Deeply Personal

Chapter 6

Jessica

Ensconced in her twelfth-floor office right off West End Avenue, Jessica stared out the window—a habit of hers when she needed to reflect on issues at hand. All day the sky had seemed unable to make up its mind: this morning on her way to work it had been ultramarine blue, then turned into a kind of slate gray by around noon, then blue gray later on in the afternoon. It reflected the range of emotions she was experiencing.

She was in the middle of a phone conversation with a client, Mrs. Elizabeth Siegel. Jessica had designed her sunroom and master bedroom and had finished the job about three months ago.

“Sure, of course, Mrs. Siegel,” Jessica said. “You can hold off paying me this month. I know it’s been rough.”

“I love your work, Jessica, I really do.” The woman’s voice was tired, quivering, grainy. “But the cancer’s wiped out almost all my—”

“Don’t even say another word. Don’t even think about it. The main thing is for you to get better, Mrs. Siegel.” Jessica spoke emphatically. “That’s all that matters, okay?”

She hung up the phone and bit her lower lip. What else could she have done? The poor woman had paid as much as she could afford. There was no way she was taking her to court for the remainder.

Unfortunately, kindness did not stop the incessant flow of bills upon bills. Just as she turned to open up her emails, her heart did that little skip-beat, delay, skip again. She put a hand to her chest and tried to breathe slowly. Damn! Then it returned to its normal rhythm, just like that. Wasn’t the medicine supposed to stop that? She felt her pulse. Normal beats now. Another slow breath. Maybe it was just stress.

“Letting her off the hook?” Helen asked. For the past week, Jessica had spent nearly every minute with Helen Spencer, her loyal office manager. Helen—a short woman in her early fifties—had auburn hair that she wore in an asymmetric, neck-length cut, along with trendy eyewear that was intentionally designed to be too big on her face, resulting in an owl look. They’d been going through the receivables together in Jessica’s office—a taxing, two-person job.

Today she was wearing a blue round-neck sheath dress with a bell sleeve. She’d come into Jessica’s office and placed a file down on her desk as she listened to the phone call.

“I had no choice, Helen. This is what owning your own business is all about.”

Jessica was sitting behind her antique-white wooden desk in a high-backed green leather chair. She jokingly referred to the chair as her “throne” with friends and colleagues, for she was, after all, the queen of Chandler Interiors.

Surely she’d found her calling in life as an interior designer. Even her last name spoke of her occupation: historically, the word “chandler” meant candlemaker, but it also referred to a dealer in household items, such as oil, soap, and paint.

The light through the room’s large windows traced chaotic patterns on her desk. She could hear the sounds of her employees, she had ten in all, scurrying about down the hall, talking on the phone and consulting over design issues. Sales were slow, but at least they were all busy doing little things as well as trying to drum up business.

As Helen left her office, Queen Jessica leaned back in her throne, placed her hands behind her head, and gazed out her window toward the Parthenon. Not the one in Greece—it’s American-made replica, built in Nashville in the early 1900s and dedicated to the goddesses of, well, Money and her twin sister, Profit, along with the god of Successful Tourist Attractions.

There it was, mighty and true and noble as ever with its Doric and Ionic columns, timeless and grand. It was a wonderful replica, anyone could see that, a thing of artistic beauty. Jessica looked out at the edifice for inspiration and comfort all the time. She just wished it would send some of its magic her way.

Then, as if Athena herself heard her prayer, a message popped into Jessica’s email that made adrenaline rush through her body, striking her to her core.

TO: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

Subject: Top Review File

Dear Ms. Chandler:

Thank you so much for your consideration and for the work you’ve submitted. Our team of reviewers is very pleased with your bid. We would like you to know that we are placing your company, Chandler Interiors, in our Top Review File. This means that your company is one out of five that has made it into the final decision-making process. If necessary, we will be contacting you for further details and specifications regarding your bid. The Tom Buchanan Company gratefully appreciates your interest.

Sincerely,

Jacob C. Martin

Executive Vice President

“Helen!” Jessica exclaimed. “This is fantastic.” She showed Helen the email, breathless, as she came back into Jessica’s office. “Can you believe it? We’re in the top five for the Buchanan project.”

The project involved designing hotel lobbies and bars throughout the southeast. At least fifteen of them. Complete makeovers. It was huge.

Helen’s eyes widened. “Amazing!”

Jessica had put in a bid on behalf of Chandler Interiors at least three months ago and hadn’t heard anything since. She’d assumed there was no way her company would actually be in the running. It was so competitive, and yet . . .

Her mind was spinning. “Oh my God, we’d have to hire about ten new people if we got the job. We’d need more space to work out of and everything. We’d manage. Of course we would. We’d have to. I have a good feeling about this one, Helen. I really do.” Jessica rubbed her hands together. She felt like leaping from her throne and doing a queenly dance. “We’re going to get this. I just know it.”

