, double-knit polyester sheath dress. It wasn’t that I didn’t own clothes of the same vintage designer status as Jane did, but that I’d found double-knit polyester to be a convenient choice when working in my storage locker. In short, it had a durability factor unequalled in other fabrics, and I could clean temporary stains with a sponge and liquid dish soap.

  “Jane,” I stood up. “We need to talk.”

  “What are you doing here?” she asked. She held a white takeout cup of coffee in one hand and a brown leather attaché case in the other. “I thought I made it clear in my email that we wouldn’t be working together.”

  “I called your office and your assistant told me you were turning in the design application. That was a joint concept. The idea was mine.” I glanced over my shoulder at Delbert, who was doing a poor job pretending to ignore us. I remembered my promise to be invisible and stepped toward Jane. “What exactly is your problem with me? I honestly thought we worked well together.”

  She shook her head. “Madison, I don’t think you’re cut out to work with others. The idea of you converting that old pajama factory into a shared workspace is laughable. What could you possibly know about sharing? Everybody knows VIP is one big job interview. You need me more than I need you.”

  She pronounced “VIP” phonetically—vip, not V. I. P. It was the shorthand we’d used while working together, a reference to Lover Come Back, one of my favorite Doris Day movies. If she wasn’t in the process of attacking me, I would have laughed.

  I softened my tone. “Jane, I can respect that you want to dissolve our partnership, but there’s a better way to go about doing it than stealing my design. That concept includes a lot of resources from the Mad for Mod inventory, and the only reason I agreed to work together was because I expected to have some say in the process.”

  “I don’t want your idea or your inventory,” she said. She took a long pull on her coffee cup and then deposited the empty cup in the trash bin in the corner. “I have my own plans. This is the perfect opportunity to showcase what I can do. Me.”

  “You’re entering the competition yourself?”

  She didn’t answer my question. “If you want to win, you need to bring it on, Madison. And trust me. I’ve seen what you got and I’m not the least bit worried.”

  See what I mean? This is what happens when you collaborate with a friend.

  TWO

  The last thing I wanted was to stand in the lobby of Republic Tower while Jane spelled out my shortcomings. It was only a matter of time until someone else joined us, either from the offices upstairs or the parking lot below. And what had started out as one problem—intercepting Jane before she filed the application for our joint design—had now become two: dealing with Jane and submitting an application for myself.

  I wasn’t about to back down and hand her the prize. Not now.

  The application for VIP was available to download from the organization’s website, along with a portal to upload the required design concept illustrations. I had the same files that Jane had. We’d shared them via cloud storage. But without knowing what she intended to submit and how much of it might have been pilfered from that original concept, the only true option was for me to start from scratch. And with today being the deadline for application, my chances were already looking less than stellar.

  Instead of continuing the losing verbal battle with Jane, I shifted my priorities. I needed a concept—a new concept—and I needed it fast. “Don’t get too comfortable, Jane,” I said. “I’m every bit the designer that you are.”

  Jane made a show of looking at her watch, a vintage timepiece she wore on top of her long, light blue leather gloves. “I’d like to see what you can come up with by five.”

  I felt around in my handbag for my parking ticket. “Delbert, sign me out, would you? I have work to do.” I left before Jane had a chance to insult me further.

  I didn’t want to waste precious time driving back to my studio. I could access my files from a remote access point. I stopped into the coffeehouse to pick up my own takeout cup of fuel. The owner, Paxton Brannigan, was behind the counter. He was tall and on the fit side of trim. He wore his daily uniform of blue chambray shirt, faded jeans, and black Converse hi-tops, with a black apron on top. His brown
hair was cut short in the back and foppish on top, a style that reminded me of leading men in movies from the eighties.

  Paxton handed a tall white cup to a customer and waved me up to the counter. “Hey, Madison. You just missed Jane. You two planning some big design coup?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “I’m a little short on time and caffeine. What’s the strongest thing you can make in a hurry?”

  He looked at the cups on the counter and spun two so the descriptions of the beverages faced him. “Tall vanilla latte. How’s that sound?”

  “Isn’t that someone’s drink?”

