Chapter 1: The Job

CHAPTER 1

The Job

“My life is over, Mina.” I sniffled into the phone.

“Penny…” Mina sighed. “You knew going in this wasn’t going to be an easy task, but you tried anyway. That’s what’s important.”

Mina, ever the optimist and my perpetual hype-girl, was trying her hardest to build me back up, which was precisely why I had called her in the first place. But I was feeling so low, I wasn’t ready to stop wallowing just yet.

“Perhaps I can find a career in constant failure,” I lamented. “Failed architect. Failed daughter. Failed independent person. Failed girlfriend.”

“Listen, I know things aren’t going how you want them to right now—”

“What? The part about me being thirty-three, with no career, an emotionally unavailable boyfriend, and absolutely nothing to look forward to?” I grumbled.

“Penny, this shit takes time.” Mina’s voice became more firm. “Everyone’s journey is different, and yeah, maybe you accidentally turned on hard mode, but that doesn’t mean you won’t come out of this alive.

“All these perceived failures are part of your story. You need to fail once in a while to help you understand how things work, to learn life lessons, and to eliminate what’s not working for you.

“Even if you had gone through with the architecture degree to make Mommy and Daddy happy, and tried to live up to the impossible standards your sister set, you’d be pleasing them at your own expense, while you wasted away in a job you hated. I was with you during college—you HATED those architecture classes. It was never going to work. You cannot please them, you need to work toward finding your own happiness.”

“When I brought you this lead, I warned you. I told you that he passed on all the big firms and local talent. I said it was a long shot, but it would at least give you a reason to put together your portfolio.”

I cringed, recalling the slim folder I had, in my haste, left on the kitchen counter. I had been so proud of it before I’d set foot in that house, but I’d left feeling humiliated by it.

“It was meant to be a way for you to get a taste of interviewing and pitching to clients. And if it worked out, great, but if not, then on to the next.”

I knew she was right, but I’d built it up in my head as this end all, be all, last hope kinda project to start forging my own path away from the firm. I knew I was out of my depth with the scope of the project, given my lack of experience, but I’d let myself hope, and yet again, I found myself so incredibly disappointed by the results.

“You have to be exaggerating how badly it went. I love you, but you tend to be hyperbolic. Tell me exactly what happened—the facts, no more woe-is-me rhetoric.”

Reluctantly, I began to recall the events of the last few hours in painful detail.

Pulling up to Willowbrooke took my breath away.

The stunning, shingle-style home was more of a manor or mansion than a house. Sitting on twenty acres, the seven-bedroom, four-and-a-half bath home boasted a sprawling back lawn that led to a cliffside overlooking the ocean, with private beach access, a three-bedroom, two-bath guest cottage, and privacy from all sides, due to the willow trees dotting and lining the property.

It was so well hidden, in fact, that I had almost missed the turnoff for the long driveway that allowed access to the property, nestled beyond the front grove of willow trees.

It had taken me over an hour and a half commute from the city to the house, which was a half hour longer than I had anticipated, but I was still thirty minutes early. I’d been terrified to arrive late, so I’d added a generous buffer to quell my ever-present anxiety.

From where I was parked at the edge of the driveway, I hoped I wouldn’t be as noticeable to anyone looking out from inside the house. While I felt it was always good to be early, it could be perceived as rude to show up early and not introduce oneself, but a half hour was also much too early to risk catching Mr. West off guard.

It was imperative that I make a positive first impression.

Interior design had long been my passion, but I had been derailed in the pursuit of those dreams by a handful of factors. While I had an associate’s degree in the field, I’d been sidelined working as an office manager at my parent’s architecture firm for the past decade.

While I applied to jobs in my field and helped friends in exchange for pictures I could use in my portfolio, I hadn’t had professional success in my preferred career. I had all but given up on the idea, until Mina had told me about the project that had the city’s designers abuzz.

At first we’d only joked about how, firm by firm, designer by designer, the mysterious Mr. West was rejecting proposals, running through all his potential options.

And then out of the blue, Mina suggested I throw my hat into the ring. “Maybe what Mr. West needs is a fresh perspective—and that’s exactly what you offer.” She smiled at me over coffee one Saturday morning.

It was a huge risk, but I had nothing to lose.

Slightly tipsy after a couple mimosas, I submitted an interview request and was surprised when less than an hour later, Mr. West replied with a date and time.

With Mina’s help, I put together the best portfolio I could manage. She suggested I offer to provide both design and project management services. While I wasn’t sure I could handle all the duties, Mina argued my work at the firm proved otherwise, as I often jumped in to help with admin tasks that she considered more project coordination, and that offering to do both jobs would differentiate me, and could allow me to go full-time on the project and quit the firm.

