Page 4 of Smooth Talk

Sara: Which is why you need help from people under the age of 50 and a plan. The amount of alcohol consumed is congruent to your number of prospective candidates. Not enough, and no one looks edible. One drink too many and you’re at an all-you-can-eat buffet. It’s a fine line with you hun

She’s right, of course, I can be casually strolling along down buzzed street and one sip later I find myself sprinting haphazardly down wasted avenue. Sara’s plan worries me on several levels. I don’t know which luck fairy blessed her at birth, but she almost always gets her way. My fingers are crossed that this weekend bucks the norm. I tell myself I’m ready for whatever, but just because my mind is open, doesn’t mean my legs are.

Me: Ok, I’ll let you girls have your fun. But this is a small town. If there was a man that I should be giving a chance to, surely, I’d have met him by now

Sara: Everything happens in its own time.

Sara: Tell Harper June I want a date: park, ice cream, princess movie marathon. Maybe I can watch her for you while you go on a date with Mr. Prospects. And maybe he’ll even have an extra-long-handled broom, adept at cobweb removal, if you get me. Winky face emoji

Me: LOL! You’re a mess

I need to nip this conversation in the bud before Sara goes off on a tangent.

Me: Harp will love a date with you regardless of my candidate situation

Sara: I gotta go. Can’t wait to see you girls. Love you!

Me: Ditto. Kissy face emoji

Oh shoot! I’m running late. Well, not late. But I want to get to this meeting early. It has the potential to set PM Designs on a new course. It took a while to get any clientele, now that it’s growing, I need to up my game, and my next prospective client has the power and influence over this community I need to do just that.

“Its 10:30, Poppy,” my assistant, Hilary, pokes her head in the doorway to my office. Her dark hair is beginning to gray at the temples. She’s a bit rounder in the middle and her laugh lines are more pronounced than they were a couple of years ago. But she is still very pretty. Much like my mother, she’s been on my case about dating too; concerned I won’t find the right man if I don’t put myself out there. So, I tell her that I’ll take dating seriously when she does, but she always hits me back with, ‘The only man I need in my life has loved me since the day he was born.’ She has a son a few years older than me that lives in Chicago, Elliot, that she speaks about often and fondly. It’s his ex she has a problem with. Honestly, I think he’s who she has in mind when she harasses me about dating the rightman. She’s been friends with my mom for years and I pulled her out of retirement when she complained of boredom to be my part-time assistant after I started PM Designs. She works four days a week, and not only keeps me on schedule, but helps research green options, new trends and new clients for me. I don’t know what I’d do without her.

I’m a big proponent of being prepared. It helps to know who you’re dealing with—their style, their personality, their goals for the space—before you meet them. Good research can make or break a deal.

“Thank you, Hilary. Did you upload everything to the tablet for me?”

“Of course, dear, I also put some examples of your work for similar clients at Harold’s that I thought may come in handy. There are links in the notes with a few local sustainable companies for furniture, flooring and fabric options.” I smile; she really is the best. New companies pop up all the time here, it’s part of Willow Creek’s appeal. We want to see other small businesses thrive. So, we support one another as often as we can.

“Remind me to give you a raise this year.”

She laughs, “If you get Mrs. Maxwell as a client, you’ll be able to afford it.”

Caroline Maxwell, matriarch of the wealthiest family in our fair city, also known as The Queen of Willow Creek. The family owns half of the land in the county and more than half of the buildings in town. Maxwell Holdings (the family business concentrating in real estate, hotels, green tech and investments) is a fortune 500 company. The family’s collective personal wealth is also estimated to be in the billions.

Baron John S. Maxwell, a Scottish magnate, amplified his wealth with the American steel industry and was one of the lucky few who didn’t lose it in the stock market crash several years later. After moving to New York as a young man in the late 1800’s, he enjoyed several years of bachelorhood while increasing his already vast fortune. That all changed when he met a young southern woman vacationing in the Hamptons with her family. They fell madly in love, were married then invested in a few thousand acres of prime real estate in South Carolina near her hometown of Charleston.

He convinced a few of his friends to join him in his new venture. They proceeded with their proposal to produce a healthy, thriving community while preserving the natural beauty of the land. He’d seen first-hand how mining for ore and the production of steel could destroy a landscape and set about righting those wrongs over his lifetime. The Maxwells, being one of the founding families of said community, are known for their support of the environment, charities and small local businesses. Hence, the meeting I have with Caroline today.

