Chapter 6 MJ #2
I pry myself from my bed of self-pity and arrive at MJ Designs a little after 9 a.m. Monday morning. It still makes my heart skip a beat when I see the sleek sign bearing my name out front because it took me so long to get here.
I’d left my first design job when I was eight months pregnant with Lindsey, ready to immerse myself in stay-at-home mom life. Cloth diapering, making homemade baby food—I wanted to do it all.
That lasted for all of five minutes before I realized I didn’t have time to take a shower, let alone pin a diaper on a wriggling infant, with only four hours of sleep and one measly cup of cold coffee that had been microwaved into oblivion.
As much as I loved being home with my children, part of me yearned to get back to work.
I scratched the itch by turning our home into something ripped right out of Southern Living magazine.
Then, when Lindsey was a senior in high school, one of her friends’ moms saw the inside of our house for the first time and wanted to know who my decorator was.
I helped her redo her living room, and she was so pleased she told all the ladies in her book club about me.
The great thing about small southern towns? People talk.
“Hey, MJ.” One of my favorite young designers, Gabriela, greets me with a blue folder clutched in her hands no sooner than I walk through the front door. Her brow is furrowed, and her face is drawn as though she might burst into tears. “Do you have a second?”
I place my arm around her shoulders. “Is everything all right? Is your mama okay?”
“Yes, she’s fine. It’s nothing like that,” she says. “It’s just that I have the Stratford presentation this afternoon. My graphics are ready, but I’m so afraid they won’t like it.”
“What? Why? I saw those slides you sent me last week before the break. They’re some of your best work.”
“Thank you.” She manages a faint smile. “But I don’t know if they’ll agree once they see the hand-renderings I did. They’re kinda…well, trash.”
“They most certainly are not.” I narrow my eyes at her before adjusting my glasses and taking the folder from her hand. “I can tell you that without even looking at them.”
The drawings are filled with vibrant swaths of color, sharp angles, floor-to-ceiling windows, and built-in bookshelves, all dotted with plush furniture and unique accents.
I remember how insecure I’d felt when I finally dusted off my old sketchbook all those years ago, only to find I was practically a dinosaur.
Designers were all using computer-aided design software that resembled some sort of high-tech video game.
People were less impressed by seeing my portfolio and more drawn to 3D models showing how their spaces could be transformed.
At first, I barely charged for my work because I’d been out of the business for so long, I didn’t feel like I was a real professional.
Then, one night over dinner, Henry asked when I would quit putzing around and start charging what I was worth.
The next day, I converted our bonus room into my very first office.
Sometimes, all it takes is one person to believe in you.
“They’ll love it,” I say.
Her eyes light up. “You really think so?”
I nod. “You’re going to knock their socks off. I just know it.”
With my stamp of approval, she breathes a sigh of relief.
“You’ve got this, okay? Don’t sweat it.”
“Thanks, MJ.” Her forehead smooths, the stress melting from her deep golden skin. “I really appreciate it.”
“Anytime,” I say. She heads back to her desk, and I soak in the sunlight pouring through the windows as I work my way through the building.
It’s an open space with the exception of my private office and a conference room, but even I have a workstation amongst the other designers. It contributes to the collaborative environment we’ve all established together, with Ellie and me leading the charge.
Seven years after rejoining the workforce, when the demand for my services increased beyond what I could handle alone, I brought on Ellie, who worked out of my original home office with me.
I loved her so much that I set her up with my son.
By the time Ellie and Ben got engaged, I’d hired two more designers, and things were getting a little cramped.
So when I turned fifty-two, I opened my dream office in a quaint blue house tucked away on a side street of downtown Loving that had been zoned for commercial use.
“Morning!” Ellie is already waiting for me when I enter my office, her tailored red suit popping against her fair skin.
Often, there’s some weird sense of competition between mothers and the women who marry their sons.
In fact, many women I’ve known over the years can’t stand their daughters-in-law.
But I never felt that way with Ellie. I love her as though she were my own, and our family is better because of her.
After my Henry died, it was mostly Ellie who kept things going at work while I waded through the never-ending waters of grief, rarely able to make it to the office.