“You bet we are. We’ll blow this thing out of the water.” Helen gave her an optimistic smile, and they high-fived each other. “This is great. Need to work on a file,” she said, heading back to her office. “The Landings account.”

Jessica got along with Helen so well. In a way, she was like the mother Jessica never had. She was her counselor, her guide at times, even her comforter, but they also made a great business team. Helen had been with Jessica since the beginning, as faithful an employee as anyone could find. The backbone of the business, everything came and went through her. It was Helen who’d rushed a carpet sample to Jessica when she was trying to make a sale at the Langsburys’ last year, saving the day at the very last minute. And it was Helen who’d stayed up practically all night once reconciling the books for the IRS.

A few minutes later, Helen walked back into Jessica’s with a frown. Jessica sensed bad news.

“What is it, Helen?” Jessica asked.

“It’s the Smithsons on line two,” she said.

The Smithsons. Her two worst nightmares, no doubt both on the line at once—they always called together—the irascible, unwieldy, and impossible-to-please Smithsons.

They’d been deciding, re-deciding, and re-re-deciding every little thing for their fifty-five-hundred-square-feet two-story upgrade for the past six months. Basically, they were driving her crazy. She was used to having hard-to-please clients, of course. It was the nature of the business. But these two were off the charts.

“Hello, how are—”

“Jessica, darling! We like the granite countertop you picked out after all, so we’re going to go with that,” Miles Smithson said immediately. “Right, Ed?”

“Yes. Absolutely.” Ed’s voice filtered through the phone, tinny and distant, as if he were standing across the room from the receiver.

“That’s great!” Jessica said, trying to throw cheerful optimism into her voice as she looked out her window. “I’m so glad. I really do think it’s perfect for you.”

“But now, the thing is . . .”

Oh, boy, here it comes.

“We’re not so certain about the curtains in the den,” Miles said, his voice turning glum. “We think we want something closer to a robin’s egg blue. You know. Something that really sings.”

“Yes, really, really sings,” Ed underscored.

“Sure, of course.” Jessica clenched her teeth. A sudden throb pulsed through her forehead, a familiar ache that always accompanied their calls. But she had to carry on. “Not a problem. I’ll bring some samples over, and we can see what you like. So, are we getting any closer to deciding on the type of cabinets you want in the kitchen?” she dared to ask. Fingers crossed.

There was a long, ponderous silence, after which Miles finally answered, “There are just so many choices. And the handles. We cannot decide on the handles. Nickel? Stainless steel?” He sounded like he was deciding whether to launch a nuclear bomb or not. The moan in his voice was that deep and intense. “We just don’t know. Mercy on us. We just don’t know.”

“We’ve practically decided on the nickel,” Ed said, “so just calm your tooty down, Miles. Don’t get so fraught. Look.” He took a deep breath. “Jessica. I say we go with the nickel. And that’s that.”

“Well, we’ll talk about it over dinner tonight, dear, okay?” Miles said.

“It’s nickel or nothing!” Ed snapped.

A few times in the past, she’d wound up being a kind of marriage counselor for her clients. After all, remodeling could cause dramatic arguments. One client, a thin-lipped fifty-year-old woman, had been especially difficult.

It had been late afternoon, and they were still deep in the intricacies of the job. The woman and her husband, who owned a string of franchise restaurants, had gotten into such a tizzy over the whole redesign. Sitting on the deck of her two-story colonial, sharing a bottle of red wine with Jessica, she said he’d stayed at the Westin Hotel for days and was considering leaving her. It was the ninety-two-inch oatmeal-colored Bernhardt Collette sofa that the woman had insisted on, no matter what, that had nearly ended their twenty-two-year relationship. She’d finally succumbed to what he’d wanted: the Kane Channel tufted lounge chair for the den, dark brown and manly. At last, all returned to normal. It had nearly worn Jessica out. She’d seen firsthand how fragile a marriage could be.

Breaking up over something as minor as a sofa or a lounge chair? It made a deep impression. But maybe learning the art of compromise during a marriage was the one thing that could actually save it.

“We’re sorry we’re so wishy-washy,” Miles said, his voice softening. “You must be getting tired of us. You’re such a doll to be so patient. Isn’t she a doll, Ed?”

“The absolute dolliest!” Ed declared.

“Oh, no. No problem at all, guys. Don’t even think that one bit!” Jessica tried to maintain a smile in her voice but it was difficult. Getting on her nerves? Yes, to say the least. Had an interior designer ever gone berserk and slammed a client in the head with a wallpaper pattern book? She’d have to Google that. “Interior designers + breakdowns.” “Interior designers so whacked out by their jobs they appeared on Naked and Afraid .”

