Hitts & Mrs. Read online

  The Carlson and Tuck team sat in stunned silence. They’d never seen anything like this. Melanie Hitts, a relatively unknown design ingenue, was going toe-to-toe with one of the industry’s architectural giants. Was she simply too green and naive to understand that John Carlson, by sheer reputation alone, had it within his power to squelch any inkling of a chance she had to make it in this highly competitive industry?

  “The BenAlex Design Group’s philosophy is simple,” Mel continued, anger fueling her boldness. “A well-designed space can and should inspire the human spirit. So, if there are no further questions regarding the personnel roster, I’d like to show you how we’ve taken this fundamental philosophy and incorporated it into a design concept that we feel will not only greatly enhance your architectural vision but the customer appeal of the Vogue Belize Hotel.” As she paused to take a sip of water, Mel noticed the tight-lipped grins and polite nods. She sensed that the account was already lost, but she’d come here to give a presentation, and give it she would. She’d be damned if she’d let some impolite old man with bug up his butt keep her from finishing.

  “Let’s begin with the main lobby,” Melanie continued, acknowledging Austin, Trevor, and Dianna, while purposely avoiding direct eye contact with John Carlson.

  When Melanie turned her back, directing their attention to her sample boards, John bent over, whispered something in Austin Riley’s ear, and quietly vacated the room.

  Why would John Carlson want to see me? Melanie wondered as she stepped off the elevator and followed Austin Riley down the hall. What could they possibly have to discuss? Her stellar performance that he’d ungraciously chosen to ignore? Or maybe, if he had any sense of decency at all, John wanted to apologize for rudely stepping out on her presentation.

  They walked into the outer office of the Carlson and Tuck executive suite. John’s secretary, Gale, was not at her desk, so Austin gently tapped to announce their arrival. Receiving no reply, he opened the door and led Mel into the large inner sanctum of John Carlson’s professional domain.

  “John should be with you in just a moment,” he informed her, shaking her hand.

  Melanie stood looking around John’s office, her decorator’s eye intrigued by the room’s ambience. With its dark wood paneling, stately brass lamps, plush Oriental rug, and the faint scent of Cuban cigar smoke, it resembled an English gentleman’s social club.

  The space reeked of distinction and prestige, but it also spoke of staid boredom. Not at all like the glimpse of the man she’d just met. Judging by reputation and their brief encounter, John Carlson seemed much more dynamic and bold. This was the office of a successful but stuffy banker, not a highly creative, albeit ill-mannered, architectural visionary. The only clue to the artistic side of the man was the gallery of paintings that hung on the wall opposite his desk.

  Melanie walked over and began to inspect each of the four large canvases. Obviously a series, each painting featured a different pose of the same mysterious femme fatale, her face veiled in the shadows by a large hat. The artist had captured her essence layer by layer—stopping short of full disclosure, a technique that left Melanie intrigued and anxious to peel back the layers and learn what relationship lay between artist and subject. Just as Mel leaned in close to inspect the illegible signature, John’s voice sent a startled jolt through her body, causing her to quickly stand upright and turn around.

  “Art lover, Ms. Hitts?”

  “I appreciate talent in any form. These are very nice. I like the rich, earthy color palate against the cool backgrounds. It creates context without distraction,” Mel remarked authoritatively, grateful for her undergraduate degree in art history. It irritated her that she felt compelled to prove herself with this man.

  “Are you the fan of any particular artist, Mr. Carlson?”

  “Many, though I share the same philosophy about my work as Henri Matisse.”

  “Meaning his reverence for the fusion of intellect and sensuality?” Mel asked, enjoying his surprise at her obvious expertise.

  “That too. Matisse preferred to be judged by the total expressiveness of his work, feeling that it was the vision and handling of the materials that was most important, rather than the reality of the subject itself.”

  “So for you it’s the design process that’s most intriguing? Not the finished product?”

  “You could say that,” John revealed. “So do you like the paintings?”

