Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Renata
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I whispered while sitting in a meeting with my new boss and a few other designers.
There was no way this client could get away with such a thing.
I looked around the conference room, spotting my co-workers leaning into each other and whispering as they looked at me with judgment.
I wished my best friend, Vicky, was here to commiserate with me.
But she was in San Diego and I was in Italy about to lose my mind.
“As I was saying,” Mr. Lamont grumbled, the lines in his forehead deepening, “the Escambia Villa is technically under the Italian Heritage Protection rule. Our Brazilian clients didn’t know this when they purchased the home.”
“But that isn’t our fault. That should’ve been disclosed by the seller, yes?
” I asked, tapping my foot, trying to stay calm.
I’d worn my favorite crimson dress that made me feel confident, its bodycon style fitting me perfectly, paired with my black stilettos.
I loved dressing like the fierce woman I was.
One who never backed down from a challenge.
“That is correct, Renata, but unfortunately, it wasn’t. When the contractor started removing plaster from the wall in question, underneath was a hidden 18th-century fresco, something I would’ve hoped you’d be on top of.”
I gasped, unable to hold it back. Was he trying to blame me for this? Unbelievable, yet very on par for this man.
“But I told the contractor that particular wall was not to be touched yet until we confirmed it wasn’t load-bearing,” I said defensively, trying not to panic. My silk blouse started to feel too tight.
“Well, he misread the plans and started early,” Mr. Lamont said, looking dismissively at me like I was lying.
He rubbed his forehead, making his awful hairpiece shift.
Normally, I would savor this moment so I could recall it for a good laugh with Vicky, but my gut was telling me I was in serious trouble.
“What are the plans to unearth the rest of the fresco, sir?” I asked, sitting up in my chair, my leg I’d had crossed dropping down with a thud as my heels hit the marble floor.
“None. The contractor unknowingly damaged a part of it, and right now, we are in discussions with the heritage organization to see the best way to handle this.”
I blew out a heavy breath and shook my head. “What are our clients, well, my clients, saying about this? They didn’t return my calls this morning.”
His mouth thinned to a hard line. “They don’t want to work with you anymore, Renata. You’re being pulled off their remodel.” My heart stuttered to a halt, and I rubbed my chest absently.
“What?” I screeched. “How, how is that possible? Surely they can’t hold me responsible.” My heart was racing, and so was my mind. Never in the four-plus years I’d been an interior designer had a client ever essentially fired me.
“Unfortunately, they are holding you responsible. Listen, you’re a good designer. But this is out of my hands. Local officials are up in arms about the damage, and your clients are calling for you to be fired.”
“Fired?” I yelled, standing up in defiance. “You can’t be serious.”
Mr. Lamont and his family had bought the design firm I’d been working for in Tuscany and renamed it, Lamont Designs. He had only taken over about a year before, and to say we didn’t exactly see eye to eye was an understatement.
We argued over design ideas, the quality of materials, and nearly every other aspect of the jobs I was assigned.
He cut corners whenever he could, which never sat well with my work ethic and reputation.
Not to mention, I brought in more clients than anyone else, yet he treated me with contempt from day one.
I believed he was threatened by my success. But this? This was not going to happen.
“I’ve decided that I’d give you a second chance,” he said with a tone that smacked of pity. It took everything in me not to roll my eyes. “But I do need to have you, ah, well, go away for a bit.” His little T-rex hands actually did the shooing motion. He was moments from being throttled.
“Go away?” I parroted in a low voice, trying to control my anger. The whispering around the room increased, and I wanted to tell them all to grow up.
“Yes, think of it,” he said, brightening up like he was about to sell me one of those rundown villas for a euro in some obscure village in Italy. “Think of it like a vacation.”
Taking a step closer to him, my fist clenched so I wouldn’t rip that stupid hairpiece off his fat, bald head.
“I don’t want to take a vacation. Put me on another project.
This one took up so much of my time preparing for, I haven’t been able to take on another one.
” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Please.”
It was the first time I’d ever begged him, but desperation was clawing at my throat.
“I can't do it, I’m sorry. If you're caught working, things will only get worse for the firm. I can’t afford to let you keep working and lose what I’ve built.”
