Deeply Personal

Chapter 15

Jessica

“I’m here to see Mrs. Worthmore,” Jessica said, handing her business card to the man who stood before her at the front door. She lived in Belle Meade, the most exclusive and affluent part of Nashville, the place where if they said, “I’m bringing the Rolls over,” they didn’t mean bread, and where the housewives made nothing more than reservations for dinner. “I’m Jessica Chandler from Chandler Interiors.”

It was Monday, December 15th. Jessica had worked on various projects all weekend, but was looking forward to this moment with great anticipation. She’d thought about setting up her Christmas decorations but had put it off—not enough time. Her life was just so hectic.

“You may enter.” The man spoke like a mortician, his brown eyes gazing at her with a studied indifference. He was sixtyish, dressed in a dark blue suit. Along with his shiny, bald head, he had the thinnest lips Jessica had ever seen. She wondered if he was even familiar with the act of smiling. “Wait here. I’ll inform her you’ve arrived.”

He stepped back, allowing her to enter, and then disappeared into the home. Jessica stood in the foyer, her pulse quickening. She picked at a fingernail and fidgeted as she studied an impressive Perigold chandelier. The house was incredibly still, which made her even more nervous.

A few minutes later, Mrs. Worthmore herself appeared, and Jessica’s stomach felt like it was full of ocean waves. She’d thought she’d be met by an assistant, that Mrs. Worthmore wouldn’t have time to speak with a mere interior designer. Surely, she’d be too busy. But evidently she wanted to take care of the redesign of her home on her own.

Through the years, Jessica had seen Mrs. Mildred Dudley Worthmore on TV, in society magazines, and attending this or that charity ball. A sponsor of philanthropic galas and fund-raisers, her late husband had been a successful CEO who had left her billions.

“Hello, Mrs. Worthmore.” Jessica’s voice bubbled over with excitement. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Jessica Chandler, owner of Chandler Interiors.”

She extended her hand, which Mrs. Worthmore shook for hardly more than a second. The touch of her skin felt baby soft—indulgently soft.

“Your home is stunning, Mrs. Worthmore. It has so much character. I love the entrance and the bamboo hardwood flooring.”

“Yes, well, it’s the only part of the house that doesn’t need immediate attention,” Mrs. Worthmore replied, not looking one bit pleased and definitely not smiling. In fact, it seemed as if a rogue plastic surgeon had set her round, deeply wrinkled face into a perpetual frown. “There’s a lot to be renovated before I move in. But I want to take my time and do it just as I like it. Ever since my husband died, I’ve been contemplating this move to downsize from Cornerstone, so I’m just getting around to it.”

Cornerstone. At least thirty-thousand square feet of luxury, it had been sold for many millions of dollars to a British banker. Jessica paid attention to news like that.

A shortish woman, Mrs. Worthmore wore a flowery dress with pearls and red designer flats, her silver hair stiff with hairspray and beauty parlor coiffed. She had the air of a Southern Queen Elizabeth. Jessica hated to admit it, but she was filled with outright fear. She’d never met someone so wealthy before. Millionaires, yes. Billionaires ? No. Mrs. Worthmore would no doubt be hard as hell to impress.

The woman glanced at her diamond-studded gold watch. “At least you’re on time. I do appreciate that.” Her voice was grainy, with a slight Southern accent.

“I try,” Jessica said with a nervous laugh.

“I should hope so.” Her client looked her up and down, appraising her with blue-gray eyes.

Jessica fiddled with one of her bracelets.

“Well then, let’s get down to business, shall we?”

Mrs. Worthmore led her through the kitchen, which was surprisingly small and in dire need of remodeling. Next came the living room, which had a massive piece of artwork depicting the city of Rome hanging on one gray wall— Rome. Rome always reminds me of Adam. Forget Adam! After that, the sunroom, which was actually quite attractive, updated with modern colors and furniture that gave it a warm, breezy feeling. Finally, the dining room and den, the rooms set to be redesigned first and the reason for her visit today.