  “They’re very good, but…” Melanie let her voice trail off as she rethought her unspoken remark.

  “But what?” John probed.

  “But they don’t really fit into the office décor. Then again, Mr. Carlson, neither do you,” she replied, honestly speaking her mind.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that this office doesn’t seem to match your personality,” she said, bracing herself for more of this afternoon’s gruffness.

  To Melanie’s surprise, laughter erupted from John’s mouth, melting away the hard unpleasant lines of his earlier face, replacing them with more youthful, character-enhancing ones. The transformation was remarkable. Along with John’s hearty laughter, the terse, impatient tone he’d used earlier also came tumbling out, leaving a lighter and much more acceptable resonance.

  “I’d be interested in knowing what kind of décor you think would fit me, though based on my behavior in the meeting, I suppose a cave would seem more appropriate.”

  Melanie found herself chuckling in agreement. Not only did she find the visual depiction of his words apropos, she appreciated John’s self-depreciating attempt at an apology.

  “Maybe not quite that retro, but I definitely see you working in a lighter and less formal atmosphere. One not quite so Wall Street Willie,” Mel said with a laugh, gracefully sweeping the room with her arms. “I would think that you’d find it difficult to be creative in this space.”

  “I’m impressed,” John said, surprised that this young woman’s insight was not only bull’s-eye accurate, but thoroughly welcomed.

  “Are you saying that I’m right about the mismatch between you and your work space?”

  “Totally. Except for the artwork and photos, nothing in here is mine. This was actually my former partner’s office. I moved in here when he retired and, frankly, haven’t had the time or energy to have it redone. I have to say that you seem to have an uncanny ability to deduce personality and apply it to your design strategy.”

  “Had you stayed for my entire presentation, you’d have already discovered that,” Mel jabbed lightly.

  “I walked in that room with a major headache both figuratively and literally. You had nothing to do with my abrupt departure.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Melanie replied, not sure if he was actually apologizing.

  “Good. Now, have a seat and tell me about yourself. How did you get into this crazy business?” John asked, enjoying the vision of Mel crossing her shapely legs.

  “As far back as I can remember, I was always rearranging the furniture in the house. My mom and dad pretty much humored me, until I discovered Feng Shui and reorganized all the living room furniture, making it more spiritually in tune with the Universe. Unfortunately, when my father came home from work late that night, he tripped over the newly placed rug and broke his collarbone. After that, I could do whatever I wanted with my room, but the rest of the house was off-limits.”

  “As a kid I would sit for hours building houses out of anything I could get my hands on—playing cards, sugar cubes, matchboxes, you name it,” John revealed, smiling at memories that hadn’t surfaced in years.

  “I guess Legos just weren’t good enough for you?” Mel teased.

  “Your young age is telling, Ms. Hitts. I am part of the Lincoln Logs generation. My building material of choice, however, was cardboard boxes, especially the big refrigerator ones. My father owned an appliance store and would bring them home from work, and using scraps of carpet and various odds and ends laying around the garage, I would build my own litt
le world. The best part was that I could actually live in my creation. It made a great place to hide,” John added unconsciously.

  Melanie saw the faraway look in his eyes and let the last comment go. “Is that what you love about being an architect? That your art is functional?”

  John paused for a moment, contemplating her question. It had been so long since he’d thought of himself as an artist. When and where had that side of him disappeared?

  “I guess in a way it is,” he answered. “I like the idea of civic art…that what I create can be utilized and enjoyed by the public as well as add beauty to the environment.”

  “I totally know what you mean,” Melanie said, leaning forward, the excitement of mutual understanding apparent in her body language. “I love being an interior designer because each client provides a new challenge to produce something beautiful and individual. Most people think that architecture and design are simply about building and decorating, they don’t understand that in the theater of life, we create the backdrops that set the mood for people’s daily existence.”

