Page 36 of Single-Minded
Oy. This again.
“The green is lovely,” I say, “as is the silver,” I continue, as she scribbles notes on a tiny Crane notepad.
“I’m not dressing to match the tablecloths,” she says.
“It’s really not necessary,” I say. “Wear whatever you’d like, save for red. Red is a color of power and we’re asking your guests to help the powerless so the messaging is wrong. Anything else is fine.”
“Well, I had planned to wear the green,” she says, petulant. “Now that’s impossible because of those tablecloths. Can’t we just change those instead?”
Ah, the real issue.
“What you wear to the fund-raiser has far less effect on donations than the color anchor of the event. If you want to raise your donations by twenty percent, this is part of the plan on how we accomplish that.”
She sighs deeply, so that the next table or two might hear her despair.
“Fine,” she says, moving on to show me table settings and flower arrangements, and the seating chart she’s been working on over the last few days.
“You put your biggest donors here?” I ask, pointing to the golden triangle on the map. The guests at those three tables alone can easily put Olivia over the top with her fund-raising goal. She nods to confirm. Much of my focus will be on the experience that the guests at those high-priority tables will be having.
“Perfect,” I say. “You’re doing an amazing job and this will be a fantastic event.”
“It must be,” she says. She gathers up the rest of her papers and snaps her portfolio closed. “I have a spa day scheduled, would you care to join me?”
Wow, that’s weird. I’m not sure if this is just her being polite, or if it’s an awkward attempt at friendship. I didn’t think she really even liked me, and Olivia Vanderbilt Kensington hardly seems like the type to pal around with the help.
“Thank you, that’s so kind of you to offer,” I say. “Unfortunately I’ve got client meetings booked all day.”
“Perhaps another time, then,” she says. The expression on her face doesn’t change at all, and it’s hard to tell whether she could care less, or if her facial muscles are just chemically paralyzed. Botox is as common as seagulls in Sarasota, but most of the women I know who use the dermatologist’s little helper still have full range of expression. Except squinting, of course.
She gathers up the rest of her things, bids me goodbye, and sort of floats out the restaurant door. Must be something they teach future debutantes at cotillion.
I quickly transcribe my handwritten notes into the color-coded client files on my iPad. I love the cloud, despite the fact that I don’t actually understand how it works, because it magically syncs all of my client files and checklists. For someone like me who prides herself on organization, the cloud is the greatest invention since the label maker.
My next stop is the new psychology practice I’m designing. For once, it’s nice to work with fellow psychologists who trust the science. There’s far less hand-holding than with some of my other clients. We’re in the final stages of construction and I can’t wait to see the progress—including two innovative outdoor therapy rooms, tropical gardens especially designed to treat women with self-esteem issues, eating disorders, and anxiety. Interestingly enough, male brains don’t respond to nature cues in the same way. As far as I know, the outdoor therapy gardens are the first of their kind. The innovation has the potential to bring me not only new business, but some significant recognition within my own field as well. The research backing the concept is solid, but before now, no one had ever put it into practice in this way. Sarasota has the perfect climate for this particular element, because the weather is quite pleasant year-round. For the steamier summer months, there’s a retractable shade as well as cooling space vents. Besides the fact that it’s just pretty amazing, and will be a real differentiator for the practice, I believe the space has a huge potential to help people feel better about themselves. The more time women spend in nature, the stronger their self-worth becomes. I love that I can help make a positive change in people’s lives, even in a small way, long after my work here is done.
Pulling into the parking lot of the therapy office, which is jammed with painter, contractor, and landscaper trucks, I pull into the last available space and put the top up on my Mini. The last thing I need is a two-inch layer of construction dust covering the interior of my car. Grabbing my shoulder bag, I head inside.
The entryway is gorgeous, with high ceilings and soothing pale blue paint. Although it hasn’t been moved in yet, the furniture in the lobby will feature small seating clusters with soft, tactilely pleasing fabrics and round edges, so that patients will immediately feel at ease upon arriving.
“Hey, Doc,” says Joe, my contractor. “It’s coming together, right?” Joe is a small guy in his late fifties, with graying hair and a clipboard permanently fused to his right hand. He’s worked with me for the last few years and really gets what I’m going for. Plus, he’s a total perfectionist, which I love in a contractor. It means every detail is right without me having to spend all my time at the site, which saves me dozens of hours over the course of a project.
“Hey, Joe. It looks amazing,” I say. “I can’t wait to see it all done.”
“Ready for the tour?” I nod, and he hands me a hard hat. “We’re pretty well done out here in the lobby except for the finishing, but the small offices are still being drywalled. I was just about to do the inspection.” I follow him down the hallway and we step into the first therapy room. The drywalling is complete, the windows have been put in, but none of the finishing work has been started yet. The work looks good, Joe’s crew has done a fantastic job as always—but my eye goes to the ceiling and it feels wrong.
“Hey, Joe, what’s the ceiling height in here?” I ask. He checks his clipboard and looks up. “It’s supposed to be seven feet nine inches, but these look like nine feet.” In an instant he has his measuring tape pressed to the wall.
“I think you’re right. Yep, nine feet,” he says. “Sorry about that, Doc, I’ll get this taken care of right away. New drywaller, he just finished this room an hour ago.” I know Joe would have caught the error if I hadn’t, but I was hoping the problem was just in this one room. We didn’t have much of a cushion with our deadline.
“Thanks,” I say. “Remember, it’s twelve feet in the lobby, nine feet in the hallways, seven foot nine in all the therapy rooms.”
“Got it,” he says to me, and then pulls the radio from his belt. “Nate, can you meet me with the client at the room you just finished?”
“Sure thing, boss,” says the voice on the radio. Joe marks the drywall with a pencil while we wait for Nate the drywaller.
Joe and I discuss other details on the project, and Nate appears in the doorway a few minutes later. Totally worth the wait. Nate looks like a supermodel with a tool belt. He’s tall, very tall, maybe six-four, with light brown hair, striking green eyes, and full lips that make me wonder what it might be like to just hurl my laptop bag on the floor, throw my arms around his neck, and kiss him.
Whoa, Alex,I think. First, completely inappropriate—Nate is an employee. Second, Darcy and Michael were right: if I don’t get this whole sex thing out of my system pronto, I’m going to end up acting like a complete lunatic the second I find myself within fifty yards of any decent guy with long-term potential.
