Chapter 42
Jessica
When Jessica stepped into her office two days later, issues with the Buchanan project required her immediate attention. An installer had made a wrong measurement in Atlanta, and a set of barstools arrived in a state of disrepair and had to be sent back. Jessica dove right into it, feeling as though she were swimming against a current. The morning passed quickly, and she ate some soup and half a chicken salad sandwich while she worked at her desk through lunch.
The old Jessica would have downed a venti frappuccino and a donut by now. She realized that she didn’t even crave those things anymore.
Jessica clenched her teeth as she went over estimates. She loved the challenge, but it was turning out to be so damn hard, the entire project. The main problem was that she needed to hire a bare minimum of six new crews of installers to get things off the ground in the various cities.
She also needed to hire a new designer as someone had left to go on maternity leave and then didn’t return. She called one possible recruit she’d found on LinkedIn. “Hi, this is Jessica from Chandler Interiors. I saw your resume and . . .”
“Well, actually,” the woman said. “I’ve already found something and—”
“You have?” Jessica couldn’t contain the disappointment in her voice. This person had looked like a great prospect. Great experience, great recommendations, the works.
“Yes.”
Jessica chewed her lower lip. “Well, if you know of anyone else, please contact me, will you? We’re hiring immediately.”
“Will keep you in mind.”
Jessica hung up and sighed. She spent the rest of the afternoon on the phone, calling around, trying to find installers. Finally, she found a crew: Pedro Rodriguez and Son. He was in charge of ten crew members, and their reviews were very good. He provided solid referrals.
“When can you start?” she asked with desperation in her voice.
“Tomorrow, if that’s okay,” Pedro said. “We just finished a job in Savannah, and we’re ready to roll.”
“Thank you! Thank you so much!” Relief washed over Jessica. It was an answered prayer. “That’s exactly what I need.”
And then, at the end of the day, even better news: another payment from Buchanan into the Chandler bank account, close to ten thousand dollars. This would be one of twenty-five installments on the Atlanta job alone. So much money! Studying the numbers, excitement raced through her veins as she leaned back in her throne. She stared out her window, viewing the Parthenon, her model of quality, her place of peace. Relax. Relax. This is going to work. This is going to work.
A few minutes later, Helen buzzed her with a phone call on line two. Jessica picked up, and the man’s voice sounded young and smooth, reminding her of a TV announcer’s. “Ms. Chandler?”
“Yes?”
“This is Bryan Buchanan.”
Ah, the son. He was soon to take over the entire company, as his father was getting ready to retire, Paul had told her, having talked things over with Mr. Buchanan during one of their training sessions.
“I have good news for you.”
“Okay,” Jessica said warily.
“Our corporate office has been given the go-ahead to expand your project. We’ve procured a tie-in with several Hilton hotels, and”—he cleared his throat—“we’ve decided to go ahead and give you the green light for these jobs as well. We like the work you’ve done so far, and since you’re already in our system,” he went on, “no bids would be required. So can you do an interior design of their entire lobbies in four more cities? These are in the northwest in Oregon and Washington.”
A thrill ran through her. Really? More work! More money! Yes. Of course. This was turning into a national account. Her name in the industry would soar. Jessica Chandler, winner of the Buchanan Project, a massive deal throughout the entire Southeast, and now the Northwest too. Interior designer extraordinaire. She envisioned her face on the cover of trade journals. Her senses felt heightened, and an adrenaline rush made her hands tingle. It was wonderful.
“What do you think? Can you handle it?” he asked.
“I’ll have to see the specs,” she said tentatively. “And we’d have to discuss the timeline.”
Bryan answered quickly, “We’ll send over the specs and the pricing ASAP. You’ll see that it’s a very lucrative offer. We’ll need you to begin working on it within two months.”
Two months?
“Get back to me as soon as possible,” he said. “Take your time, but remember, we’re on a strict deadline.”
He’d hung up before Jessica could say anything else. She ran a hand through her hair and felt her throat go dry. A corporate aphorism if there ever was one: Take your time, but we’re on a strict deadline.