Ugh. What he’s built. Was he serious? He bought a turnkey, thriving business.
The success since then was mostly due to my hard work.
But I’d seen that stance on this ridiculous man before.
The same man most clients begged to be taken off their projects.
His feet were wide, planted like a statue, arms crossed over his bulbous belly. He wasn’t going to back down.
“How long?” I asked, all my fight had bled out of me.
“A month.” His bushy caterpillar-like eyebrows raised, ready for my pushback. He knew me well.
“A month,” I scoffed. “What am I supposed to do for a month? Am I going to be paid?”
“Yes, out of the goodness of my heart, it will be a paid vacation. But I’m warning you, Renata, if I see you in this office, I will fire you on the spot.
Take a trip. Sleep in late. Do whatever you young people do.
Just don’t come back until the first of July.
Understood?” he grumbled. He spoke as if I were a child and not a successful twenty-nine-year-old woman.
My eye was twitching, as was my mouth, ready with a retort. I could reduce this man to a sniveling pile of goo with my words alone, but I knew this wasn’t a battle I was going to win. Our intense stare-down lasted longer than expected until I finally admitted defeat.
Nodding my head slowly, I said, “I will see you on the first of July.”
The other designers breathed a collective sigh of relief.
They’d seen me go up against our boss before, and it was never pretty.
Knowing they had a month free from my reign as top designer, they probably would’ve started cheering if our boss hadn’t been so stern.
Nodding at my coworkers as their pitying eyes followed me out of the room, I grabbed my purse from my desk drawer, placing my laptop and a few design books into my leather laptop bag.
With all the dignity I could muster, I walked out into the sunny Tuscan day. The weight of what had just transpired hit me as I slid into my tiny Fiat 500.
“What just happened?” I whispered to myself as I started my car, my breathing increasing.
It was barely ten in the morning, but Italian summers were brutal.
Pushing my thick, curly hair off my neck while the AC started to cool the car, I tried to hold back the panic.
The humidity was going to be a problem for my unruly locks, but they were the least of my problems.
Pulling away from the older building that housed Lamont Designs, I bit my lip to keep the tears from flowing.
When my phone rang and I saw Vicky’s name, the tension in my shoulders eased slightly. The loneliness I felt was never more evident than when she called, reminding me of how much I missed her.
Answering it with my Bluetooth connection, I said with a shaky voice, “God must’ve told you I needed you.”
“Whoa, whoa, amica. What happened?” she asked, worry in her voice.
“Vicky, oggi per poco non mi licenziavano.” The tears were flowing too hard for me to drive, so I pulled into a nearby parking lot and parked.
“What? What do you mean they almost fired you today, Ren? You’re the best designer that sorry excuse of a boss has,” she said, ready to do battle on my behalf. If she didn’t live in San Diego, she probably would’ve come to help me throttle the man.
Wiping my tears, I recounted what happened moments earlier, her gasps reminding me how bad this was. This was no doubt going to hurt my stellar reputation in Tuscany.
“Ren, listen to me. He’s not going to fire you. You make too much money for him, and he needs it to keep replacing his horrible hairpieces.”
My watery laughter rang out in the small car. She knew how much I needed it. As a fellow interior designer, she understood what was at stake, too. Your reputation was everything in this business.
“Grazie, amica. I’m so worried, though, Vicky. This could ruin my career,” I cried, checking my now-running mascara in the rearview mirror. “The only good thing is he’s going to pay me while I’m gone. Won’t be the same as a commission, but something is better than nothing, I guess.”
“Okay, well, that gives us more options.” I could almost see her brain working. Finally, she said, “Listen, this is what you’re going to do. Since he’s going to pay you, you can swing this. Plus, you should have a ton of miles from flying here for my wedding.”
“What are you talking about?” I sniffed and wiped under my eyes.
“Get on a plane and come spend the month with me,” she said excitedly. I could almost see the wheels turning in her head. I made good money at the firm, but transatlantic travel and lodging in California were astronomical.
“No way. You and Miles have only been married for six months. You’re still newlyweds. I’m not going to stay with you guys. Not happening,” I said firmly.