“I got you a latte.” She’s propped against my desk with a cup of coffee from The Southern Bean that I already know contains my favorite toasted praline latte with an extra shot of espresso.
Ellie is thoughtful like that, but the eagerness on her face tells me this cup of coffee carries a little more weight.
It’s a peace offering—a hope that we can work together without any of the tension from Thanksgiving.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” I say, kissing her on the cheek, a wisp of her blonde hair tickling my nose. “By the way, I’m making your favorite pumpkin cheesecake for dessert Sunday.”
I spoke with Ben and his sisters last night, just as I promised Rose. Though, I suppose it wasn’t really an apology so much as it was me calling and pretending everything was fine and asking what they wanted for our weekly dinner. But that’s just as good as saying sorry, right?
“That sounds amazing,” she replies.
“How were Noah and Emily this morning?” I ask, placing the coffee on my desk and hanging my coat behind the door. “Ben said you put the tree up Saturday because they were hounding you to death.”
She chuckles. “Oh, they were. They’re so excited.”
I move to my desk and take a seat in my purple velvet office chair. “It’s fun, isn’t it? Seeing Christmas through their eyes?”
“It is,” she says, sitting in one of the tufted chairs opposite me. “Especially now that they really get what’s going on. I loved their first Christmases, but now it’s extra special.”
I sigh, remembering what those holidays had been like in our home.
“Actually, there’s something I want to ask you.” There’s the slightest quaver in her voice.
“Sure. Is everything okay?”
“Oh yes,” she replies, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her jacket. “It’s just that the kids mentioned Mistletoe Fest coming up next weekend. They saw a sign for it when we went to the store yesterday, and they asked if we could go this year. And I was thinking maybe we could all go as a fam—”
“No,” I say, cutting her off, immediately regretting my sharp tone.
“It would mean so much to the kids if—”
“I can’t do that, Ellie. I hope you understand.” I press my lips into a firm line.
It’s selfish. Silly, even. But the last time I went to that festival, I faced the worst tragedy of my life. My entire world was upended and shattered into millions of tiny little pieces that night, and I can’t bring myself to ever go to the last place I saw my sweet Henry alive.
Her face falls, taking my heart with it. “Of course.”
“But you should still go,” I insist, forcing a smile. “Maybe afterward, you can all come by for some hot chocolate?”
“Sure,” she concedes, her voice small.
“So, has Lindsey said anything else about the firefighter?” I ask in an attempt to change the subject.
She shakes her head. “Not since Thanksgiving.”
Rats. I can’t help the face I make.
Okay, maybe I was asking because I actually wanted to know.
“It’d be nice to see Lindsey get back out there, wouldn’t it?” I ask.
Ellie gives me a polite nod. “It would,” she says, rising to her feet. “Well, I should get to work. I have some emails I need to catch up on.”
I know I’m like the Grinch, Ebenezer Scrooge, or some equally awful holiday fun-hater, but I can’t go back to that festival.
“Ellie?” I say her name so quietly I’m not sure she’ll hear me.
“Yes?” She turns around, her eyes wide.
There are so many things I want to say, but the words get lodged in my throat. “Thanks again for the coffee.”
A shadow falls across her face as she forces a smile and leaves my office, pulling the door shut behind her.
My heart sinks, and the corners of my eyes burn. I take a sip of my latte, but apparently, the coffee isn't hot enough to thaw the ice around my cold, dead heart.
Later that evening, I fold my legs beneath me like a pretzel on the couch and prop my laptop on a pillow in my lap. My fingertips click across the keyboard, typing Loving Fire Department into the search bar.
“Let’s just see about this firefighter,” I say to myself as I reach for my wine on the table beside me.
When the page loads, I scroll until I see pictures from the department’s recent food drive.
There are several uniformed men and women in the photos—a couple of the guys look like they could be Lindsey’s grandfather, and I certainly wouldn’t describe them as “hot”— but further inspection reveals a few possible contenders.
There’s a blond with beefy arms that looks like he could be in that Thunder from Down Under show Rose dragged me to years ago, and a man with whiskey-colored hair and an upturned nose who doesn’t strike me as Lindsey’s type.
Not that I know much about what that is these days.