Chapter 28
I wake up the next morning to a shaft of sunlight that forces its way past the mostly closed bedroom curtains. Sam has left for work already, and I’m alone in bed. The sheets are cool and fresh on my skin. I stretch, relishing the luxury of space, and close my eyes again.
I must doze off, because the next thing I know, it’s an hour later and the sunlight has crept even farther across the floor. If I didn’t work for myself, I’d be super late for work.
After swinging my legs off the bed, I pull on yoga pants and a T-shirt, then head for the kitchen and my morning infusion of caffeine.
I’m excited to get started on my first commercial project, so I end up on the internet until late in the afternoon doing research.
The apartment is so much quieter than our old place in JP that I lose all track of time.
Only once do I notice that I’m in a building with other residents, when the faint sound of a crying baby breaks the silence.
I stand up and pad through the apartment, then open the front door and poke my head out into the hallway.
And then I realize. The crying has stopped, and there’s no TV noise coming from the apartment across the hall. In fact, it’s so still and quiet that I wonder if the old adage about hearing a pin drop might actually be true.
Until my phone rings, the sudden jangle making me jump.
It’s my mother.
I close the door and answer, my heart still racing.
She launches right in.
“Jordan! I was talking to Judy Abelman earlier today, and I think she could really use your services.”
“I’m sorry, who?” I’ve never heard of Judy Abelman.
“She’s a friend of Cynthia Goldstein’s. I think they attend synagogue together. Anyway, I had a lunch date with Cynthia, and she brought Judy along. Nice woman but doesn’t have very good taste. She was wearing this awful jacket that . . . well, that doesn’t matter. I told her you can help her.”
I don’t know who Cynthia Goldstein is, either. “Mom, have you seen the way I dress most of the time? What makes you think I can give this woman fashion advice?”
“Oh, honey, that’s so cute. I’m talking about her bathroom, not fashion. She showed me photographs, and it’s really awful. All pink sinks and tacky brass fixtures.”
“Oh.” That makes more sense.
“She’s leaving for Europe tomorrow—lucky thing. She’ll be gone for two weeks, but I told her you’ll go over there when she gets back and sort it out.”
“What? You shouldn’t have done that before speaking to me.”
“Nonsense. You need the work, and you can’t expect her to use that bathroom the way it is.”
“Heaven forbid,” I reply, not bothering to hide the sarcasm, although I doubt my mother will pick up on it.
She doesn’t. “Wonderful. It’s settled, then. She lives in Chestnut Hill. I’ll text you the details.”
“Wait. I never said that—” I stop myself, realizing that it’s pointless. “Fine, I’ll be there.”
“Good.” My mother sounds pleased. She likes to feel useful in my life, which I’ve come to realize over the years is partly out of a genuine desire to help, but also because she has a controlling streak and isn’t self-aware enough to recognize it.
This has caused us to clash more than once and is one of the reasons I like to assert my independence.
I also find her lack of awareness ironic, considering that my dad is a psychiatrist.
My phone vibrates as the text message comes through. I tell her that I’ve received it, wrap the conversation up, and get her off the phone.
Afterward, I go back to work on the coffee shop project, turning my attention to a task I’ve been avoiding all day because I don’t want to be reminded of my ordeal the previous afternoon.
The photos I took of the furniture in the basement.
I AirDrop them to my laptop and go through the images, then sort them by color, shade, and style, to see which pieces of furniture will work best with my overall design concept.
After that, I head down to the lobby, where I ask Angelo to let me into the future coffee shop.
I spend the next hour taking measurements with an app on my phone, which I’ll use to make a 3D model of the space on my laptop.
After that, I can build out the coffee shop in a virtual environment, play with color palettes and add furniture, then output a 3D walk-through—much like they do on the home reno shows—to give the Glendale’s board a preview of my concept.
I’m so engrossed in my work that I don’t realize I’m no longer alone until a voice behind me says, “Hello, Jordan.”
Startled, I whirl around, a scream building on my lips, even as I see him standing there, watching me from the doorway.