  “You’re absolutely right.” He nodded, enjoying the obvious delight she felt toward her work. How long had it been since he’d felt that joy? Their conversation was halted by the grating buzz of John’s intercom. “Yes, Gale? Thanks for the reminder,” he said into the phone before hanging up and standing. “Unfortunately, as much as I’m enjoying our conversation, I have an important meeting in a few minutes.”

  “And I really should get back to my office,” Melanie said, knowing it was true, but wanting to stay and talk more. Since encountering John Carlson two hours ago, she’d gone through the full Monty of emotions—fear, anger, and now respect. It was gratifying to finally speak with someone who understood the deeper reasons why she loved what she did.

  “I’d like us to sit down again to discuss how our two firms can work together. I still believe that BenAlex is too small for a job of this size, but I’m sure there will be other opportunities,” John remarked, smiling broadly, surprised by his comment. He was perplexed by his potent desire to see this young woman again.

  “I’ll let Paco and Whitney know. They’ll be thrilled to talk with you personally.”

  “Great.” At the risk of sounding flirtatious, John didn’t verbalize that he had no intention of convening with her firm’s partners if Melanie was not part of the conference.

  “Despite our rocky start, it was a real pleasure to meet you, Mr. Carlson.”

  “Please call me John. May I call you Melanie?”

  “Of course.”

  “It was delightful talking with you, Melanie. We seem to be of like mind when it comes to our work, so I’m sure we’ll be speaking again soon. And hold on to that feeling of exhilaration for what you do. I’m afraid that after you’ve been around as long as I have, it’s easy to get burned out and forget why you come to work every day,” John advised.

  “But it must be hard to keep that excitement going when you’re simply overseeing someone else’s inspiration. No true artist can be happy merely being an administrator.”

  Like a gentle breeze clearing the morning mist, Melanie’s comment brought instant clarity to his mottled emotions. This young woman who was blessed with the face of cherub, the soul of an artist, and the intelligence of a scholar, had tapped into the root cause of his long-running ennui. In the short span of time they had spent together, John had recalled moments and feelings about his life and his work that he hadn’t thought about in years. Melanie’s intuitive knowledge of him and who he was as a man amazed and frightened him. It was a dichotomy of feelings John Carlson neither wanted nor intended to ignore.

  Chapter 5

  During the forty-minute conference call with the Vogue Belize representatives, John paid only minimal attention, instead concentrating on compiling a list of tasks necessary to get rolling on his newest pet project. Immediately after concluding his phone meeting, he buzzed his secretary into the office. While he waited for Gale, he rang downstairs.

  “Dianna, call the folks in Miami and set up a meeting as soon as possible. And then bring me the files on the Hotel Rico.”

  “I thought you weren’t interested in doing a boutique hotel.”

  “I’ve change my mind.”

  “Okay. My team is pretty tied up with the Vogue, but I’m sure we could get some preliminary ideas to you in the next couple of weeks.”

  “Not necessary, I’m going to take care of this myself,” John said as he excitedly waved Gale into the room.

  “You’re going to do this? By yourself?”

  “Last I looked, I was still a licensed architect. I think I can handle it,” John replied with a chuckle.

  “All righty, then, I’ll get that file up to you pronto,” Dianna said.

  “Thank you,” John said before hanging up and turning to his secretary. “Gale, would you please call the BenAlex Design Group and set up a meeting? Check my calendar and juggle any appointments necessary so it can happen yesterday.”

  “What shall I tell them the meeting is regarding?”

  “Tell them we’ve decided to use Melanie Hitts for the Hotel Rico.”

  “Will Dianna and Austin be taking the meeting?”

  “No, I’ll be taking the lead myself. Oh, I’ve decided to move down to the fifth floor while I’m on this project. I can’t work in here. Get someone to clean up that vacant office next to the model shop…. What? Why are you standing there staring at me?”

  “It’s just that I haven’t seen you this inspired over a new project in a long time.”

  “Is that bad?” John laughed.