  He opened the lid and peered inside. “Pretty sure they wanted soy milk and to be honest, I was talking to Jane when I made it, so I can’t guarantee I didn’t make a mistake.” He winked and handed the cup to me. “Don’t worry. I’ll give the other customer a free scone.”

  “Great,” I said. “You didn’t happen to make it a doppio, did you?”

  “You’re pushing your luck.”

  I paid for the beverage and left. The Dallas Public Library, only a few blocks away, had computers available with a valid library card. It would be faster to walk than drive, so I left my car in the garage and called Effie on the way.

  “Mad for Mod,” she answered.

  “Effie, it’s Madison. I’m not going to be back at the studio for a couple of hours.”

  “Are you okay? Did you see Jane?”

  “I don’t want to talk about Jane. We have”—I checked my watch—“five hours to submit a proposal for the VIP competition. I’m headed to the library to work on the application, but I need access to that inventory you’ve been working on.”

  “I thought Jane submitted the application.”

  “I don’t want to get into that right now. Let’s just pretend there is no Jane. It’s me.” I corrected myself. “Us. Mad for Mod. We have as much going for us as anybody else does, but we can’t win if we don’t enter.”

  “But the deadline is tonight. You’ve got plenty of time.”

  “I’m not taking a chance on someone saying our application didn’t arrive. Jane submitted hers in person and so will I. The DIDI office closes at five and I intend to have our application stamped ‘accepted’ before then.”

  “Don’t you need a property? The collaboration with Jane used her building, right?”

  “Right. But this is round one of the contest. We have to submit a concept to be approved by the vetting committee. As long as we stick to designing whatever we say we’re going to design, there’s flexibility in the choice of properties.”

  “What are you going to submit?”

  I thought over what I remembered about the design requirements. “We need to hit three points: interior design, exterior design, and one renovated element. I’m going to stick with furnished apartment rentals. Every unit will be different. We’ll turn one unit into a common room for residents to use—that’ll be our renovation. I can design mid-century apartments with my eyes closed, and frankly, this is not the time to bite off more than I can chew.”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “Get me the login credentials for your inventory. I’ll call a realtor for a list of available properties. Might as well keep things in the neighborhood.”

  “Okay!” Effie sung out. She was peppy and enthusiastic, exactly the combination I needed. “It’ll take me a couple of minutes to reconfigure the sign-in so we can both work on it at the same time.”

  “That’s fine. It’ll take me a couple of minutes to sign on to a computer.”

  “Remember to use your phone as a hot spot instead of using the library internet. It’s more secure and way faster.”

  “Got it.”

  There was something about having a twenty-four-year-old employee that made me feel young and old at the same time. Effie pushed me to modernize the way I conducted my business. She respected my design aesthetic and promised me that she would never suggest something that undermined the decorating values I was committed to maintain. Learning her new systems kept me feeling plugged in (no pun intended) while also letting me see just how much existed that I didn’t know about. She wasn’t the best salesperson in the world, but what she lacked in natural customer service, she easily made up for in organization, shortcuts, and dedication. If she would come to work in something other than yoga pants, I’d make her employee of the month (a distinction formerly held by my Shih Tzu, Rocky).

  I called Kip Bledsoe’s office on my way to the library. Kip was the local real estate agent who handled many of the commercial properties in the Lakewood/White Rock Lake suburb of Dallas. In the past I’d worked with a different agent who had recently retired. Kip was on the board of directors of the DIDI, which I hoped would work in my favor.

  Kip’s receptionist put me through to his service and I left him a message. “Kip, this is Madison Night. I’m a local designer. I’m interested in acquiring an apartment building.” I paused to more closely focus on my needs. “A vacant apartment building.” I left my phone number and hung up.

  I arrived at the library and set up camp at an isolated computer lab. I switched on the hotspot on my phone, bypassed the library internet and connected to mine, and downloaded the design competition application from the DIDI website. I completed it quickly. When I signed into my email, Effie’s instructions were waiting for me. I logged into her inventory portal and filtered the results she’d entered until I reached a desirable outcome.

