Suzanne just looks on at me with a puzzled expression.
“I’m Jackie Kittredge, of Interiors By Jackie.” I hastily pull a business card from my handbag.
“Oh, wow!” Suzanne examines the card with a pleased and surprised face. “Kismet, indeed.”
“I’ll be upfront with you.” I lean in in a mock-surreptitious way. “I have some sample projects I’m working on.” I shrug. “For friends. You’d be my first client, but…I’d give you a nice deal.”
I take a fast sip of my coffee in a moment of slight nervousness. This is the first business encounter I’ve had. I was hoping (and expecting) potential clients to just drop into my lap. Now that one actually has, I’m taken aback. Is this really happening? Am I going to blow it?
The jittery nerves are here, because I know, as Lara sagely told me the other night when I bawled about how I was sure I would never get a bite, that nothing is a for-sure deal. I may have simply gotten lucky with Suzanne, because, let’s face it, competition is heavy, and my experience is minimal.
Lara, the career guru, is right. Outside of luck, the work won’t come to me; I have to go to it. Even though I’ve been busting my tail putting out fliers and business cards—working harder than senior year at U Dub when I had to cram for the toughest two weeks of finals ever—running a business is going to be hard work. I’m nervous, I’m scared, but I’m eager to try it out. I mean, what have I possibly got to lose at this point?
With Suzanne here right now and interested, it’s all up to me, clueless and wide-eyed Jackie Kittredge, to take that next step towards my dream. Suzanne could run on about how interested she is in my services and how grateful she is that we met like this, yet she could never call—drop my business card in the trash or leave it to collect lipstick smears and wrinkle about in the depths of her handbag. The fear of that possibility is almost suffocating.
I clear my throat and scoot a little closer, determined to somehow seal the deal.
“I’ve never overhauled a kitchen, but it’d be a dream!” I tell her enthusiastically and honestly. “Or, if you don’t want to start with a kitchen, we could start on any room of yours. It’d be my pleasure. I can see your place, come up with some different design ideas, quote you a price, and I can work with you.”
Suzanne’s eyes focus on my card.
“And, for what it’s worth, I totally get where you’re coming from with the tightwad of a husband.”
Her head darts up, and she looks at me with a questioning face.
I roll my eyes and wrap my hands back around my mug. “My husband and I are separated right now. Not by choice, but what can a girl do? It’s tough.”
Suzanne gives a lifeless shrug, and I blurt out, “Take one step—one room to redesign—at a time.”
Her eyes brighten, and she says, “Well…”
“If you want to do the project yourself, I understand,” I say quickly, terrified I’m going to lose my first shot at a client. “If you wanted to do fifty percent of the work and I the other, say, or have me come in for assistance… Or!” I bounce up in my seat. “I could do one room, show you how it’s done, and you could do the other…”
A grin is growing across Suzanne’s face as I tell her in a flurry my gaggle of ideas.
“You know what?” she says. As I watch her slip my business card into her handbag my heart begins to sink. There it goes, I think. A kind smile, a slip of the card, and burying of this conversation. I have got to figure out how to be a saleswoman. Damn all those disasters working frontline retail—all those opportunities wasted!
Suzanne then slips her reading glasses into her handbag, and when I’m thinking I’ve scared her off for good—she can’t even bare a single second more in this awkward situation—she withdraws a brick-red day planner.
“I like you, Jackie, and I think your friend’s right,” she says. “Fate may have brought us here today—two women in need of some help right about now—and far be it from me, a bitter divorcée, to step in fate’s way.” She clicks her pen and flips about some pages.
“You’re actually interested?” I spit out the first thing that comes to mind. Instantly, I feel like a fool.
Suzanne just smiles, though, and presses the ball of her pen to a page in her planner. “Would you be interested in coming over and taking a look at my home next Saturday?”
Chapter Fifty-Four
“I can’t believe it, Lara! I just can’t!” I shriek into the phone as I pull a thick handful of my design magazines and books from Emily’s refurbished bookshelf. “My first potential client!”
“I am so proud of you, Jackie!” Lara exclaims. “See, what did I tell you? With some patience and hard work—some determination—you could totally do this!”
“Yeah, well…” I heave the stack onto the sofa next to Bella. “You said it would take a while, and this woman just fell from the sky!”
Lara laughs and says that of course my first bite could take a while. She then pours on more wise and attentive business advice.
“And I am so taking you up on that tip,” I tell her. “First thing next week I’m going to look into that staging certificate.”
“Those interior design symposiums, too.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say hurriedly. “All that.”
“And if the entry fee is too steep or if the certificate program is too pricey, I can—”
“Bail me out again?” I cackle.
“Assist. Or call it an investment!”
I find a book about kitchen and bath revamps in preparation for my first potential job and tell Lara she can call it what she wants, but I can’t run to her every time I need help. She’s the one who said that’d be, oh…what’d she call it?
“Wouldn’t that be enabling?” I say.