“You better get going. It’s warm out today; you might want to drive. I think we skipped right past Spring and straight into the bowels of Hell,” Hilary chuckles. “It’ll probably save you about thirty minutes too. I saw Mrs. Jenkins walk by a minute ago.” She says with one eyebrow cocked and a half-smile on her lips. Mrs. Jenkins is known to gab for hours if you let her, and since her husband passed last Spring, everyone lets her. She really is extremely sweet, but I’m running low on time today.

I grab my tablet, purse and keys, and throw on my blazer, because even though it’s sweltering today, this is a business meeting. I’d chosen an olive-green body con dress with elbow length sleeves and a respectable hem (just above the knee), and paired it with a few gold bangles, diamond studs, a black blazer and three-inch heels. It was flattering and professional. My auburn hair is in loose curls over one shoulder and my make-up, natural perfection. I’d checked everything in my car’s mirror for the twelfth time before hopping out and onto the sidewalk. I had also done the cursory search down both sides of Main Street for any locals that looked particularly gabby. I’d parked in a spot across from Nosh and was waiting at the crosswalk for the signal when Mrs. Mayhew, a friend of my mother’s, came out of the door to Out Spokin’, her bicycle shop, and flagged me down.

“Poppy dear, it’s good to see you. How’ve you been?”

“Very well, thanks. And how are you, Mrs. Mayhew?”

“Well, I was talking to your mother, Ava,” she pauses momentarily with her eyebrows raised waiting for me to acknowledge I’m on the same page as her, like I had another mother with a different name somewhere out there in the world, “and she said that date we set you up on didn’t really pan out.”

She looks at me with sympathy. Of course, she was involved; Albert is her nephew. And while I can understand a love for animals, I don’t quite get the whole stuffing them once they’re dead thing. And Albert was more than an enthusiast. He’s an accountant by trade, but spends his spare time finding dead things to upcycle. His embalming technique filled the would-be conversation void over dinner. And dessert. Honestly, I’m not sure I’ll ever eat a slice of apple pie again without thinking of roadkill. Shame.

“Albert was very nice, but I think we just want different things.” I’m going for diplomatic, but from the look she’s giving, I think she pities me. WTHeck?

“Oh, yes. I’m sorry, Poppy. I would have never set you up with him if I’d known what a rascal he was.” Rascal? The man had worn pleated khakis, a sweater vest and pit stains on our date. In all fairness, I think the sweating was due to the vest, it had been a balmy eighty degrees that day, and I’d be the last person to judge based on your sweat glands alone. I must not be as adept at schooling my facial features as I thought though, because now she’s explaining herself.

“Oh, Honey. The day after he took you out, he took out Heather Babcock, then the next night he was with Sonja Overton. Ava told me that you’re ready for a real relationship, so I hate to be the one to tell you, but my little Albert is what they call, a player.” She whispers the last part and shakes her head in dismay.

I literally almost snort. He’d tried to kiss my cheek at the end of our date and missed when I’d stepped back. He almost fell, and I had to catch him. Then he’d awkwardly patted my shoulder and shot me finger guns as he walked backward down my driveway, ultimately tripping over his own car when he’d bumped into it. Play on, player. I really don’t have time to set the record straight, nor do I want to embarrass Albert or his aunt. So, I just nod my head.

“I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Mayhew, but I’m fine. I really don’t need any help in the dating department.” Her eyebrows raise in skepticism, but I have no wish to further this conversation. “I’d appreciate you passing the message on to my mother.” I look down at my watch, so I don’t have to meet her disapproving stare. “I’m sorry, I’ve gotta run. I have a business meeting at Nosh that I’m running late for.”

“All right dear, tell your mother I said hello.”

“I will.” I turn to walk away, but before getting too far, I toss over my shoulder, “It was good seeing you.” I knew it was a mistake. I knew I should’ve let the conversation go. But I just had to be polite, and it opened the door to this little nugget o’ inspiration.

“You too. Oh, and Poppy dear?” She pauses, waiting for me to stop and turn around. “Albert does have three older brothers. All very eligible from what my sister tells me. I’ll put in a good word for you. See you Sunday,” she winks and walks back into her shop.

Great. Just what I need. Maybe I can skip church this Sunday. Unfortunately, that will only delay the inevitable. If his brothers are anything like Albert, I have some very interesting date nights ahead of me. Cue eye roll. Why does everyone suffer from the misconception that I need a man? I have a nice life. Do I get lonely? Occasionally. Would it be nice to have a partner? Sure. Someone to be a role model for Harper? Obviously. Especially if that partner rubbed my shoulders and poured me a tall glass of wine after a long day then commenced the doling out of orgasms like he was tossing beads to topless girls at Mardi Gras. But until that unicorn magically appears, I have a rabbit. It gets the job done. Mostly. I shake it off and focus on my meeting.

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