The thought of leaving the firm was equally terrifying and exhilarating, but still one that kept me very motivated to secure the contract.

With five minutes to go until our scheduled interview time, I got out of the car, adjusted my blazer, and checked my makeup in the driver-side window. I attempted to tame some flyaways, before tucking my portfolio under my arm, and marching across the gravel driveway to the front door—not an easy task in heels, especially when I rarely wore anything other than my favorite pair of white sneakers, that could just pass for professional work attire.

The exterior was pristine, even if, in the gloomy weather, the house looked both formidable and somewhat oppressive.

Upon closer inspection, I noticed small signs of neglect, previous exterior renovations which had not only been poorly executed and maintained, but that had also compromised the integrity of the original design elements. But the damage I could see was only from the last few decades, as it seemed the home had been well-loved and maintained prior to that.

I wondered if the outside was within scope of what Mr. West had wanted to accomplish. As it was already late August, nothing could likely be done to the outside until spring, and it would stretch the project out quite longer than I had initially anticipated.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped up to the massive wood double doors and used the knocker to announce myself. The heavy door creaked gently as it swung open a moment later.

I visibly gulped when I first laid eyes on the mysterious and persnickety Mr. West, who couldn’t have been much older than myself, much to my shock. Mina and I had frequently joked over the past couple weeks about what kind of shrewd, stodgy blue blood he would be.

But Leo West didn’t seem to be any of those things.

He was quite handsome, with perhaps an air of melancholy about him.

Standing tall in a crisp white button-down, with the top two buttons undone casually, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and the hem tucked into his well-fitting black slacks, he left me speechless.

I don’t know exactly what I had been expecting, but it wasn’t him.

“Mr. West?” I questioned, robotically sticking my hand out to shake his.

“Leo, please.” He gave me a tight smile, assessing me as he shook my hand.

“I’m Penny Abbot,” I replied, feeling like the sound of my own voice was foreign, far away, and small.

“Please, come in.” Leo stepped back, allowing me room to cross the threshold into the foyer.

I couldn’t help but let my eyes linger on the flexed muscles of his forearm as I slipped past him, avoiding eye contact and trying desperately to ignore the sudden flutter of a foreign feeling in my belly. Was it nerves, excitement…attraction?

“Welcome to Willowbrooke,” he said evenly, closing the door behind me.

I was immediately overwhelmed as my senses went into overdrive. I didn’t know where to focus my attention. A flurry of dust assaulted my allergies, momentarily distracting me.

Squinting to see past the dim light of the foyer, I was surprised that all the curtains in the home were drawn, making the gloomy morning appear more like dusk. The air was thick with the smell of disinfectant, immediately making me feel like I was in a hospital.

I remembered Mina had told me while doing research on Mr. West—Leo—for her firm, that his father had passed away recently, which she suspected was the impetus for the project, and would explain the melancholy.

“You have a beautiful home,” I fumbled, trying to say something that would fill the silence. My tone might have come across as disingenuous, but I saw the potential all around me.

A grand staircase to my left led up to the second floor, and one of the past renovations had knocked down a good chunk of the interior walls, leaving the kitchen, on my right, completely open to a large living room and dining room space beyond.

If the curtains had been opened, it would have offered a stunning view of the cliffside and ocean behind the house. Absently I thought that I might be able to find old records of the original blueprints filed with the city, which would help with any required restoration.

In a rare moment of candor, Leo raked his hand through his hair, mussing it more than it had already been. The action seemed bashful. “It needs a lot of work,” he sighed. “Do you want a tour?”

I nodded and followed behind Leo as he escorted me out of the foyer. “The solarium and my bedroom are down that hall.” He pointed to the left, past the main staircase. “No work is required in either space.” He led me through the open living and kitchen space without providing any additional notes.

A sectional sofa that was too small for the space, upholstered with a ruffled floral fabric that was at least twenty years old, was the only place to sit in the living room. It faced the hopefully original fireplace, with a chunky, chipped wood coffee table standing guard between the two. Off in the corner was a bulky, squat TV stand, with a TV that was almost as large and almost as square, bowing the particle board on which it sat.

In contrast, behind the living room was a beautiful vintage dining table, with eight dining chairs neatly arranged around the curves of the table legs. That would definitely be staying, but it would have looked much more stately in natural light and with a fresh floral arrangement in the center.

Opening a door at the end of the room, he extended his arm, encouraging me to proceed before him. “The library.”

Again, the room was devoid of natural light. “Can I open the curtains?” I asked.

“No,” Leo replied flatly.

I nodded, giving no indication of my confusion at his ambivalence. Strangely, despite the lack of lighting, the sprawling space was like something out of a book.

