Rusty Nailed
Page 68
Big Wad—what a great name for a band.
So order I did. I aimed to marry my style and his, while honoring the original beauty of the house. Taking my cue from the natural landscape all around, I let the surrounding hillside inspire the palette throughout, especially in the living room. Buttery creams, burnished bronzes, soft muted greens, and splashes of goldenrod made the house cozy. It was made even cozier by the tall stone fireplace where a fire crackled merrily, framed by refinished built-in bookcases stacked high with our collection of books behind the leaded glass doors. And by the bay window perched the customary telescope through which I could see San Francisco.
Windblown Girl on a Cliff with an Orange hung over the original wooden mantel, which now gleamed golden after being rubbed rich with oil. Simon loved this photograph of me, cringing in embarrassment at having my picture taken, orange juice clear on my lips and chin, hair blown out wildly by the Spanish wind. It was his favorite, and he’d insisted that it be displayed somewhere downstairs.
A long, thin custom shelf filled with the bottles of sand Simon had collected was positioned on one wall, with a smaller shelf just below with bottles from our trips together. Tahoe, Nerja, Halong Bay, they clustered together to tell the beginning of our story, with plenty of room for the next chapter.
In the kitchen, where marble shone and the counters were of a very specific height, pots of rosemary, parsley, and thyme sat happily on the windowsill, catching the morning sun. My double ovens stood majestically, ready to bake cookies and pies and zucchini bread until Simon said uncle. So . . . forever.
In a place of honor on its own marble round was my KitchenAid mixer. Stainless steel. Cool to the touch and crafted to perfection. Was there an undermounted lighting fixture directly above it, to make it a beacon of hope and goodness throughout the land? You bet your sweet bippy.
And on a solitary shelf built in the exact center of the wall, a collection of Barefoot Contessa cookbooks were arranged—chronologically, of course. And in a windfall of good fortune, the title page of each one was inscribed To Caroline. Love, Ina.
Simon’s friend Trevor’s wife Megan’s friend Ashley’s boss Paul at the Food Network had them signed for me. And no one could touch them but me.
Jillian and I walked through the home, adjusting things here and there. Fluffing a pillow. Adjusting a vase. In the living room, I paused to display the final piece. I threw Simon’s afghan—which we’d once spent a monumental night under, trying to keep the horror of The Exorcist at bay—over the plush chocolate couch. Jillian looked at it quizzically, no doubt wondering why a retro orange and pea-green afghan was the focal point in a room such as this. I looked around at the palette that I’d created, the afghan bringing it all together, and told her, “It was his mom’s.”
She nodded, and we stood for a moment just taking it all in. It was done, and it was kind of perfect. “Looks great, kiddo. It’s really lovely.”
“Thanks.” I sighed, letting myself really feel the house and all it had come to mean.
“When’s Simon coming home?” she asked as we headed back into the kitchen.
“Friday night. I’m glad I could get all this done before. Coffee?”
She nodded and grabbed the cream from the fridge while I poured. “You two want to come over for dinner Sunday night?”
“That’s funny, I was going to ask if you wanted to come over here! Be our first dinner guests?”
“We’ll be here.” She smiled.
We sat down across from each other at the island, and while she added sugar to her mug, I looked at her carefully. I needed to talk with her, and I was hoping she’d still want to come for dinner after I said what I needed to.
“So, Jillian, I need to talk to you about something.”
“Hmm?” she asked.
“It’s about the partnership,” I began.
She smiled sadly. “You’re not taking it, are you?”
“How in the world did you know that?” I asked, baffled.
“It was a hunch. So tell me why.”
“I’m not turning it down, but I have a proposition for you.”
“I’m listening.”
And she did. I gave voice to everything I’d been feeling about my job and my work and my place within the firm. In my heart I was purely a designer. I’d enjoyed the business aspects I’d taken over while she was away, but for me it was more enjoyable just to know that I could do those things, and do them well.
I didn’t actually want to do them. And while I knew I was turning down the Job of a Lifetime, I needed to be strong enough to say no. And here’s the important part.
Turning down the job was honestly the only thing I could do. I liked my life, and more important, I liked my quality of life.
It wasn’t that a man was telling me that I needed to have his dinner on the table at 6:00 p.m. five nights a week. It was that I wanted to cook dinner for Simon sometimes, and not have to work twelve hours the day before to make that time.
It wasn’t that anyone was telling me that I couldn’t have it all. It was me saying good Lord, no, I can’t have it all—and why the hell would I want to?
I had the life I wanted. And I wasn’t afraid to say no to something more.
But I did still want a bigger piece of the action.
So here was my proposal, and it was incredibly simple. I’d take on a supervisory position within the firm, especially when Jillian was abroad. I’d continue to mentor Monica, sponsor new interns, and be the point of contact for all new business. I’d retain my existing clients, take over for some of Jillian’s, and be responsible for bringing in new clients. And if Jillian approved, we’d hire an office manager to execute the day-to-day operations. Sure, there’d be long days when there were projects on a deadline, but no more working Sundays. No more leaving the office after 9:00 p.m.
There’d be plenty of time for running my own show later on, if I changed my mind. For now, this was exactly what I wanted to do.
“Wow, you’ve really thought this out,” she said, flipping through my proposal. Which I’d prepared with graphs and charts, and bound in a colored folder. And hidden behind the cookie jar, until I was ready to bite this bullet. “You sure about this?”
“Yes. It’s what I want, as long as you’re okay with it.” I held my breath.
She paused for so long I had to let it out and take another. Had there always been tiny little stars in the kitchen?
