Page 12 of Smooth Talk

“That sounds lovely, thank you.” I sit in the chair opposite her, and she nods to Anita, who is already walking backward out of the room. I place my bag on the floor next to me and my tablet in my lap, admiring the space around us. It’s clean without feeling sterile. Small details that might be overlooked at first give it a lived-in feel. I’d describe it as warm elegance; I can’t wait to see more of the home.

“I see you came prepared,” she says eyeing my tools.

“Yes ma’am, I did.” My p’s and q’s are on point today. I want this job.

“You seem a bit on edge, and I’d like to put you at ease,” she smiles warmly. “I met with a few other designers yesterday, but I didn’t connect with any of them the way I did you. After looking over your previous work and calling Harry—he speaks quite fondly of you dear— I’m trusting my instincts. The job is yours if you want it.”

I don’t even need to think about it. I don’t care how difficult it might be, I want it. “Oh, my goodness, yes. Thank you so much, Caroline.” Hang on a second, Harry? Does she mean Harold of Harold’s Design? “You know Harold Steinman?”

“Of course. We attended Wesleyan together. He actually introduced me to Gib. It’s a small world.” Indeed. Now I wished I’d kept in better touch with Harold after the move. He was patient and kind; the best mentor I ever had. He’d reached out a couple times over the past year to see how I was settling in and to let me know that there was always a place for me in New York if I couldn’t reacclimate to the South. Good ol’ Harry. Seems Sara’s not the only friend I have left in New York.

“Harry’s cousin was Gib’s roommate at Yale. We met at a coffee shop in New Haven. One of life’s happy little accidents,” she smiles at the memory. Gibson Maxwell, her husband, is the billionaire CEO of Maxwell Holdings. On the verge of retirement, or so the rumor mill says. Dark and brooding in all his photos, I’ve never seen the man in person. Grayson favors his father, but his features are less severe. I can tell he doesn’t take life as seriously. In almost every picture he’s smiling or laughing, except for the cover of Forbes that he joined his father and brothers for last month. A six-page-spread about the different accomplishments of the Maxwell men, and while it’s no surprise, I must say that all of those men give good smolder. Excellent smolder even. I can feel my face warming just thinking about it. (Okay, I admit, after our little meet and greet yesterday, I kind of stalked him online a bit; he is gorgeous). And can’t I even go five minutes without thinking about him? Gah. I met him once, for like two seconds, he should not still be on my mind a full 24 hours later.

Anita walks through the door carrying a gold tray with a white porcelain tea pot and cups lined with gold filigree. There are cookies that smell like cinnamon heaven stacked on the tray. Effectively sweeping all tall, dark and handsome thoughts under the rug. I lick my lips. All I’ve eaten today were three cups of coffee and a bit of blueberry muffin that Hilary brought me. I took two bites before accidently dropping it on the floor (so yes, I’m counting all that coffee as food). I’m starving.

“Thank you, Anita.” Caroline smiles as she pours our tea. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Both please.”

She hands me my tea. “Help yourself to a snickerdoodle. They’re one of my little guilty pleasures. Pilar bakes them fresh every morning. I have at least one a day. Most days two or three,” she winks. I take a bite and swallow back my moan. I’d be as big as a house if Pilar baked these for me fresh every morning. I’m about to embarrass myself and eat three or four. I guess I won’t feel as bad if Caroline joins my little glut-fest. Please God, let her join me. Ugh, I knew I should’ve let Hilary run out and grab me another muffin this morning.

We chat while we drink our tea. Apparently, the Maxwells own a farmhouse just outside the city limits as well as this glorious abode. Gib had it built on the family land when they were first married. It’s where they raised their children until Grayson was 10. The move coincided with Gibson taking over the family business and his father having a heart attack. Gib’s parents now live in a large historic colonial downtown.

They still use the farmhouse for family gatherings and plan to move back into it when Gib’s ready to retire and pass the family estate down to the next heir. I don’t ask for details while she relates the information (it’s really not my business), but I am curious, and Caroline is happy to elaborate.

Apparently, Gib wasn’t the first born and wasn’t originally tapped to ascend to the Maxwell throne. Sterling and Kitty Maxwell had three sons, the eldest— Sterling Jr., a known recluse who hasn’t seen anyone outside of the family in years, was never interested in taking over anything. He lives a meager life off the land in a small cottage on property where he has lived, since he moved out of the main house at eighteen. He’s apparently a fan of hunting, fishing and gardening. When it became apparent that he was not going to follow in his father’s footsteps, Gib was more than happy to step in. The office suits him, or so Caroline suggests.

The youngest Maxwell— Callum, bravely fought and died for his country at the age of 28, leaving behind his young son, Asher, and a grieving widow. When Asher’s mom found out she had cancer, she made arrangements for them to adopt him. After her death, he was raised alongside all the Maxwell children as a sibling instead of a cousin. The family history is as heartbreaking as it is endearing. And I can’t help but somehow feel connected to them now.

It's not like I’ll ever enjoy any type of closeness with this family apart from a close working relationship. They may be useful to my career and Caroline is sweet and engaging; but I remind myself not to get attached. I’m not a friend or a guest; I’m an employee, and I have a job to do. And when it’s finished, so will my interaction with the family be.