Leo led me up a narrow staircase, likely used by servants when the home was first built in the eighteen hundreds.

The second floor was warmer and even more stifling than the first. I followed Leo room by room. He quickly opened and closed doors for the dual masters on either side of the home, the three modestly-sized bedrooms in between them, and the bathrooms.

The three guest rooms would have had views overlooking the back lawn, out to the ocean, if the windows had been open. Each decorated in a different color. One in green, one in pink, and one in blue.

Sheets covered most of the furniture in the rooms, leaving me eager to uncover what gems might lie beneath. The more authentic and vintage pieces that could be reused in the home, the better.

“Will you require redecorating for all the rooms?” I asked, trying again, awkwardly, to make conversation.

“Yes, they haven’t been touched for almost thirty years.” Leo paused, “I don’t know what’s in all the rooms. Do you require an inventory?” For the first time since he’d opened the front door, he made eye contact with me.

His gaze was dark and deep. The intensity caused my stomach to flutter.

I looked away as I shook my head. “Not right away, just curious—if there are quality pieces, it would be great to keep them here.”

Leo didn’t respond. He merely closed the door to the second master and turned to make his way back down the grand staircase at the front of the house, bringing us back to the foyer yet again. Leo continued into the kitchen, pulling out a barstool at the counter for me, before taking a seat next to me.

A pregnant pause added to the stagnant air before I decided to speak first, rather than wait for Leo, who seemed lacking in conversation. “Here’s my portfolio.” I slid the binder across the counter toward him.

Leo pushed it to the side and made eye contact with me again. “So, what would you do with the house?” he asked plainly.

I took a beat; this wasn’t how I had expected the interview to start. “I think the better question is what do you want to do with the house?” I replied. “Your needs, tastes, and desires are what should drive a project this big.”

Leo narrowed his gaze for a split second, and I thought perhaps I had annoyed him with my answer. “If it was yours, what would you do?” he rephrased his question.

I leaned back on the stool, breaking eye contact to refocus on the open living space behind him. “Well, all the curtains would be open, first of all. The natural lighting, with the positioning of the home, would completely change the vibe of the place.”

Leo seemed to consider my request, but didn’t move a muscle.

I continued, “I can see there was a larger scale renovation done around the eighties, if I had to guess. The workmanship, both inside and outside is less than spectacular—maybe a bit too trendy for the time. It doesn’t adequately showcase the original features of the home.” I looked around, wrinkling my nose at the faux wood paneling behind the dining set.

“Even if the curtains were open, it’s much too dark in here. There’s a time and place for a moodier room—the library, for instance, looks beautiful with darker tones, but this space”—I used my arms to motion around me—“it could and should be lighter.

“The rooms upstairs—what I could see of them, are also dated, but there seems to be a lot of vintage, perhaps even original furniture around the house.” I paused. “If the house was mine, I would restore what I could—this style of home is quintessential New England, and the damage done by the past renovations can be fixed.

“I think there’s a way to marry the original work with a mix of vintage and modern furnishings and textiles, while paying homage to the original design. You don’t have to sacrifice modern conveniences or aesthetics to do this home justice.”

I gave Leo a moment to respond; he remained silent, but I thought perhaps he was intrigued.

I continued, “There are big jobs to be done here. The flooring will need to be replaced, but under the linoleum and carpet, there may be original hardwood floors. There are details missing that should be present in a home this age, but there are good reproductions available now, so it would be easy to undo the mistakes made by past changes.”

I smiled at Leo, indicating I was finished, and he nodded.

He pulled my portfolio in front of him and began to flip through it. The light that I thought I’d seen in his eyes while I had described what I could do for his home slowly faded.

I held back a sigh, preparing myself for what was coming next.

“An associate’s degree,” he stated.

I nodded, though he was still focused on the folder in front of him. “Yes, and my experience at Abbot Architecture for the last decade makes me uniquely qualified to handle project management as well.” I repeated verbatim what Mina had instructed me to say.

Leo glanced up at me. “You’d do both?”

“Yes.” I nodded again.

His eyes returned to the portfolio. “You don’t have any professional experience with your design work, just small projects?” He seemed unimpressed with the photos of the apartment living rooms—I had known he would be.

“No, but interior design is my passion, and I know this is a big project, so I think I can give you a fresh perspective, and I would be completely dedicated to this job.” I swallowed the lump in my throat and blinked back the tears I could feel welling in my eyes.

I didn’t believe a word I was saying, and Leo knew it.

“I would really love to help you bring this house back to life.” I managed to make eye contact with him for a moment, as I’d meant those last few words.

Leo closed the portfolio. Seeing it on the counter under his large hand made it look even thinner than I remembered. “I have a lot to consider,” he replied.