She summoned up the patience Miles thought she had. “It happens this way sometimes. It’ll work out.” She took a deep breath and crossed her fingers. “We’ll get through this together. I have faith.”

A few minutes later, after discussing the pros and cons of various faucet styles, Jessica ended the call, leaned back in her seat, and emitted a lengthy and exhausted sigh. God. They were the worst. She loved interior design, creating living spaces that flowed with a kind of understated harmony, seeing patterns and relationships between each client’s individual needs and what they were seeking. She felt that this was exactly what she’d been born to do. And most of her clients were not that hard to please. But still, there were times . . .

“Helen, I think I need a Xanax,” she said jokingly, rubbing her temples.

“Totally out,” Helen shot back.

It was an old joke.

Jessica texted Lynn Anderson, one of her best designers, who was out on a job.

What’s the latest on the McGraff account?

Slow going. They’re still deciding on the sunroom. Sorry.

Christ.

“Sara’s making a Starbucks run,” Helen called. “Want anything?”

Jessica licked her lips. She knew she shouldn’t. Where was her willpower? But the words flowed out of her. She was unable to stop them. “I’ll have a caramel brulée frappuccino, venti.”

It was her go-to drink when facing the turmoil of life. It soothed her nerves, and boy did she need some nerve-soothing now.

She received another phone call as Helen left the room to grab some paperwork.

“Ms. Chandler, this is Gary Hutchinson from C&C, accounts payable.” The man’s voice was so rough it felt like it was sandpapering her eardrum. He sounded as serious as a detective investigating a murder, with her as the prime suspect. “We have a few accounts here that need to be paid fairly quickly, and they are, as a matter of fact, quite large. Do you know when we can expect payment?”

Jessica’s heartbeat thrummed in her ears. She’d purchased materials from a furniture supplier three months ago and had been unable to pay her bill because she’d had no choice but to use the revenue from that project to cover the costs for another project. She’d thought she’d catch up, but hadn’t been able to. The supplier had sent the bill to C&C for collections.

“I’m, uh, working on that.” She spoke nervously, and her muscles twitched. Oh, God. She rubbed her brow and felt exhausted. No Xanax, but a Tylenol would be acceptable, right?

“Well, you are over ninety days delinquent at this point, and if we don’t receive at least some payment soon, we’ll have to send this to our attorneys.”

Jessica opened up her business cash account on her computer. She had payroll this Friday and other bills outstanding, and there was barely enough money for that. She bit her lower lip. Her employees were scrambling for work, cash flow was way off, and sales overall were declining compared to last year. There was more competition in the area, her advertising wasn’t working as effectively as before, and discretionary spending had just plain slowed down overall due to higher interest rates. She’d lost out on a few big jobs too, the kinds that would have totally kept them afloat for long periods of time.

“How much more time can you give me?” she said. She sat up in her seat and did not feel queenly at all.

“Three weeks, Ms. Chandler,” the man said in a no-nonsense voice. No doubt he was used to dragging people to court and watching them twist in the wind. “And then I’ll have to take action.”

“I’ll—”

He hung up.

Back to work. She turned to try to lift a heavy wallpaper pattern book from the floor next to her desk, wanting to check on a color for a remodel that was coming due in a week. But as she picked it up, her chest tightened. The book fell from her fingers, landing on the floor with a whack.

She breathed quick, short, shallow breaths as her heart pounded. Was she that out of shape? Or were the breathlessness and racing heartbeats signs of a panic attack?

She inhaled deeply, stood up, and filled a glass of water from the pitcher in her office fridge, her hands tremoring. Her heart became erratic again. One beat was a great big thud she felt all over her body, and the next two were skittering hops. She returned to her desk, plopped down on her throne, and mentally adjusted her invisible crown, which now seemed not to fit so well on top of her head. She closed her eyes and did some deep breathing.

Slow . . . One . . . Two . . . Three . . . She counted her breaths. The anxiety continued, hammering her with a kind of nervousness that felt like her head was caught in a steel vise. Desperate, she continued deep breathing and stared at the Parthenon for solace. Dear Athena . . . Finally, after about five minutes, her nervousness seemed to fade away and her heart returned to its normal rhythm.

Jessica knew she needed to solve the problem of her heart, but the problems of her business were much more pressing. She couldn’t remember things being this far down—ever. What would happen if it didn’t turn around soon? She’d have to reduce staff, which would tear her apart. Just the thought of it was gut-wrenching. She loved her staff. They were a close-knit team. They had picnics every May, a Christmas party, and two of her employees had actually married each other. She couldn’t bear to break the team up.

She’d have to cut overhead too, maybe even close the office and start working out of her home again, the way she had when she first began. Still, she was determined. There had to be some way out of this hole. That was why that Buchanan contract was so important. If she didn’t get it, and if things didn’t improve, she’d be in serious trouble, possibly even forced to close her doors.