Could she handle it? She called Helen into her office and told her the news.
The office manager sat down heavily in the chair opposite Jessica’s desk. “Lord, Jess, are you sure we’re not biting off more than we can chew?”
The phone rang. Jessica reached for it, but read the caller ID first. Miles Smithson. Just seeing the name was like a stick of dynamite going off in her stomach. At least it was only one half of the hard-to-please couple on the phone this time. But still, what did he want? She sat up, preparing to face the music.
“Hello?” she said when she answered, trying to sound calm and professional and patient, though, at the moment, she couldn’t stop her right leg from bouncing up and down.
“Jessica! Miles Smithson here. How are you?” He always sounded so upbeat, as if the cure for cancer had just been discovered, like, today.
“I’m well, Mr. Smithson. You?”
“I just wanted to call and tell you that we’ve decided at last! Big news, huh?”
“Big news?”
“Yes, yes! We’re going with the nickel pull cabinet handles after all. It’s a definite!”
“Why, that’s marvelous,” Jessica said, trying to match his optimism. “And what about the flooring? Indian hardwood, right?”
“Yes, absolutely on that too!”
This was good. They were making progress.
“Should we set up a time to go over the final estimates?” She needed to put this baby to bed before the end of the century.
“There’s just one more thing.”
She suddenly craved a mint mocha. Maybe she’d get Helen to—No way. She couldn’t go there. She had to stay strong. She took deep breaths.
“Yes?”
“We’re thinking about doing the theater room in scarlet and tangerine. What do you think?”
Jessica started quaking within. Dammit, no! They’d specifically decided on the royal blues.
“The order is already in, I’m afraid. You’ll be paying twice over if you change your mind now.”
Mr. Smithson spoke confidently. “Money’s not an issue.”
But scarlet and tangerine? Really? It was gross. Despicable. Why not go with frickin’ chartreuse?
Jessica took a deep breath, closed her eyes. Finally, she managed to speak, her voice warbly, trying to be as polite as she possibly could. “I really and truly think that you’re far better off with the blues, Mr. Smithson.” She was doing everything in her power to control the shakiness in her voice. “You see, it’s the best for your situation because—as I said before, remember—your theater room merges with the lighter blues in your den, so scarlet and tangerine would be a definite, unmitigated clash.” You idiot. “And, honestly, Mr. Smithson, since you tend to change your mind so often, it’s difficult to trust scarlet and tangerine—two colors neither of you have ever been interested in before.”
“You know, Jessica.” He paused. “I do see your point. I really do. Hmm . . . Let me talk to my husband. It’s definitely something to consider.”
“I’ll be waiting to hear back,” she said.
Ending the call, she rose from her throne. “I need air, Helen. I’m going outside,”
“Bring your coat. It’s cold out.”
Helen was right. The air was cold, but trees were starting to bud. Birds sang in the distance, likely getting ready to embark on their journey south. Gray clouds hovered above. The whole thing gave Jessica a sense of panic. Out of nowhere, a butterfly fluttered around her, circling her, and she smiled. Surely, butterflies hung around even less than birds, flapping those gorgeous wings, darting from bush to bush with the attention spans of gnats. If you tried to pursue a butterfly, good luck.
Jessica looked around, up at the gray sky and then toward the stately Parthenon. Winds were blowing hard, fluttering the leaves on the tall trees. Winds of change? Soon she wouldn’t be too dissimilar to the birds. Having to travel all the time for the Buchanan project. What if she wasn't able to juggle all the work, the travel and a partially long-distance relationship?
Her stomach felt like it was being pulled together by wire.
She meandered to the park. The Parthenon rose before her like some giant being from the past, so out of place in today’s world, yet still so stoic and resolute. Surely, the ideals of the Parthenon would stand long after the flighty need-it-now urges of capitalistic America were dead and buried.
Uncertainty swirled through her. She knew Paul was home today. He’d told her he was taking a day off—self-care. He was definitely a believer in it. She had to see him and talk the whole thing over.