Page 5 of Smooth Talk

Chapter 2

Poppy

I send a silent thank you to the man upstairs that Nosh has their air conditioning cranked as I curse the Monroe genes for my overactive sweat glands. It would be just lovely to add upper lip perspiration and armpit stains to what’s already happening on my palms. I wipe them down the sides of my skirt as I greet the host and give her my name.

“Mrs. Maxwell is here. I’ll show you to her.”

Great, and I thought I was early for once. I’d been hoping to be the first to arrive. Now I’ll just add in the worry of tripping over my own feet and falling flat on my face in front of Southern royalty to my list of ever-growing nerves. Although I may look a great deal like my mother, I did not inherit her grace. I’m clumsy; it was worse when I was a tall gangly teen with absolutely zero control over my long limbs. I should be thankful my spills seem to occur less frequently now, but they are no less embarrassing today than they were fifteen years ago. And now there’s social media for documentation. I’m thankful Harper hasn’t shown any signs of bequeathed gracelessness. Fingers crossed it skips a generation.

I don’t know why I’m so anxious. I worked with extremely wealthy people, celebrities and actual royalty at Harold’s and not once did I feel like this. I guess it’s the pressure that this is my company. It’s my name, my reputation at stake should anything go wrong today, and this woman has the ability to say a few words that could sink or swim my business. Caroline has a designer she’s used for years, which is why she hasn’t been on my radar before now. Word on the street is Jean-Luc’s retiring so she’s shopping for a replacement. My clientele is still on the small side, but someone must have put in a good word for me. You know what they say, it’s who you know. Although, I like to think that I know what I’m doing too.

While my family’s considered upper middle class, we’re not exactly running in the same circles as the Maxwells. There are five or six siblings, probably all Ivy League educated I’m sure. Every picture in magazines and the local paper shows them as perfectly coiffed and dressed to the nines at some benefit or another. I’m not a huge fan of the media (they weren’t very kind to me in the past), and I don’t follow the family closely. You just can’t help constantly seeing their faces gracing the covers in the checkout line. The media is truly obsessed. They’re our own brand of local celebrities: both highly successful and ridiculously beautiful. It’s not fair. Wealth and looks. What’s next, class and humor?

I guess I’ll find out soon enough. A woman, who doesn’t look a day over forty, even though I know her age has to be closer to late fifties, with platinum blonde hair pulled back into a simple chignon is seated at the table in front of me. Her designer ivory tweed skirt suit reeks of elegance. Diamonds, at her ears, around her neck and on the manicured hand she holds out to me, sparkle almost as much as the moss-green eyes currently running an assessment over my features. I can’t quite tell if I’ve passed muster. I reach out to shake her hand and smile as the unmistakable scent of Chanel No. 5 wafts my way; really, I expected nothing less.

“You must be Ms. Monroe.” Her voice, however, is different than I’d expected. Deep and raspy. Almost Lauren Bacall-esque, but with a southern accent. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Poppy, please. And the pleasure’s all mine, Mrs. Maxwell.”

“Then you must call me Caroline.” She waits until I’m seated, “I hope you don’t mind; I took the liberty of ordering sweet tea for the both of us.”

“Sweet tea sounds divine.”

“Have you been to Nosh before?” she asks.

I nod to her, “The crab cake benedict is amazing.”

“I’d have to agree with you there. I keep trying to get Gabriel to come to the house and make it for me. He always refuses. I guess he doesn’t want to step on Pilar’s toes.”

“I’m sorry, Pilar?”

“Oh, forgive me. Pilar is our private chef and Gabriel’s mother. We are rather lucky to have her. She was classically trained in France and Gabriel followed in her footsteps. They’re odd about letting anyone else in their kitchens,” she lightly laughs, “even family. Nosh is one of my favorite spots in town.”

What I wouldn’t do to have a personal chef. I’d settle for not eating mac-n-cheese, PB&J, chicken nuggets, spaghetti or tacos every night. Unfortunately, that’s the extent of my cooking skills and what Harper’s taste buds will allow.

“I’d love to spend more time in the kitchen, but I simply do not have the talent for it. My aptitude lies in the garden.” She smiles. A modest brag coming from a woman whose roses have placed first in the Annual Southern Gardening Society’s best in class competition for the past seven years. I can thank Hilary for that tidbit. She really is the best.

“I can’t boast of either culinary or gardening skills,” I say, “I’m more musically inclined.”

The server comes to the table to deliver our drinks and take our food order.

She easily picks up our conversation where we left off. “Voice or instrument?”

“Piano, violin, guitar. My daughter, Harper, is the songbird,” I smile thinking of Harp belting out the tunes along with whichever princess she happens to be watching. “My mother teaches music lessons. She instilled an appreciation when I was young.”

“Where words fail, music speaks.” She quotes Hans Christian Anderson.

“My mother has that quote framed on the wall of her studio. It’s one of her favorites.”

“And one of mine. I find it, so often, to be true.” She tilts her head ever so slightly while she studies me. Then she smiles and changes the subject abruptly. “So, Poppy, what made you want to become a designer.”

I go into the spiel she could have easily read on the bio section of my website. Starting with my education then touching on my work at Harold’s, then ending with what I’ve done locally with P.M. Designs. She lets me talk, but I can tell I haven’t answered her question satisfactorily.

“Tell me why you do this kind of work, what do you love about it.”

I take a sip of my tea, mulling over my answer. “When I was a girl, I always helped my mom decorate our house for different seasons or holidays. I loved playing with colors and fabrics and textures making a room come together. Come to life. I like making things beautiful. But as I got older, I realized it was more than that. A person needs to feel comfortable in their own space, to be proud to invite others into it. It needs to represent them, be a piece of who they are. Now, I love creating spaces that speak to the individual. Putting on those perfect final touches that show the owner’s personality. To watch someone come to life in a room I’ve designed. I love being able to see a person, not just their style, but what is most important to them, and designing an environment that mirrors them so perfectly they instantly fall in love. I love watching people fall in love with the spaces I create.” I realize I’ve let my mouth run away with me. I feel my cheeks redden and I dip my head. “I suppose it sounds silly.”

She shakes her head. “Not at all. I can tell you’re deeply passionate about what you do,” she says as our server sets our plates on the table. “I was having tea with Harriet Barnesworth last week and mentioned wanting Rose Cottage restored. As I’m sure you’re aware, Jean-Luc Renaldi, the designer I normally use, has retired and moved to Miami. I told her my need to find a suitable replacement and she showed me the work you’d done for her. The transformation of her home was absolutely breathtaking. I’d love to have you over so you can see the cottage in person. Are you free Thursday?”

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