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“What are you building? Is it a bridge or a hotel?”
“A house.”
“I didn’t know you worked in residential architecture.”
“I don’t ordinarily. But this was an especially large commission, around forty million for a single-family dwelling and various appurtenances.”
“What?”
“The trappings or accessories of the lifestyle. Massive garage. Stables. Pool house, gatehouse, storage buildings for lawn equipment, holiday decorations, pool furniture, probably an outdoor family room with a fire feature and standing heaters to extend the life of the outdoor space into a three-season feature. Whatever is both showy and restrained, enviable. It’s a dream project for me because it allows me to show off and give in to my lust for textures, sheer, crisp linens, and the luster of finely woven silk, diaphanous white, and a sultry cream. An ivory velvet for winter.”
“I thought you did the bones—the design of the structure itself.”
“Yes, I do. I also consult with our in-house interior designers on the aesthetic. The people who commission such a project have no interest in trying to outfit it themselves. They want it delivered complete. The moving company we contract with will pack and transport their belongings so the organizer can put them away.”
“You’re kidding. It’s just—throw money at it, and you get to walk into an entirely new home with your toothbrush already on the sink?”
“Definitely not on the sink. More like in the custom glass apothecary jars sourced from Italy,” I said dryly. “I don’t ordinarily talk about the logistics of relocating the very rich. It’s not the best dinner conversation.”
She chuckled, “You make it sound like some zoo is moving an exotic animal to another zoo and they have to be careful not to let it get in the wrong temperature or drink tap water because it could die.”
“You’re not wrong,” I chuckled at her observation. “They have that rare animal quality of having to be protected from, not just the elements, but inconvenience as well. Someone’s assistant will tell us what colors and styles they like and what to avoid. I don’t expect to have any direct communication from the clients themselves. My theory, and I’m sure I’d be reprimanded at work if I said so in the office, is that they wouldn’t even understand the questions we asked. They’d say, oh I don’t know, can you ask Paige? She handles all that.”
“They don’t know what they even like? That’s some kind of crazy.”
“No, they just don’t bother to think about it. I’m betting if I asked you about your dream shop, you’d tell me everything and show me a Pinterest board and maybe tell me a movie or a show you saw something on years ago that you loved that inspired the vibe you like.”
“Definitely,” she said, her eyes alight. “I’m so lucky to have my own business and be able to build a customer base and be on the road to success and I know that. But I feel like crap when I look at it. Dingy old floors that still look that way no matter how much I mop, the paint on the walls turned out a weird color because I had to buy cheap paint, and I just have the used tables with not enough chairs. I tried doing tablecloths for the seasons, but I couldn’t get the stains out when I washed them and I don’t have time to go to the laundromat every night, and no one wants a gross tablecloth when they sit down. So, I had to give up.”
“You didn’t give up. You learned what didn’t work. We all do that. Now tell me about the flooring and the walls and the tables, what they’re supposed to look like.”
I wanted to hear her describe it. I was sure that I knew what she’d say, or most of it, after years of working in architectural design and learning to read what my clients would prefer. I was guessing a sunny Hamptons-style shop with clean, bright surfaces and fresh flowers on every bistro table. A chalkboard with the day’s specials and a tastefully framed photo of Madison with her favorite TV chef on the wall.
Madison beamed at me for a second and launched into her description, words bubbling over and tumbling into one another with her enthusiasm.
“My dream shop could be in the space I have now if I just had limitless resources, agreeable tradesmen, and a magic window of time where they transformed my storefront during nighttime hours, so I never had to close for the work to get done.” She smiled a little sheepishly.
“Not logistics, just tell me what it’s like. How does it look and feel to you?”
“Like home. You know that one gnome I have in the shop?”
“The thing in the corner by the door,” I affirmed.
“Yeah, well, that’s Greeley. He’s the butler. My vision is just that he’d be in whatever seasonal setting I make for him. In fall maybe some grapevine or branches and leaves, a small crackling fire, not a real fire but a flickering light that looks like a campfire. That would set the tone. A sort of curiosity shop with interesting things you want to look at closer and delicious smells. The light is sort of amber, cozier.”
She took a sip of her water, then started in again while I was busily tearing down the generic shop in my mind and rebuilding something strange and fascinating.
“Kids would love to come there and see what was new and look for things in the scavenger hunt changes every week with a new I-Spy for them to hunt for and check off on laminated cards while their parents order and wait for stuff. I wouldn’t just have muffins and scones and cookies. I’d have some cakes and tarts and there would always be mini samples out for people to try while they wait for their coffee.”
Madison’s choices were atmospheric but customer-focused, considerate of the non-paying children as well as the parents who made purchases. It was fascinating to hear how thoroughly she’d thought this through, not merely the flooring or walls but the experience as a whole. It felt visionary and immersive. Listening to her speak about this subject on which she was so passionate and playful and serious all at once captivated me all over again. This was the difference between a refreshing sip of water on a hot day and a bracing plunge down a waterfall.
She only paused so we could order our meals and launched back into the description.
Madison went on, “I’d have an area for picnic supplies. Packages of reusable plates and flatware, bottles of wine and sparkling lemonade, packages you could buy where we pack your lunch—sandwiches on good bread with local cheese, some good avocado and tomato and a hummus with homemade pita chips, cups of melon or diced apples with a caramel drizzle, a tart to share. Just everything you need to have an elevated urban picnic and make a perfect memory—whether it’s your best friend or your lover or your eight-year-old niece.”
“Picnic. It’s a great idea, of course, I just thought your focus was on the coffee and baked goods.”
“It is. Absolutely. This is the dream scenario. You were thinking like what kind of layout I wanted in the kitchen or what does the seating look like, but I’m nerding out over the details and it’s the ambitious vision.”
