Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Winter
Wednesday morning starts the way most Wednesdays do—early, caffeinated, and moving fast.
I’m at the studio by eight-thirty, already through my first coffee and halfway through my second by the time Maya arrives at nine. The day is packed: a potential client meeting at ten, lunch with another lead at one, and a full afternoon of design work that won’t wait for anyone’s schedule.
“Morning,” Maya says, setting her bag down at her desk near the entrance. She’s efficient as always, tablet already in hand, scanning today’s agenda.
“Your ten o’clock just confirmed. Victoria Hartwell. She’s early, actually—texted that she’s grabbing coffee downstairs and will be up in fifteen minutes.”
“Perfect. Conference room ready?”
“Staged with the mood boards you wanted. I pulled material samples for the palette you mentioned—those warm neutrals with the deeper accent tones.”
This is why Maya is indispensable.
“Great. What else?”
“Lunch reservation confirmed at Le Coucou for one PM. Your one o’clock is Eleanor Whitmore—she’s the referral from the Williamsburg clients. Looking at a gut renovation for a brownstone in Brooklyn Heights. Big budget, long timeline, wants to start in the spring.”
I nod, mentally shifting gears. Victoria Hartwell this morning, Eleanor Whitmore at lunch. Two potential projects, both significant, both requiring my full attention.
“Anything else I need to know?”
“Fabric samples for the Williamsburg project arrived. They’re on your desk. And James called—wants five minutes to discuss the lighting fixtures for the loft’s kitchen.”
“Tell him I’ll call him back after my ten o’clock.”
Maya makes a note, then glances up.
“Also, just FYI—Architectural Digest confirmed the photographer for the West Village shoot. Next month, the fifteenth. They want you there for styling input.”
The West Village brownstone. My first AD feature. The project that’s putting Winter Hayes Design on the map in a way that feels both surreal and earned.
“Got it. Add it to the calendar.”
“Already done.”
I head into my office, scan the fabric samples Maya mentioned. They’re good—the texture and weight exactly what I specified for the Williamsburg loft’s upholstery. I make a few notes, set them aside, and pull up the file for this morning’s meeting.
Victoria Hartwell. Referred by a previous client whose Chelsea loft I designed two years ago.
She’s looking at an Upper East Side townhouse—five stories, original details that need restoration, a layout that hasn’t been touched since the 1980s.
The kind of project that’s equal parts challenge and opportunity.
I’ve seen the photos she sent over. The bones are incredible—original moldings, marble fireplaces, a grand staircase that sweeps up through the center of the house.
But the finishes are dated, the flow is awkward, and the kitchen is a nightmare of outdated cabinetry and linoleum that should have been ripped out decades ago.
My job is to show her what it could be.
By the time Maya appears in my doorway at 9:52, I’m ready.
“Victoria’s here.”
“Send her in.”
Victoria Hartwell is exactly what I expected from our brief phone conversation—early fifties, impeccably dressed in tailored trousers and a silk blouse, the kind of woman who knows what she wants and has the resources to make it happen. She extends her hand with a firm grip and a warm smile.
“Winter. Thank you for making time this morning.”
“Of course. Please, have a seat.” I gesture to the conference table where Maya has arranged the mood boards and material samples.
“Can I get you anything? Coffee, water?”
“I’m fine, thank you. I just had an espresso downstairs.” She settles into the chair, her gaze immediately drawn to the mood boards.
“Is this for my project?”
“Initial concepts based on the photos you sent. I wanted to give you a sense of direction before we dive into details.”
She leans forward, studying the boards with the focus of someone who’s done this before.
The first board shows the entry and main staircase—original details preserved and highlighted, a palette of warm whites and soft grays, modern lighting that complements rather than competes with the architecture.
“This is beautiful,” she says quietly.
“You kept the moldings.”
“Of course. That’s the soul of the house. My approach is to honor what’s already there while creating a flow that works for how you actually live.”
She nods, moving to the second board—the kitchen. I’ve mocked up a design that opens the space to the adjoining dining room, removes the wall that’s currently choking off natural light, and introduces custom cabinetry in a warm walnut with marble counters and brass fixtures.
“You’re taking out this wall?” She points to the rendering.
“Yes. Right now, the kitchen is closed off, dark, disconnected from the rest of the main floor. Removing that wall creates a sightline from the entry through to the back of the house. It makes the space feel twice as large and brings in the natural light from those south-facing windows in the dining room.”