Caroline leads into a brief history lesson of the town and their family that is nothing short of fascinating. You can tell by the way she speaks, that she genuinely loves Willow Creek and cares about our community. I find myself lost in her easy way of conversation and have forgotten why I was here in the first place until Anita interrupts, retrieving the tray and bringing me back to the present. And just like that, Caroline is leading me through their exquisite home.

I follow her leisurely pace all the way out to Rose Cottage. Finally, my eyes are allowed to feast upon the splendor. The halls, stairwell then the great room, as they call it (more like a ball room) aptly named for its twenty-foot coffered ceilings and 2,600 square feet of space. Flanked by two huge marble fireplaces on the east and west end, beautifully framed priceless works of art and arched entryways on the north and tall arched windows and French doors along the south side. We walk across the marble floors, past a sleek black grand piano and built-ins housing black and white family photos, silver and gold tchotchkes, and what look like some very pricey first editions. Elegant crystal chandeliers dance prisms across the room and perfectly placed recessed lighting gives off a soft glow, while the drawn curtains allow in the warm late Spring sunshine. It’s almost too much to take in; I’d need hours to survey this space. I can’t imagine how long it would take me to observe all the details in the home.

Caroline leads me through a set of doors and onto the back-patio area, partially covered with a gorgeous pergola draped with soft wisps of fabric; we step down into the lush back yard. The scent of gardenias and fresh-cut fescue assaults my senses again as we walk the path through the courtyard, skirting the edge of the zero-entry pool and small pool house and into the gardens. The path winds through expertly manicured bushes and flowering shrubs, and is dotted with fountains, water features, marble statues and benches. We walk several hundred feet and step into a clearing. To my left the greenhouse, overflowing with vibrant color, catches my eye. Directly in front of our path is a miniature version of the great house; two levels, in the same color scheme as the main house, with a large front porch and blossoming with hydrangeas, roses and gardenias. It’s beyond adorable. I can’t imagine that the interior needs my help if it’s in this good of same shape.

Caroline opens the front door and flips on a light switch. My senses are once again assaulted. This time with the overly foul odor of moth balls and mildew. Looking around, I see her assertion that it’s remained untouched since her children were young is more than factual. Motes fill the low-lit air, flying freely with the wind through the open door. The wallpaper is peeling, the floors need refinishing (possibly replacing) and I do believe those are rat droppings. Obviously, the busy family has simply overlooked this space for years. It’s a shame really, with how lovely everything else is on the estate. But if it weren’t just so, I wouldn’t be here. With a little TLC, I can have this place in shape in no time. I begin walking the space, starting with a mask and gloves, then a tape measure.

The bones are good; everything feels structurally sound. We need to call a plumber and an electrician. We also need to get it inspected to take care of any mold, asbestos, roofing or foundation issues. I’ll have to call in a small work crew to knock out a couple walls to create more of an open plan downstairs. It would allow Mrs. Townsend easier access to everything, especially with the wheelchair and walker she’ll be using. The master with walk-in and ensuite is on the main floor as well as the kitchen, dining room, laundry, living area and powder room. Upstairs has a couple of bedrooms with a Jack and Jill bath connecting the two and an open loft area. The floor’s littered with papers, paintings and photos the children made years ago. Ideas were coming so quickly I barely had time to jot down my notes.

Next thing I knew, we were finishing up just shy of two hours later. I was a sweaty mess. On a good day, my glands are overactive, but it was approaching eighty degrees outside and the inside of the cottage was much warmer. With only a couple ceiling fans to cool off the upstairs, I was melting in this heat. I’m glad to be outside in the slight breeze. I’ll need to approach Caroline about overhauling the ventilation system in the cottage. Tomorrow. Anita meets us on the back patio of the main house with two tall glasses of lemonade. Pretty sure I’m in love with that woman. I’ve never been more thankful. Or more parched. I chug that sweet-and-soury goodness. In the most lady-like way possible, of course.

“I can tell those wheels up there are turning,” Caroline says as we take our seats, and she pours me another glass.

“I’m excited for sure; I think we’ll have just enough time to finish before Mrs. Townsend completes therapy. If everything goes to plan. I just need to get the plans drawn up and approved before we can start any major construction. I’ll get that started this afternoon.”

“My mother will be thrilled. She’ll be wheelchair bound for the gala, and that’ll be sure to disappoint her, as it will prohibit her from dancing, but there’s always next year.”

“Is the gala for her?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought I mentioned it before. It must have slipped my mind. I’d planned to extend an invitation to you. It’s two weeks from Friday.”

“I’m sure I’d be delighted.” I’d be delighted? Who talks like that? Apparently, I do around Caroline Maxwell. I’ve basically accepted and still have no idea what I’ve gotten myself in to. “What are we celebrating?”

“It’s the annual Townsend Gala, in honor of my late father. We hold it on or as close to his birthday as we can. He passed when I was young from heart disease. The gala is as much a celebration of his life as it is a fundraiser for the cause. There’s a website, if you’d like to read more about it or see the gallery of past events,” she takes a sip of lemonade. “Donations are welcomed but you don’t need to worry about that as you’ll be my special guest.”

Oh God. It’s one of those events. Duh, Pop. It’s a fundraiser; most likely one with $1000/plate price tags. I make a mental note to check out the website when I have time later. I might not be able to donate that much, but I can manage something. I’ll have to get a dress. And shoes. And I’ll probably need to get my hair and makeup done. It’ll all be worth it if I can meet the movers and shakers of Carolina. This could really put my business on the map.

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