“Yeah, I know giving you handouts at every corner is like me enabling you and the bad habit. But if it’s for work, and cash is the only thing standing in your way to become certified or trained…to help with your business…”
“It’s no biggie, really,” I say. “Yes, I so need a mani-pedi and spa weekend and just hate the way my nails look. So trailer-park-chipped.”
“Oh, Jackie.”
“And, yes, I definitely miss my cable, but I’ve gotten used to PBS. If I need some spare cash I have plenty more designer things I can hock, and I’d get a wad for them.”
I glance at my Neverfull GM handbag across the room—the one Louis Vuitton item I’d probably choose to keep if worse came to worst, opting to donate a kidney or some vital organ before parting with my most favorite handbag.
“Anyway,” I say, “I’m sure I’ll get much more than I think for my Chanel pumps and coordinating jacket I plan on hocking. Oh! And even these so last-season Louboutins. They kind of hurt my feet, anyway, even though they’re totally do-me-now shoes.”
“Wow!” Lara gasps.
“I know, right?” I giggle. “They so are those kinds of shoes. Total sex-kitten.”
“No. I mean ‘wow’ as in you’re hocking more of your stuff for cash. Damn, Jackie.”
“To buy the new season’s YSL one-of-a-kind trench coat I can’t afford? Absolutely!”
She flaps her lips in an exasperated way.
“Trust me,” I say, paging aimlessly through the illustrative book. “If you saw the golden buttons and slim-waist and back pleats and—”
“I get it. It’s amazing. Your priorities, as much as you’re working on things, Jack, are still a bit skewed.”
“Hey now,” I say in jest. “This is a positive zone. Dr. Pierce wants me to stay positive and work through shit. Positive zone, Lara.”
“All right, all right,” she says through a laugh.
“No need to get your financial panties in a twist, anyway,” I say. “I am also planning on hocking things to help with business and living expenses. And…well…the must-have trenchie is just a little bonus. It’ll be a celebratory bonus for the first client!”
“Okay. Sounds like you’ve got a plan.”
“Because thousand-dollar jackets are a priority.”
“Lara. Be happy for me.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. You’re right. Good job, Jackie.”
“One step at a time,” I say in a peppy tone.
“One step at a time.”
***
For the past few days I’ve spent nearly all my time working on different possibilities for both Chad’s home renovation and Suzanne’s potential kitchen job. It’s still a good week before Suzanne and I’ll meet, and I still don’t know if I’ll get the job, but she did text me the other day saying that she was so happy she met me. She said she thinks we’ll be able to do wonders with her home. If you ask me, that sounds like Client Number One.
As fate or Kismet or luck would have it, I didn’t have to wait long for Client Number Two to fall from heaven and into my lap.
I’m at a nearby hardware shop looking at wallpaper patterns and border options, just in case Suzanne turns out to be a print-type, when I get a call. A big call.
“Interiors By Jackie,” I chime into the phone, remembering in the nick of time not to answer with a habitual, “Hey-o!” or “What’s up?”
I don’t recognize the number and hope to god it’s another potential client.
Please be a client, please be a client, please be a—
“Hello, this is Judy Young,” a mature woman’s voice sounds over the line.
“Hi, Judy. This is Jackie.”
“Hi, Jackie. I’m calling in regards to an estimate.”
Omigod! Omigod!
“I came across one of your fliers and I’m interested in your services.”
Omigod! Quickly, hands shaking, I say, “That’s great!”
I bite my bottom lip a second later, worried I’ve overplayed this one. I want to be approachable and happy to work with a potential client, not overeager, desperate, and in need of some serious cash in twenty to thirty days when my YSL beauty is expected to arrive.
“What kind of services are you interested in?” I ask nervously.
“I’m actually interested in an entire re-design, top to bottom.”
Whoa! I feel like my vision’s gone all fuzzy, my head all dizzy. Did she just say an entire re-design? Top to bottom?
“I’m very eager to have this job started,” Judy says. “So the earliest date you have available for a consult would be excellent.”
Trying to gather my wits—in shock over my good fortune of two potential clients within one week—I tell her I can see her as early as tomorrow morning. “What time will work for you?”
“Whatever time works for you. My day is wide open. Your call.”
“Nine a.m.?” I fish a pen out of my handbag and begin to take notes on my palm.
“Nine a.m. it is,” she says cheerfully. “It’s a new space, very plain and not much to it.”
“All right.” Great! I think. A blank canvas. I can have total license here! And the commission? Unbelievable! “I can definitely work with that. And the address?”
She gives me the address to a home in Lake Union, not too far from Chad’s place, it seems.
“Thank you so much for calling and for your interest,” I say, trying to put my best business face on.
“Thank you for working me in so soon,” Judy says. “Tomorrow at nine, then?”
“Tomorrow at nine.”
Holy crap! I think, staring at my phone once the call ends. This can’t be for real!
I turn back to the wide display of wallpaper borders and reach for a pearlescent and eggshell fleur-de-lis swatch. I can’t believe this…I can’t believe this… The shock just won’t dissipate.