“I see.” I understood what he was getting at. I figured I’d save him the time of telling me that he’d let me know, and save myself the sting of rejection that would follow. “Thank you for your time.” I stood from the barstool and put my hand out to shake his once more.

He reluctantly returned the gesture, brow furrowed. “Would you like to leave a business card?”

I paused, embarrassed. “I don’t have one.” I blinked back more tears; I couldn’t cry in front of him or I would be even more mortified than I already was. “All my contact information is in my portfolio.” I winced at the shakiness in my voice. “Thank you,” I mumbled once again, before turning on my heel and walking back through the front door. I managed to make it to my car before crumbling completely.

I felt so foolish for putting so much hope on this project and allowing myself to dream about what it would be like to start this career I’d been trying desperately to pursue for years. I wanted to know what it would feel like to finally prove to my parents that this field was good enough…that I was good enough…

Watching Leo while I’d described what I could see for the house, I could have sworn I had seen a spark there—that he’d seen what I had, that my vision could be his too, but then I’d ruined it because I hadn’t been able to back it up with experience.

I’d been applying to a few firms, including the one where Mina worked, but nobody wanted to hire someone my age with my lack of experience. Even though I said I was willing to take a pay cut, to start at the bottom, they wanted fresh faces and designers right out of school for their entry level positions—easily moldable and trainable.

Without experience, I couldn’t hope to work for a design firm, and without experience at a design firm, I couldn’t hope to get freelance work.

I was stuck.

My dream was dead.

I was hopeless.

Knowing she would be expecting my call, I decided to rip the Band-Aid off and talk to Mina right away. At least she’d give me a sorely-needed pep talk.

And she sure did.

“You’re too hard on yourself.” Mina sighed after I finished recounting my sorry tale. “And you shouldn’t have left before he asked you to—you cut him off, what if he had more questions—you made assumptions and ran away,” she accused me, and rightfully so.

“It’s better this way,” I tried to reframe my disappointment. “The commute is terrible from the city, the house is gorgeous, but creepy as fuck—definitely haunted.” That earned a giggle from Mina. “And Leo—he’s impossible to read—no wonder he can’t find a good fit. Are you sure they didn’t turn him down? He doesn’t even know what he wants.”

Mina’s melodious laughter filled the phone receiver. “Seriously!? Who wants to do a total renovation without having a clue about what they want to change? And what was up with all the curtains being drawn? Maybe he’s a vampire,” she joked.

I joined her giggling, but paused when my phone began to vibrate in my hand. I pulled it away from my ear.

“Mina!” I stopped her. “He’s calling me!? What should I do? He’s probably calling to tell me I didn’t get it—doesn’t want to draw it out, right?” My heart hammered.

Mina continued to laugh. “Answer it, silly. Call me back when you’re done.”

I switched over to the other line and tried my best to sound professional. “Penny Abbot.”

“You left before we discussed salary and time frames.” Leo’s brooding tone slipped through the phone.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t realize—I thought we were done,” I stuttered.

Leo didn’t reply, so I set to answering his question about the project length.

“I would expect the interiors to take a minimum of four to six months, but we’d have to get an inspection done to see if there is any unseen damage that needs to be fixed during the process, in order to keep the home well maintained.”

“You didn’t have your rates listed in your portfolio. I assume they are standard market value.”

“Yes.” I nodded dumbly. I had figured out the lowest hourly rate I could survive on, but had planned to let Leo start the salary negotiation because the project was too important to me.

“I assume you’d require an additional monthly retainer to ensure my house is the only project you’re working on?” he inquired.

“Yes,” I replied without thinking.

A retainer!? I didn’t have the experience to expect one, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

“I’ll email you the contract right now. If you would like to further negotiate the proposed rates before signing, let me know. How soon can you start?”

“I’d like to give two weeks’ notice—would the first of September be okay?” I hoped my quick math was correct on the date.

“Yes.”

“Leo,” I said before he could hang up, “thank you—I won’t let you down.” I smiled.

“I’ll see you in two weeks,” he replied before the call ended.

I pulled up my email and refreshed it until the contract email appeared. I scrolled through the legal disclaimers until I made it to the rates.

I gasped at the numbers. Surely they couldn’t be correct. He had to have misplaced a decimal.

What he considered market value was high for a seasoned designer. The retainer was even more impressive. I thought about the student loans I still had to pay off and tried to do some quick math to calculate how much faster I could do so with this salary.

It was all happening so quickly.

Without needing another moment to think, I completed the contract through a link in the email.

It was done. I was an interior designer. I had booked Willowbrooke.

I took a deep breath, then immediately hit redial. “Mina—I got the job!”