The dining room was horrifically outdated, with brocade wallpaper and a chair railing, done in the ugliest tones of green imaginable, a color that was popular years ago. Several pieces of art rested on the floor. An old-fashioned crystal chandelier hung above the table from a ceiling, painted a hideous beige. The den, which was set off from the dining room, was dreary, with sad-looking mahogany walls that had seen better days and an old hardwood floor that was in need of replacement.

“This is all from the previous owner,” Mrs. Worthmore said. Her grave manner made Jessica’s throat go dry. “Everything I had in Cornerstone was sold off, with just a few things still in storage—the Steinway, and some custom furniture from our den, which I wanted to keep. But the rest, I was so tired of looking at it. I need to redo these two rooms immediately. Aren’t they horrid?”

“Well . . .” Jessica didn’t want to appear too negative, but indeed, horrid they were. “The good news, Mrs. Worthmore, is that I’m absolutely positive I can make these rooms shine.”

“We’ll see.” She shot Jessica a pessimistic look. “You see, Cornerstone was designed by a premier New York designer. Stefan Vidal. Do you happen to know of him?”

Jessica put a hand to her chest and gasped. “Why, of course!”

Vidal was one of the biggest names in the business. He’d designed some of the most lavishly luxurious homes in the country.

“He did a fine job. I hired him years ago to do an entire remodel. But I’ve decided this time to try my hand with someone local. It was just that with Stefan, everything was so—” she took a breath— “showy and grand. He flew in from New York on his private jet with his entourage, three very thin men wearing questionable attire. And the men did all the work while Stefan stayed on the phone, gossiping about celebrities—indiscreetly, I must say. I love him to death, I really do. But it was all rather disconcerting.” She looked Jessica up and down again and flashed her the briefest of smiles, which seemed to crack the stolid and grim set of her face. “You came highly recommended by Josephine Oxford.”

Hearing this, a thrill raced through Jessica. “That’s so very good to hear. I thought her kitchen turned out quite well. She says she loves the way it flows now.”

“I saw it, and though there were some things I would have done differently, I do agree that it came out rather—” she cleared her throat— “acceptable.” The old woman narrowed her eyes. “But I must warn you, Jessica—do you mind if I call you Jessica?”

“Not at all.”

“I must warn you that I am no Josephine Oxford. And I am not nearly as easy to please.” She folded her arms across her chest, pursed her lips, and frowned so intensely, so inscrutably, that Jessica thought her face might crack from the strain. “Do you understand?”

Jessica lifted her chin, meeting her stare full on. “I do.”

“I want warm hues and colors, a Southern-style aesthetic with magnolia whites and gentle curves in all the furnishings. Bits of blues and grays too, like the photographs William sent you in Architectural Digest. Did you get them?”

“Yes, I did. I love your suggestions, Mrs. Worthmore. Not a problem.” Jessica’s mind swarmed with facts and figures, trying to come up with some kind of time estimate. Her mind froze. She couldn’t think straight. “I’ll . . . I’ll start with some measurements.”

“William will let you out when you’re done. I’m due to attend my bridge club within the hour. Call when you’re ready to set up another meeting, and we’ll go over your suggestions and recommendations in detail.”

“That would be—”

The belle of Belle Meade trundled away before Jessica could finish speaking.

“William!” Mrs. Worthmore barked his name. “William! My hip again. It’s been bothering me like hell today. William! William!” Her voice faded as she set off for the other side of the house, walking with a slight limp.

For a moment, all Jessica could do was stand there, take a deep breath, and try to absorb everything. She felt as if she’d been tossed through a windstorm. She looked around the room while she thought of the hardscrabble expression on Mrs. Worthmore’s face. She rubbed her neck, which felt so tense. What have I gotten myself into? She’d never backed out of a job before. Should this be her first? Suddenly, as if to underline her nervousness, her heart started beating with those strange palpitations again, fluttering, and her hands grew slick. She felt panicky and took long, deep breaths, closing her eyes, trying to find calmness. A minute later—thank God—the strange beats subsided. But still. This was not good.

