Page 51 of Single-Minded
Usually I use Joe and Nicky, my regular construction crew, for projects, but they’re already busy on another site and working on a boat requires special skills that my guys aren’t necessarily experienced in. Plus, the last thing I need is Nate, the tool-belt supermodel drywaller, hanging around here all day, making me feel like a loser.
Since my work on Daniel’s restaurant focuses on soft finishings like lighting, table placement, and color scheme, Daniel’s own team is refurbishing the boat. The work is going well. The wood has been sanded and is in the process of being refinished. Battered wood is being replaced as necessary, but Daniel is insistent on restoring as much of the original boat as possible, especially the gorgeous leaded-glass windows, which add so much charm and character.
Daniel and I sit at our usual spot, the one table on the back deck, laughing and joking, and watching the sun play off the water as the boat rocks gently with the waves.
“Mmmm,” I say, scooping the last bite of creamy potato salad into my mouth.
“That’s what I like to hear.” He laughs.
“Have you decided on the name for the restaurant yet?” I ask. “We can’t delay much longer.”
“I’m thinking of calling it Boudreaux,” he says.
“That works.” I smile. “So could we please drill down a bit on the kind of atmosphere we’re trying to create here? Obviously we’ve talked a lot about the broad strokes, but need to get into more elaborate detail.”
He looks dreamily toward the water. “I want it to be the place where people have the best night of their lives.”
“That’s terrific,” I laugh, “but not very specific. Is it elegant? Casual? Family? Somewhere in-between?”
“Yes,” he says, breaking his gaze from the water to look at me.
“Yes to which?” I ask.
“Yes to all. I want it to be the kind of place that feels like an old Southern family. The relatives are a little quirky and imbued with their place in history; the furniture is decadent but it’s a little worn, a gem from another age, a gazebo in the backyard that’s been the site of first kisses, naps on sunny days, and heart-to-heart talks, a giant magnolia tree in the yard. I want this place to be somewhere you could hold an elegant wedding or show up in bare feet after a day of fishing or hanging out at the beach. I want my guests to feel like they’re friends, come as you are in a tux or flip-flops, have some great food, and some great music. I want a sense of romance and whimsy, the kind of place where you could propose or bring your entire family, where musicians come to jam with each other for fun after they’re done with their gigs downtown.”
I’m speechless, which is unusual for me. Generally my clients’ goals are more benchmark-specific—increase productivity or revenues, boost donations, drive shoppers to the pricier goods. His vision is so clear that I can feel what he means in my heart and in my bones, without yet being able to quite put together in my head how it could be executed on this floating restaurant.
“And the typical restaurant benchmarks,” I ask, “like, wanting to turn the tables in sixty-eight minutes?”
“If my guests leave after only an hour, they’re not having enough fun,” he says.
It’s so novel, even for me. Daniel’s project isn’t about money or turnover, it’s about the experience for his guests. More than anything, I want to bring his vision to fruition. My mind sparks with the thrill of the challenge—this project is the exact reason I love environmental psychology—using surroundings to evoke such specific types of emotions.
“Can we make that happen,cher?” he asks, his ocean-blue eyes dancing with excitement.
“Yes,” I say, feeling slightly less sure than I sound, but determined to see it through. I need to create an environment that evokes all the best parts of Daniel himself, as well as this boat he loves.
“Do you have anything left, furnishings or anything really from the original restaurant?” I ask. “I’m thinking it’ll be really helpful to see anything that’s still here; maybe you could tell me what you loved so much about the place growing up.”
“Of course,cher.There’s a storeroom behind the kitchen with all the stuff ol’ Archer left in the restaurant. I didn’t have the heart to throw it out but I wasn’t sure what to do with it all.”
“Can I take a peek?” I ask. “Maybe there’s something that will work for us.”
Daniel leads me back to the storeroom, a large closet behind the kitchen. He opens the door and pulls a string from the ceiling to turn on the light. The small room is a treasure trove, jammed with antique furniture, tarnished silver candlesticks, boxes of knickknacks and treasures, a stack of menus dating back fifty years, and a beautiful portrait of a woman standing on the deck of the boat, her hair blowing in the wind as she holds fast to the railing.
“Who’s this?” I ask, gently running my finger against the bronzed frame of the painting.
“I think that was Archer’s wife,” he says. “She died young, they never had any children and he never remarried. I didn’t know her; she died long before I was ever born.”
“These things are amazing,” I say, making my way around the stacks of boxes to see what’s hiding near the back wall of the storage room. I suddenly teeter in the cramped space, terrified of nose-diving into a pile of boxes, yet unable to reach the wall to maintain my equilibrium—and quick as lightning, Daniel reaches out and grabs my hand to steady me. His skin is warm and soft, and holding his hand sends an electric sensation up my right arm. He holds my hand firmly until I regain my balance, which takes me a heartbeat longer than it should have.
“Thanks for keeping me from falling,” I say.
He smiles warmly. “Sometimes we just can’t stop ourselves from falling,cher.”
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I pick through the rest of the boxes to get a general idea of what’s in them, making mental notes about how I might incorporate some of the pieces into Boudreaux. Pulling a greenish mermaid statue out of a box, I hold it up for Daniel to see. It’s weighty and gorgeous, a stunning piece of vintage art.
