Fiona wanted to see and interview her—today. Vivien jumped on the opportunity.
As she left for the meeting, Vivien hoped she had the same luck and energy launching her business as Tessa seemed to have with hers. Other than staging the Summer House, which was why Vivien had come here in the first place, she still had no other accounts for her design and décor venture.
But Fiona not only had a historic house to “redo”—whatever that meant—she ran a property management business that could unlock oodles of work for Vivien. The local Airbnbs were in constant need of a refresh or remodeling, so a client like that could be an amazing launching pad for Vivien Lawson Designs.
As she arrived at the address in the upscale golf-course neighborhood of Indian Bayou, it was instantly clear that Fiona’s house was not exactlyhistoric,as the woman had said.Pulling into the long driveway and eyeing the corner lot that featured a large Victorian-style house, Vivien would call that a bit of an exaggeration.
Of course, she was the daughter of an architect and Roger Lawson would have dubbed this two-story 1980s build a “McVic”—a faux Victorian. And it wouldn’t have been a compliment.
Yes, it had the grand wraparound porch lined with gingerbread trim and wrought-iron railings curling like black lace against the deep green clapboard. The perfunctory towering bay windows gleamed beneath a steeply pitched roof with filigree and fantasy all around.
But it was dated, fake, and screaming for a renovation.
Fiona had said that she’d recently bought the house from the original owner, who’d done nothing to it for decades, and she wanted a complete remodel of the inside.
So today, Vivien’s job was to impress the potential client and secure the assignment, or at least leave the door open to writing up a proposal. They’d only talked briefly at the party, but Vivien remembered the sixty-ish widow, and thought her to be no-nonsense and tough.
Which could translate into inflexible and nasty, but hey. After a lifetime under Maggie Lawson? Vivien certainly could handle a woman who knew what she wanted.
Grabbing her laptop bag, Vivien stepped out of her car and glanced down to smooth the outfit that had been heavily vetted by Lacey.
Deciding that Fiona would likely be a style snob, she’d gone with a pale blue silk shell and the pride and joy of her closet—off-white Belgian flax linen trousers that she never wore for fear rain would destroy their luster. She added her beautiful open-toed Steve Madden patent leather slides with a stacked heel for the finishing touch.
Fortunately, it was a cloudless day bathed in Destin sunshine, so she carried her light tweed blue and cream jacket—a Chanel knock-off, but still exquisite. Stepping onto the walkway, she squared her shoulders, adjusted the jacket and laptop, and slid her best bag into place.
Good morning, Ms. Buckman,she practiced in her head.I’m delighted to?—
What was that noise? She turned left and right, aware of a high-pitched whine, then a clunk, and?—
“Oh, my God!” she shrieked as what felt like fifteen nozzles from the sprinkler system rose up and burst to life, gushing water all over her. “What is happening?”
She looked from side to side, seeing nothing but shoulder-high streams of water pouring over everything—including her silk and linen.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” A man’s voice broke through the noise of the sprinklers.
She turned, holding up her hands in a failed attempt to shield herself. She flew off the walkway and leaped toward the grass, which looked bone dry.
But it wasn’t, and the slides did indeedslide, taking her right down to the ground with a thud that sent her laptop and handbag sailing.
“Hang on!” a man she still couldn’t see called. “I got this!”
As fast as it started, the water stopped. A second later, a man dressed in a filthy T-shirt and baggy shorts came darting out of side bushes, rushing toward her.
“You okay?”
She looked up at him, speechless and soaked.
“Oh, man, I’m really sorry. I’m trying to fix the sprinkler system, and you just showed up at the very wrong moment. I didn’t see you.” He crouched down on one knee, a ballcap and sunglasses hiding his face and whiskers that hadn’t seen a razor in a few days showing a mix of gray and black. “Are you hurt?”
She managed a breath and looked down at the soaked pants—with a grass stain!— and the not-really-Chanel jacket strewn on the ground next to one of her shoes.
He followed her gaze and picked up the shoe, holding it out to her on one knee like he was Prince Charming. She could have hit him with it.
“This yours?” he asked.
She snorted at the abject stupidity of the question. “Yes.”
“I’m really sorry.” He held out his other hand, rising to offer her assistance. “Coast was clear before I went into the bushes to turn on the valve.”