  I spent the next several hours completing my application, mocking up the required concept files using online design software, and building a digital mood board to round out the vision. I worked much better with a sketch pad, scissors, fabric, and a glue stick, but if ever there were a time to relent to Effie’s push toward technology, this was it. At quarter after four, I clicked print and retrieved my files from the vacant librarian station. I bundled back up in my coat, scarf, and gloves and returned to Republic Tower, stopping briefly at the CVS on the way to purchase a report cover for the documents to make them appear a little less last-minute. I climbed on the first available elevator. I had twenty minutes to spare, and even though I had to pee like nobody’s business, nothing was going to stop me from turning in the application before five.

  Twenty-three floors up, I exited the elevator and entered the clear glass doors. In front of me, a receptionist sat behind a curved white laminate counter. I gave her my biggest smile. She held up an index finger and turned her head to the side. “No, Mr. Rose. Not yet. I know he said he would. I can stay for five more minutes, but I have to pick up my girls from their soccer game. I’ll lock up when I leave. Of course. I’ll let you know.” She pulled her headset off and tossed it onto the counter in front of her. “Sorry to keep you waiting. The boss has been particularly high maintenance today. Can I help you?”

  “Yes. I’m Madison Night from Mad for Mod. I’m hand-delivering my application for the VIP competition.” I held out the tan folder. “The requested materials are inside.”

  She took the folder and set it next to a stack of professionally bound reports that made mine look like a sixth grade “How I Spent My Summer” essay. The report on top of the stack had a brushed steel cover with a die-cut rose in the center. Below the flower was the name Sterling Webster.

  Sterling Webster’s name wasn’t unfamiliar to me. I’d never met the man, but he was legendary in mid-mod worlds for his blatant disregard of the style we all adored. The year before I’d inherited a house for the low price of the annual taxes, he’d flipped a property on my street, destroying the building’s humble integrity, and netting a cool half a million-dollar profit.

  “Are those the other applications?” I asked.

  “Those are the ones that were dropped off. Some came through the portal. Gerry asked me to print and bind the materials so everything would be neat and organized.”

  “Gerry? Do you mean Gerry Rose?” I l
ooked into the offices to try to catch sight of the man I knew by name only. “Head of DIDI, right? Is he going to look over the applications tonight?”

  She studied me for a moment, her lips pursed, and then, as if I’d passed some sort of secret assessment, she relaxed her expression. “Let me guess. You don’t trust technology and you’re here to make sure your application was received.”

  “Something like that.”

  “You’re not the only one. I’ve met more local designers today than I knew existed and everybody wants five minutes with Gerry Rose.” She tipped her head toward the stack. “Most put more effort into the packaging than the concepts. I bet half of those haven’t even secured the rights to the buildings they’re proposing to renovate.”

  I thought about Jane’s proposal. If she’d gone with what we’d discussed, our concepts would be remarkably similar. But if she’d used a different design, then nothing would stop me from pushing forward with what we’d planned all along. If only there were a way to see her entry—

  “I can’t,” the receptionist said.

  “You can’t what?”

  “I can’t let you see anybody else’s proposal.”

  “Was I that obvious?”

  She smiled. “You’re not the first. The boss’s ex-wife just offered me fifty dollars to look the other way while she went through the submissions.”

  “But you couldn’t.”

  “That’s right. I got the feeling she was looking for someone specific. Of course, you’re a little subtler than she was, but rules are rules.”

  Just like Delbert. In a world that seemed to reward rule breaking more and more each day, it pleased me to know there were still people whose bad behavior couldn’t be bought. Especially since I already knew Gerry Rose’s ex-wife was Jane.

  Jane had spent more than half of her forty-eight years in a marriage built on security, not attraction, to one of the most successful architects in Dallas. Post-divorce, she was enjoying the perks of being newly single, something I knew because of the night she’d called me in tears. I’d picked up two gallons of ice cream and went to her house thinking she’d been hit with a wave of post-divorce regression. Turns out she was crying over a new lover. She’d expected too much from a rebound relationship and he’d broken off their affair. Any details I knew about their fling came without his identity. A true friend knows when it’s more important to listen than to pry.