My horoscope was right. When I began to gather research material at Randy’s the day I met Suzanne I also grabbed the latest issue of Cosmopolitan. Minus my YSL stint and my plans to find some way to get a hot stone massage or at least a reflexology appointment booked before the end of the year, I’ve been a good girl on a budget. I’ve refrained from the urge to splurge and buy copies of all of my favorite magazines, something I used to do without thinking about it at all, much less twice.
Of course, that doesn’t mean I can’t leisurely page through some on display over coffee, during a work break. I’m glad I flipped all the way to the end to read my horoscope, though! It said September is my month, and with the stars aligned and in my favor, I shouldn’t be surprised to see some big things happening for me.
***
I’ve decided to wear my classiest outfit today. I’m meeting Judy, my big potential client, in a matter of minutes, and I want to look my best. I want to look professional and serious, like I’m just the right woman for the job!
I’m still so gobsmacked that I have a consultation today. I mean, the girls, Conner, my horoscope—they were all right! A little bit of patience, some time, hope, and a sprinkle of luck, and everything would work out!
I glance down at myself as I shut my car door. I’m wearing a pair of empire-waisted black, pinstriped pants and a ruffly, cream, silk blouse. I considered going with my pair of black high heels to keep with the whole super classy and sophisticated look, but last minute I just had to slip on my refurbished Balenciagas. The bright yellow color and silver studs add in that bit of flair and flash my outfit was missing. I can be all business and professional, but I’m still Jackie Kittredge, colorful as a parrot, with a mouth like one, too, as Emily says.
“You can do this,” I tell myself as I lean down to my car’s side mirror. I check my freshly applied pink lipstick one more time. “You can do this.”
With my Neverfull handbag snug on my shoulder, a note with the address in my hand, I make my way from the parking lot to the sidewalk.
The address is peculiar, my GPS leading me to some location I couldn’t quite reach by car. I parked as close to the address as I could, in a waterside restaurant parking lot in front of a small row of houseboats off to the left. I consider turning left along the sidewalk in search of house number forty-two, but the GPS said my final destination was to my right.
“Forty-two, forty-two…” I walk a few paces along the sidewalk, but when I realize there’s a dead-end ahead of me, the walkway spilling out onto a slope of grass and eventually the water, I stop.
“What the hell?” I look from my left, to my right. I pull down my sunglasses and read over the address and directions once more. “To my right?” I look in that direction. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
Just then I spot a man headed my way. I wave a hand about. “Excuse me! Excuse me!” My sawed-off pumps make chunky clunks against the cement, a very different beat from the sharp click-clicks they used to make.
“Excuse me.” I successfully get the man’s attention, and as I hold out the note for him to look at, I suddenly have a horrifying thought. What if this is a crank call? What if there is no potential client? No house needing a redesign, top to bottom?
“Oh, no,” I gasp, startling the man.
“Something wrong, ma’am?” he asks, looking from the note to me.
“Well.” I swallow, look at the note, and think, Maybe I’m really just lost. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time…
“Can I help you?” the man says.
“I hope.” I hold the note out further. “I’m a bit lost. Can you tell me where this house is?”
“I can give it a try.” He takes the note from me and squints at it.
“It’s house forty-two,” I say, pointing at the number.
“That should probably read S-42.”
“’S’?” I look at the note. “You mean ‘S-T’? As in street, maybe?”
He chuckles and says, “No. Definitely not a street. It’s slip forty-two.”
“Okay. It’s a houseboat, I take it?”
<
br /> He points ahead of him, in the direction I’d just been walking. “With this address,” he holds up the note, “it should be a boat you’re looking for.”
“A boat?” I make a scrunched face. “Are you sure?”
“Forty-two is just three—no—four docks down in this direction.” He motions further forward. “Swing a left, onto the dock, and it should be right along there. Evens on the righthand side.”
“Thanks…” I say in a drawn-out, slightly baffled way.
Looking down at the note. My mind’s completely rattled now. What the hell kind of prank is this? A boat? Judy said she needed a redesign of a new home…
Determined to figure out if I’m being played, I follow the man’s directions. Walking on wobbly ground, my heels, even despite their refurbishing, are not exactly ideal for the knobby wooden dock.
“Slip forty-two? What the hell?” I grip tightly the handle of my handbag, stopping at each boat I pass, looking to my left and right. I can’t spot any numbers anywhere—no evens, no odds. No forty-anything.
“Ugh, honestly,” I mutter, gripping my handbag tighter. I turn around, heading back a few paces, and I search high and low for any sign of an address. I can’t find anything! “This has got to be some sort of a joke!”
Even as I retrace my steps, not a single number pops out at me. All I see is one boat after another, an expensive yacht here, a sailboat there…
I’m about halfway down the dock, almost on my last nerve, when I stop.
Abruptly.
Right in my tracks.
“Omigod,” I breathe, releasing the tight grip on my handbag. Both hands drop to my side, lifelessly. “Andrew.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
“Andrew.” I take in a quick breath, feeling my fingers tremble, my stomach flipping. “Wh—wh—what are you doing here?”
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