Mrs. Worthmore, a true Southern queen, would be so hard to please, and this was such an important job. There was no way she could turn it down, since she desperately needed the money. But what was even more critical: Mildred Dudley Worthmore knew half the town, everybody who was anybody. Born and raised in Nashville, her father had been mayor back in the sixties, and she had roots that ran as deep as the ancient oaks on her property. A negative review from her would damage Jessica’s reputation. One good word, however, and she’d be set.

Jessica’s resolve grew. She would please the fickle heiress no matter what. She had to. There was no choice but to move forward.

She took careful measurements with her infrared ruler, letting the laser light reflect off solid surfaces, walking around the spaces and assessing the structure. Though it needed much attention, the home had wonderful bones and real character. This was good. She carefully studied the ceilings, the framed windows, the floors, and the hallways leading to the den, checking for load-bearing walls, and before she knew it, ideas started popping into her head one by one.

This was what she loved about interior design most of all—the creativity along with the need for logical order, and the beauty of proportion within a well-engineered space. It was interior architecture, more than design, though people didn’t generally think about it that way.

She envisioned two chandeliers for the dining room. Yes. Definitely two . It was large enough. And, if possible, a gorgeous Louis XIV dining room table with gold engravings on the sides and on its flowery pedestals would be perfect. She’d come across one before. Formal was written all over this space, but not too formal. She started to smile as she imagined the possibilities. Gold-accented curtains that pooled on the floor, a variety of Southern-style artwork with oodles of magnolias and red-and-pink azaleas. How would she handle the lighting in the den? There were so many options! She couldn’t wait to get started.

***

Jessica was back at her office a few hours later. She adjusted her imaginary crown and sat up straight. She’d been busy going over this month’s revenue numbers, which were not looking attractive at all, when he called.

“Paul Brady, line one,” Helen said.

Jessica’s heart fluttered like hummingbird’s wings. The good type of heart flutters. She picked up the phone, palms sweating.

“Ready for another fake date?” he asked when she answered.

The phone almost slipped from her hand. “What? Why?”

“It looks like our friend, Mr. Tom Buchanan, has invited the two of us out to his lake house in Hendersonville. Birthday party for his wife. She’s going to be seventy-four years old. It’s just going to be us, Tom and Alice, and their family. We’re pretty high up on the guest list, don’t you think? Alice insists that we come.”

Jessica’s head was spinning. “When’s the party?”

“This Saturday, four p.m. I’m assuming you won’t want to miss it.”

It had been six days since their original fake date, December 18th, and Jessica still hadn’t heard anything about the Buchanan deal yet, no contact, nothing, leaving her on tenterhooks while still desperately hoping for the best. Why was it taking them so long to make a decision?

Should she accept this new invitation? It would just be one more step in the direction of getting closer to Paul. Should she tell him she was busy? But how could she turn down Mr. Buchanan? Another fake date, though? Deception, lying—it wasn’t right at all. She hated doing it. And yet . . .

She steadied herself and made a decision. “Okay, let’s do it. Fake date, right?”

Paul’s voice sounded animated. “Of course. I knew you’d want to go.”

As soon as Jessica had hung up, Helen traipsed into her office with a sick look on her face.

“C&C collections agency just called. You know them, right?” she asked sarcastically.

“How could I forget?”

“I told them you were on the phone and tried to get them to leave a message, but they wouldn’t.”

“Oh, God.”

“You need to call them back as soon as possible. Mr. Terry Hudson sounded fairly annoyed.”

Jessica put a hand to her chest and felt the stirrings of her heart as it skipped, delayed beating, and skipped again. A bad drummer who couldn’t keep a beat—that was what it had become. She reached for her medicine and swallowed two pills with a glass of water. It was the stress. It had to be.

And yet an emotional rhythm beat inside her as well: she couldn’t wait for her next fake date with Paul.