Page 16 of The Trouble with Love and Ink
The organization of the account pleasantly surprised me. Each client had her own folder. Notes filled the calendar with due dates. It jarred me, all this coming from the girl whose backpack in high school had contained an avalanche of loose papers and half-empty snack trash.
Me: Who is the client?
Hailey: Victoria. I already completed all the invitations and signage for the shower. So there’s just some signage for the wedding and she wants live lettering at her shower.
I frowned. A lot of calligraphers did live lettering. I’d seen plenty of YouTube videos on it. They’d set up a table, and guests would come over to have a favor signed—or a product if done in a store. I typically practiced calligraphy alone in my apartment, braless. The idea of having an audience made me sweat, but I supposed I could do it.
Me: What does she want to be signed?
Hailey: Capiz shells
Me: When is the shower?
Hailey: Last Saturday in April
That would give me over a month to mentally prepare. I opened Victoria’s folder and started clicking through the email threads. It looked as though Hailey must have been communicating with Victoria through a wedding planner, Amanda.
I studied the shower invite sample with its deep green envelope and gold lettering and immediately recognized it from the letter I’d found in Hailey’s laundry pile. I made a mental note to mail the lost invite the next time I was at Hailey’s.
Clicking through emails, I found Victoria’s color scheme. It seemed like Hailey and Amanda must have done a lot of communicating over the phone because I didn’t see much about the signage or live lettering Hailey had referred to.
I opened the most recent email, which had been sent to Hailey today. Amanda had requested a meeting. Victoria wanted to get with each vendor to ensure everyone was on the same page about deadlines and expectations.
As an almost P.S., Amanda asked if Hailey could do something for the wedding similar to the attached picture—a pane of glass brushed with bright colors, then in the middle of the splash of color, a Mr. and Mrs. Last Name in white calligraphy letters followed by a wedding date.
I considered it. I hadn’t done a project exactly like that, but I felt certain I could pull something like that off. I’d do it in layers. My lettering on the glass would come first, possibly gold instead of the white in the example photo. Then I’d add her colors to the back: a swipe of sweet coral followed by a mellow magenta, all backdropped by a deep plum.
My heart rate picked up at the prospect of it. I set my phone down, trying to rein myself in. Because I shouldn’t have even been entertaining the prospect. The idea of getting to use my calligraphy skills, to show off what years of practice and dedication could do . . . it was exhilarating. And that felt dangerous, like I was standing too close to the edge of the Grand Canyon. If I got distracted by the beauty of it, I’d fall into its depthless, gaping hole.
But then again, what was the risk? I wouldn’t quit The Arlow Group. Hailey had already done the heavy lifting—getting the business up and running. I just had to keep it that way.
I’d wanted a vacation. Maybe, in a way, this could be it. A much-needed distraction from the brutally long workdays.
I replied to Victoria’s message.
Me: I’d love to meet and about the glass pane, let me see what I can do.
Chapter 6
I’d been too excited to sleep last night. It reminded me of being in elementary school, that last night of summer when you lie awake in bed knowing only your new teacher’s name. That fear and thrill of the unknown, being on the cusp of change, heart thrumming, and mind reeling with the possibilities. Taking on Hailey’s client, accepting the job, had awoken that feeling in me.
But now, getting ready to dip my toes in the cold pool, all I felt was grumpy, possibly a little doubtful of the decision. I should have slept on it before being so quick to decide.
It’s fine. It will be fine. I can still back out, I reminded myself, nearing the lanes. The first of which had my favorite elderly couple. The man backstroked down the lane while the woman pumped her arms, moving along in the aqua jogger.
What wasn’t expected was the guy in the other lane, the only other lane. Barring the elderly couple, I hadn’t ever seen anyone else in the pool at the time I swam. And this guy had the form of a pro. He gave off Michael Phelps vibes, the way he glided across the water, pulling himself forward with strong arms.
Peeling my eyes away from the Poseidon in the pool, I benched my duffle and mentally prepared myself for sharing a lane with someone who obviously had something serious to train for. Whether that be an Ironman or just to keep his back and shoulders chiseled, he was serious about it. I hated imposing, but I already had on my damn swimsuit, hair tucked into my cap, goggles suctioned around my eyes.
He stopped to get a gulp from his blender bottle, and I knew it was now or never to approach him. He might go for a marathon swim and not come to the surface for hours.
As I got closer, I couldn’t help but admire the ink wrapped around his forearm: floral work with beautiful, intricate lines. The flowers popped in shades of red. I didn’t know flowers, especially ones so delicate, could look masculine, but they did on this guy.
Poseidon of the gym pool noticed me and pinched a spot on his headphones, seeming to pause them. I crouched down to say, Mind sharing a lane? But as my goggled eyes fell on him, I realized, with horror, I recognized that confident jawline, the sharp eyebrows, those full lips.
My request died in my throat. Instead, I sputtered, “You’re in my lane,” to my office enemy.
Beck pulled off his goggles, laughing. “I’m sorry. This is my first day.” He made a show of looking around. “Where can I find the reservation for this lane?”
