Chapter 19
Catherine leads me through the lobby to a corridor that runs behind the mailroom, and we arrive at a nondescript door. She removes a key from her pocket and unlocks it, then ushers me inside.
At first, we’re surrounded by darkness, but when Catherine reaches out and flicks a light switch, I see that we’re in a long, mostly empty space with dark herringbone floors, yellow plastered walls with white wainscoting, and a coffered ceiling.
A counter occupies the wall to my right.
A slab of dark oak, nicked and scuffed by the ravages of time.
Wide shelves in front of a mirrored backsplash line the wall behind it.
Frosted glass wall sconces illuminate the room at intervals.
Tall bay windows flank double doors set into the far wall.
Although the glass is covered with paper, I can see the glow of a streetlight beyond.
We’re at the front of the building, which means that those doors lead directly out onto the street.
“What is this place?” I ask, my thoughts shifting from Kalina and her interest in my fiancé.
“Originally, it was a gymnasium for the tenants of the apartments above,” Catherine says.
“John Putnam, my great-grandfather, wanted to distinguish the Glendale from tenement buildings in areas like the North End, low-income apartments built in the eighteen hundreds, mostly to house immigrants. As such, he wanted to offer a luxury living experience. That’s why the Glendale had a dining room, a library, and a telegraph office so the wealthy residents could conduct their business with ease.
And, of course, the gymnasium, which was an unusual feature back then.
Apart from the library, most of the other spaces have been converted into either storage or apartments. ”
“But not this room?” I ask, curious.
“No. The gymnasium didn’t last long because it turned out that no one had much interest in using it.
Go figure. After that, the road frontage was added, and the space was rented out as retail.
It stayed that way until the 1980s, when my parents, who owned the Glendale at the time, decided that having a storefront here was more trouble than it was worth.
In the years since, it’s mostly been used for storage.
There was talk about turning it into another apartment, but that never came to fruition because of its location, narrow footprint, and small square footage. ”
“And now?” I wonder why Catherine is showing me this room.
“Now we wish to use it again. Letting this room sit idle and unloved is a waste of resources, so the board has given approval to convert the space into a coffee shop and use the profits to supplement the maintenance fees of the building’s tenants. What do you think?”
“I think it would make a great coffee shop.” I step deeper into the room, run a hand along the counter, which is thick with dust. The wood beneath is smooth and varnished, a lustrous dark oak.
When I glance back toward Catherine, I notice a faint line of dusty footprints across the floor.
My footprints. Clearly, no one has been in here for a very long time.
Catherine is studying me with folded arms. “Care to elaborate?”
I study the room, take in its untapped potential.
The interior designer within me takes over.
“This counter is gorgeous. It would make it a great focal point. Clean it up, get some furniture in here to reflect the Glendale’s historic charm—antique sofas and comfortable chairs, maybe some old café stools.
Hang the walls with vintage metal signage and retro advertising mirrors.
You could turn this into a really unique space. ”
“Or you could,” Catherine says. “Want to give it a go?”
“Seriously?” Her offer takes me by surprise.
“Yes. It’s a perfect arrangement. You live right upstairs, and we’d prefer to work with one of our own.” Catherine joins me at the counter, leaving a second set of footprints in the dust covering the floor. “Unless you’re too busy with other clients, of course.”
“No. I’m not busy . . . I mean . . . I’d love to do it.” The words practically tumble from my mouth in my haste to accept her offer. I’ve never designed a commercial space before, but there’s no way I’m turning this down. An actual, real client who didn’t find me through my parents.
“Wonderful. There’s a board meeting tomorrow afternoon in the library. I know it’s short notice, but perhaps you could come along, and we can talk about it. Maybe give us your thoughts on how we should proceed.”
“I can do that,” I tell her enthusiastically.
Tomorrow afternoon is short notice, but it’s not like I have much else to do.
Hillary is my only other client, and I’ve gone about as far as I can with that project until she approves my suggestions for the fixtures in her bathroom.
And I already have the germ of an idea forming from my first impressions of this room.
“Then it’s settled. We’ll see you at two p.m. We can discuss your fee then, too.”
“Sure,” I say, wondering how I’m ever going to figure out what to charge for this job.
It’s a commercial contract, which will probably have a bigger budget than the projects I’ve been doing for my mother’s friends, but I’ll also be working for the same people who approved our application to live at the Glendale, and they might expect a steep discount.
As if reading my thoughts, Catherine says, “We’d like to keep the renovation budget tight.
Every dollar spent is a dollar we’ll have to make back before we show a profit.
But that shouldn’t affect your design fee.
We wish to create a welcoming, warm space for our patrons.
As such, your expertise will be the most important factor in the success of this venture. ”
No pressure, then, I think to myself.
“And now, we should return to the party. Sam is probably wondering where you’ve gotten to.” Catherine looks down at her empty glass. “And I believe another drink is in my future.”
I follow her to the door, glancing back one more time at the empty room, imagining what it would look like with the changes I’ve suggested.
At least, until my gaze settles back on our footprints—proof of how long this room has sat empty and unloved.
And then it hits me. If the Glendale’s board members are so keen to convert this space into a coffee shop, how come no one has ventured in here before today?
Because if they had, there would be more sets of footprints on the dusty floor.
I ponder this for a moment, almost ask Catherine about it, but then I realize how ridiculous that would sound.
Instead, I turn and hurry to catch up with her, reminding myself that this is a huge opportunity, and not to blow it.