So order I did. I aimed to marry my style and his, while honoring the original beauty of the house. Taking my cue from the natural landscape all around, I let the surrounding hillside inspire the palette throughout, especially in the living room. Buttery creams, burnished bronzes, soft muted greens, and splashes of goldenrod made the house cozy. It was made even cozier by the tall stone fireplace where a fire crackled merrily, framed by refinished built-in bookcases stacked high with our collection of books behind the leaded glass doors. And by the bay window perched the customary telescope through which I could see San Francisco.
Windblown Girl on a Cliff with an Orange hung over the original wooden mantel, which now gleamed golden after being rubbed rich with oil. Simon loved this photograph of me, cringing in embarrassment at having my picture taken, orange juice clear on my lips and chin, hair blown out wildly by the Spanish wind. It was his favorite, and he’d insisted that it be displayed somewhere downstairs.
A long, thin custom shelf filled with the bottles of sand Simon had collected was positioned on one wall, with a smaller shelf just below with bottles from our trips together. Tahoe, Nerja, Halong Bay, they clustered together to tell the beginning of our story, with plenty of room for the next chapter.
In the kitchen, where marble shone and the counters were of a very specific height, pots of rosemary, parsley, and thyme sat happily on the windowsill, catching the morning sun. My double ovens stood majestically, ready to bake cookies and pies and zucchini bread until Simon said uncle. So . . . forever.
In a place of honor on its own marble round was my KitchenAid mixer. Stainless steel. Cool to the touch and crafted to perfection. Was there an undermounted lighting fixture directly above it, to make it a beacon of hope and goodness throughout the land? You bet your sweet bippy.
And on a solitary shelf built in the exact center of the wall, a collection of Barefoot Contessa cookbooks were arranged—chronologically, of course. And in a windfall of good fortune, the title page of each one was inscribed To Caroline. Love, Ina.
Simon’s friend Trevor’s wife Megan’s friend Ashley’s boss Paul at the Food Network had them signed for me. And no one could touch them but me.
Jillian and I walked through the home, adjusting things here and there. Fluffing a pillow. Adjusting a vase. In the living room, I paused to display the final piece. I threw Simon’s afghan—which we’d once spent a monumental night under, trying to keep the horror of The Exorcist at bay—over the plush chocolate couch. Jillian looked at it quizzically, no doubt wondering why a retro orange and pea-green afghan was the focal point in a room such as this. I looked around at the palette that I’d created, the afghan bringing it all together, and told her, “It was his mom’s.”
She nodded, and we stood for a moment just taking it all in. It was done, and it was kind of perfect. “Looks great, kiddo. It’s really lovely.”
“Thanks.” I sighed, letting myself really feel the house and all it had come to mean.
“When’s Simon coming home?” she asked as we headed back into the kitchen.
“Friday night. I’m glad I could get all this done before. Coffee?”
She nodded and grabbed the cream from the fridge while I poured. “You two want to come over for dinner Sunday night?”
“That’s funny, I was going to ask if you wanted to come over here! Be our first dinner guests?”
“We’ll be here.” She smiled.
We sat down across from each other at the island, and while she added sugar to her mug, I looked at her carefully. I needed to talk with her, and I was hoping she’d still want to come for dinner after I said what I needed to.
“So, Jillian, I need to talk to you about something.”
“Hmm?” she asked.
“It’s about the partnership,” I began.
She smiled sadly. “You’re not taking it, are you?”
“How in the world did you know that?” I asked, baffled.
“It was a hunch. So tell me why.”
“I’m not turning it down, but I have a proposition for you.”
“I’m listening.”
And she did. I gave voice to everything I’d been feeling about my job and my work and my place within the firm. In my heart I was purely a designer. I’d enjoyed the business aspects I’d taken over while she was away, but for me it was more enjoyable just to know that I could do those things, and do them well.
I didn’t actually want to do them. And while I knew I was turning down the Job of a Lifetime, I needed to be strong enough to say no. And here’s the important part.
Turning down the job was honestly the only thing I could do. I liked my life, and more important, I liked my quality of life.
It wasn’t that a man was telling me that I needed to have his dinner on the table at 6:00 p.m. five nights a week. It was that I wanted to cook dinner for Simon sometimes, and not have to work twelve hours the day before to make that time.
It wasn’t that anyone was telling me that I couldn’t have it all. It was me saying good Lord, no, I can’t have it all—and why the hell would I want to?
I had the life I wanted. And I wasn’t afraid to say no to something more.
But I did still want a bigger piece of the action.
So here was my proposal, and it was incredibly simple. I’d take on a supervisory position within the firm, especially when Jillian was abroad. I’d continue to mentor Monica, sponsor new interns, and be the point of contact for all new business. I’d retain my existing clients, take over for some of Jillian’s, and be responsible for bringing in new clients. And if Jillian approved, we’d hire an office manager to execute the day-to-day operations. Sure, there’d be long days when there were projects on a deadline, but no more working Sundays. No more leaving the office after 9:00 p.m.
There’d be plenty of time for running my own show later on, if I changed my mind. For now, this was exactly what I wanted to do.
“Wow, you’ve really thought this out,” she said, flipping through my proposal. Which I’d prepared with graphs and charts, and bound in a colored folder. And hidden behind the cookie jar, until I was ready to bite this bullet. “You sure about this?”
“Yes. It’s what I want, as long as you’re okay with it.” I held my breath.
She paused for so long I had to let it out and take another. Had there always been tiny little stars in the kitchen?