Victoria sits back, considering.
“My husband will love this. He’s been saying for years that the kitchen feels like a cave.”
“It does. But it doesn’t have to.” I pull out a material sample—the walnut I’m proposing for the cabinetry.
“This is the finish I’m thinking for the built-ins. It’s warm, substantial, ages beautifully. Pair it with Calacatta marble and unlacquered brass, and you get a kitchen that feels both classic and current.”
She runs her hand over the wood sample, testing the grain.
“How long have you been doing this?”
“Five years. Started the firm right out of grad school.”
“And the West Village project I saw in the design blogs—that was yours?”
“Yes. That’s actually being featured in Architectural Digest’s November issue.”
Her eyebrows go up, impressed.
“That’s quite an accomplishment.”
“It was a labor of love. The clients gave me full creative control, which doesn’t happen often. But when it does, you can really push boundaries.”
Victoria sets the wood sample down, her expression thoughtful.
“I’ll be honest with you, Winter. I’ve met with three other designers over the past two months. All of them wanted to gut the house completely, start from scratch, turn it into something modern and cold. That’s not what I want.”
“What do you want?”
She looks at the mood boards again.
“I want it to feel like a home. A beautiful home, yes, but a place where my family actually wants to spend time. Not a museum.”
This is the moment. The moment where I either understand a client or I don’t.
“Then we’re on the same page,” I say.
“Because that’s exactly what I design—spaces that look incredible but feel lived-in. Luxury that’s approachable, not intimidating.”
She smiles—genuine, warm. “I think we might be a good fit.”
“I think so too.”
We spend the next twenty minutes walking through logistics.
Timeline: eight to ten months from contract to completion.
Budget: she has a number in mind that’s more than adequate for the scope.
Next steps: I’ll do a full site visit next week, take detailed measurements, develop schematic designs that we’ll review together.
By the time Victoria leaves at 10:47, I’m ninety percent sure she’s going to hire me.
Maya appears as soon as the elevator doors close.
“How’d it go?”
“Good. Really good. She’s thinking it over, but I’d be surprised if she doesn’t move forward.”
“That’s three major projects in the pipeline. You’re going to need to hire another designer,” Maya quips.
She’s right. The workload is building faster than I anticipated. Between the Chens, the Williamsburg loft, and now potentially Victoria’s townhouse, my team is going to be stretched thin.
“Let’s get through this week first. If Victoria signs, we’ll start looking.”
Maya makes a note.
“Your lunch reservation is in two hours. Eleanor Whitmore. Want me to pull comps for Brooklyn Heights brownstones?”
“Already did it last night. File’s on my desktop.”
“Of course it is.” She grins.
“You’re going to be late to your own funeral because you were prepping for a client meeting.”
“Probably true.”
I spend the next hour returning calls, reviewing the Williamsburg lighting fixtures with James, approving invoices, and sketching preliminary ideas for Victoria’s kitchen.
The work is relentless, but it’s the kind of relentless I love—the constant motion, the problem-solving, the building of something from nothing.
By 12:30, I’m changing from my work flats into heels, touching up my lipstick, and heading out to meet Eleanor Whitmore for lunch.
Le Coucou sits tucked into SoHo on Lafayette, the kind of French brasserie that manages to feel both elegant and lived-in.
The dining room is all dark wood and cream banquettes, brass fixtures catching the afternoon light streaming through tall windows.
It’s bustling with the lunch crowd—deal-makers and creatives, the rhythm of Manhattan at midday.
Eleanor Whitmore is already seated when I arrive, studying the menu with the focused attention of someone who takes dining seriously.
She’s early forties, dressed in understated luxury—cashmere sweater, tailored trousers, minimal jewelry that probably cost more than it appears.
Brooklyn Heights energy: refined, cultured, the kind of woman who volunteers on nonprofit boards and hosts book clubs.
She stands when she sees me approach, extends her hand with a warm smile.
“Winter. Thank you so much for making time.”
“Of course. This place is lovely.”
“It’s one of my favorites. The steak frites here are incredible if you’re hungry.”
We settle into the banquette, and a server appears almost immediately. Eleanor orders a glass of Sancerre. I ask for sparkling water—I have a full afternoon ahead, and wine at lunch is a luxury I can’t afford today.