  “Not at all,” Gale said. “As Martha Stewart would say, it’s a good thing.”

  Too good a thing to ignore, John thought, happily recognizing a twinge of professional thrill tiptoeing through his body.

  Melanie dropped her keys twice before successfully negotiating the locks and stumbling into the apartment. She leaned against the front door and immediately freed her tired, aching feet by kicking off her heels. They landed across the room with a loud thud.

  “Shhh. Shhh, you’ll wake Candy,” she reminded herself before remembering that Candace was spending the weekend with her married lover, Frank. With no need to be a considerate roommate, Melanie turned on the stereo and pumped up the volume on her favorite Macy Gray CD. Attempting to keep her buzz on, she poured herself a glass of Merlot.

  She’d been out with Whitney, Paco, Alisa, Jude, and the rest of the firm celebrating the acquisition of not only one, but two jobs from the almighty Carlson and Tuck. This meant huge revenues for BenAlex and personal kudos for Melanie. At first she’d been disappointed to learn that Jude had been selected for the Carlson residence account, but when Whitney broke the news that she would be the lead designer on the Hotel Rico, Mel could not believe her incredible fortune. To make the announcement even more special, her colleagues seemed genuinely happy for her. Melanie felt doubly blessed to have landed in such a warm and supportive working environment.

  “A toast to Melo. Job well done,” she mumbled, turning to refill her wineglass and noticing the blinking light on the telephone. She picked up the receiver, dialed her code, and listened to the messages. There was a request from Candace asking Mel to water her orchids and a second, more instantly sobering report from her sister:

  “Hi, sis. I know it’s after midnight, but this news couldn’t wait. Actually I’m glad you aren’t home. Hopefully it means you’re out somewhere having a good time. I have some juicy information for you. Xavier and I were at the reception tonight at the Kennedy Center, you know, the fundraiser for the 100 Black Men’s mentoring program, the one I tried to get you to come down for? Anyway, guess who we ran into? Will. And guess whose name he managed to slip into our conversation at least ten times? The man definitely still has the hots for you—BIG TIME. He wanted a complete update on your life and was anxious to give me his. I’m sure he’s hoping that I’ll pass his success story on to you, so here goes. Your ex-fiancé just
got a huge promotion at his job. Looks like America Online has big plans for his future. Now, don’t be upset, sister dear, but I invited him to the christening this weekend. You used to be pretty crazy about the brother, and as far as I can tell, you haven’t hooked up with anyone since you’ve been up in the Big Apple. I figure that must mean something. Like maybe you still have feelings for Will too? Call me.”

  Melanie returned to the main menu, followed the recorded instructions and left an angry voice message in her sister’s mailbox:

  “Francesca, have you lost your mind? What are you thinking? Will and I are over. I thought I’d made that clear to him and everyone else. We haven’t spoken in months and that’s exactly the way I plan to leave it. And while you were busy minding my business, did you ever stop to think about what this is going to do to Mom and Dad? They were more upset when we broke up than I was. Getting their hopes up is just plain cruel. I suggest you explain the realities of the situation before I get down there. I know it’s your party and you can invite who you want to, but in the future, sister dear, keep your nose out of my love life.”

  Melanie slammed the phone into its cradle, mentally cursing Francesca not only for ruining her good mood, but for putting her in such an untenable situation. There was no way she could or even wanted to skip the christening of her niece, just as there was no way that Will would pass up an opportunity to see her. Thanks to Franti’s meddling, what should be a wonderful family occasion now had the potential of turning into emotionally charged chaos.

  Mel walked back into her room to get ready for bed. As she removed her clothes, she also stripped away the anger, forcing herself to acknowledge the truth in Francesca’s comments. There wasn’t a day that she didn’t wake up thinking about Will Freedman or fall asleep without his name being the last thing on her mind. In fact, he had been the first person she’d wanted to call and share the good news with about her new client. It was true that her love for Will remained, but so did all the nagging questions and doubts.