[title subtitle=”WORDS Liesel Schmidt
IMAGE Anton Mukhin/Shutterstock”][/title]
Laurel stared out the window.
It was the perfect day: cloudless azure sky, bright sun, just a tinge of warmth in the air to hint that spring was on its way out and summer was approaching. The neighborhood kids were off on holiday—though, for the life of her, she couldn’t have told you which one it was. They seemed to have so many of them these days. And then there was Marjorie Lazuli from next door, a slip of an old woman who walked her Chihuahua at the exact same time, three times a day, every day. She was somewhat the neighborhood novelty—in part because she wore a different shade of lipstick every day of the week, and one could tell what day it was simply by looking at her carefully done lips. Further adding to the mystique was the fact that she spoke with a French accent, though no one knew just where in France she was from. The dog was equally an oddity, as Mrs. Lazuli dressed him in a bowtie and tiny blue beret. His name was Guillaume.
They were both out this afternoon, on their second walk of the day. Laurel looked at her watch. Two o’clock, just as always. But unlike always, she was at loose ends. She had been for the past week, ever since that phone call. The phone call that reminded her just how risky this had all been.
She turned away from the window and padded across the kitchen floor to the table where she had her laptop set up. She’d started her own business a year ago, leaving the company she’d worked with since she was twenty years old to do something of her own, something that she could truly call hers. As exciting as it had been, it had also been terrifying; and now the riskiness of it all had come home to roost. A year in, and she was nearly drowning.
Laurel checked her email, her heart sinking at the lack of activity in her Inbox. Not that she hadn’t been trying. She’d marketed herself and sent out résumés to all of the builders in the area. With as much experience as she’d had as an architect, she had hoped to have more success by now. But she’d always been anonymous, just a name at the bottom of the page that never shined because the names on the door and across the letterhead were so much brighter. Now hers was the only name, but it didn’t seem to matter because no one knew it. Not yet.
A tapping at the window startled her.
She whipped around in her chair to see who was there, half expecting one of the neighborhood hoodlums to be there with their face pressed against the pane, trying to scare her. Instead, she saw Mrs. Lazuli’s wrinkled little face peering through, the oversized frames of her glasses like goggles.
Laurel gave her an uncertain smile and gestured at her to come to the front door.
“Beautiful day we are having, no?” Mrs. Lazuli asked in her thick accent once Laurel had opened the door. Her lips were a deep red today—Monday’s color. Meanwhile, Guillaume regarded Laurel with disinterest. He was much more concerned with the ladybug that had lighted on the stoop.
Laurel nodded at the question, wondering what might have precipitated the visit. Mrs. Lazuli kept largely to herself, though she had a nodding acquaintance with everyone in the neighborhood.
“What can I help you with, Mrs. Lazuli?” Laurel asked finally, unsure she really wanted to know.
The old woman’s face broke out into a smile. “I have a proposition for you, cherie.”
Laurel arched an eyebrow. A proposition? The woman was nothing short of a book character with the way she looked and spoke. Still, it somehow worked for her.
Mrs. Lazuli spoke again before Laurel had a chance to get a word out. “You are an architect, no?”
Laurel straightened. She hadn’t even realized how hunched her posture had been, standing there in the doorway. “Yes, I am,” she replied, finally finding her voice. “Come in.” She stepped aside to let the woman pass, trailing a reluctant Guillaume behind her.
She showed Mrs. Lazuli into the living room, where the little woman perched herself on the couch, her back rod straight. She crossed her ankles primly. “Before we go any further, I must insist that you call me Marjorie. Much better we are friendly, n’est-ce pas?”
Laurel could only gape at her for a moment. It was just all too surreal. “I completely agree. Call me Laurel,” she said with what she hoped was a smile.
“Good. Laurel.” Marjorie cocked her head to the side and nodded thoughtfully, like she was giving her approval of the name. Honestly, though, Laurel thought her name sounded much better coming out of the French woman’s mouth. “You are an architect. I need an architect.”
“Are you moving, Mrs.—Marjorie?” Laurel caught herself. Calling the woman by her first name was going to take getting used to.
Marjorie gave her a puzzled look. “Moving? No. Why would you think this?”
“Your house is so lovely. But the lot is too small for an expansion, and the home is already three stories.” Laurel paused. “I also know for a fact that you renovated every room in that house last year.”
Marjorie pursed her lips, and Laurel couldn’t gauge whether she was amused or perturbed at having people know her business. In any case, she seemed happy enough to continue. “You are correct in all of your assessments, and so very astute, cherie. This is what I am looking for.” Again, the approving nod. “But I am not looking for my house. Not this one. I have, though, a second home. A pied-à-terre. I use it whenever I go to see my grandson in the city. I need my own space, you see. And he needs his. He is like you, young—and I am not so young.” Her hand fluttered in the air as she said the words, like she was waving them away.
Laurel was still trying to digest everything happening in her living room. Guillaume had abandoned his post at Marjorie’s feet and begun to explore the rest of the house. She hoped he hadn’t peed in the plants…
“So, you want to hire me to renovate your…second home?” Laurel asked, knowing she probably sounded simple, but she wanted to make sure she was following.
Marjorie smiled beatifically and nodded. “Oui. I want you to do it. I have done my research, cherie. I know of your past work. And I wish to help support a woman in business. I know it is not an easy path, a woman working for herself.”
Laurel’s mouth tipped up in a slight smile of agreeance. She had no idea.
“Well, you will do this work for me. And then everyone will know your name. Watch. Wait. You will see.”
And just as quickly as she had come, the little French woman was gone, leaving only a whiff of perfume behind.
***************************************
Laurel held the phone in her hand and lifted it up to her ear to hear the message once again. That message. “Ms. Michaels, this is your lender. Our records show that you’ve fallen behind on your mortgage. Please give us a call at your earliest convenience.”
It was short, but the message had sent chills down her spine. It had been a reminder of all she had risked, and how far she had fallen from the dream.
She took a deep breath and smoothed the front of her blouse. Then she walked, one foot in front of the other, into the lobby, stopping only to give her name to the doorman. It took only a short elevator ride to the top floor—the penthouse—where she stepped out directly into the foyer of an apartment. She looked around, taking in what she saw.
Marjorie’s apartment—her pied-à-terre—was spacious and full of windows that afforded spectacular views of the city skyline. The bones were there, good bones. Laurel walked around and did a visual survey of the floorplan, noting the different spaces, the high ceilings, the original detailing, the play of the light in certain rooms. It was almost breathtaking, realizing that this—this—was her project.
“Welcome to my home, Laurel,” Marjorie said, coming up quietly behind her. “Now is your time to shine.”
