I managed a smile as I greeted Patrice Yancey in the lobby, her perky little bichon frise powder puff dog poised in her lap. Patrice rose, jewelry dripping from nearly every appendage. Britney Spears as a great-grandmother. Bottle blonde, false lashes, skin too long in the sun, and a fondness for push-up bras that revealed plunges scary enough to frighten the most daring of cliff divers. Yet at eighty-five, she could still run mental circles around most people. Pair that with a stubborn streak, and the woman had been a real challenge for the six years I’d had her account.

But the reason behind the incessant redecorating of her nine-thousand-square-foot home softened my heart toward her—that and the handsome stream of revenue, of course.

“Claire! The refrigerator drawers absolutely must be moved. I lay awake all night thinking they’d be better off in the island, which is where you suggested I put them in the first place, but—”

I listened, hearing both what she was saying and what she wasn’t.

“—as you always tell me, this house is an extension of myself, and I need to be pleased with it. Which I am certainly not at present! And that cabinet man of yours isn’t returning my calls—seven since last night!”

She took a breath, and I broke in. “I’ll happily reach the subcontractor for you, and we’ll work together until everything is to your absolute satisfaction.”

She shook her head. “Frankly, I don’t think he’s coming back. And I’m not sure I want him to.” The little puffball in her arms growled as though in agreement. “Last time, he told me I should stick to the choices I’d already made. The audacity! We need someone else, Claire. Today. Now!”

Having ridden these rapids before, I motioned toward the meeting room. “Let’s get you and Beatrice settled first.” I turned to Andrew at the reception desk. “Would you be so kind as to get a raspberry lemonade for Mrs. Yancey—extra ice and two slices of lemon. And a demitasse of whipped cream for Beatrice, too, please.” He and I shared a discreet wink.

If the cabinet contractor had really said those things to Patrice, I’d need to have a conversation with him. In high demand, he was also young and rough around the edges. And a wealthy, loyal client had the right to change her mind, no matter how frustrating it might be.

I excused myself to grab Patrice’s file from my office. I could hardly wait to share with my boss, Sandra Schaffer, the outcome of my appointment earlier that morning. Stephen hadn’t even asked about it, and I’d reminded him of it the night before on the phone.

It seemed he and I passed each other coming and going these days. Actually, for years now. Yet it hadn’t always been this way. He used to make me laugh. We even hid little sticky notes around for each other. We’d leave them in drawers, inside shoes and clothes. I even recalled shampooing my hair and glimpsing one barely clinging to the tile. I had to smile even now at what Stephen had written, grateful Maggie hadn’t seen it. That man . . .

I loved him despite what he’d done. Yet trusting him again, making myself vulnerable with him—that was far more difficult. Neither of us had left notes for the other in a long time. It seemed he should be the one to start that again.

I grabbed Patrice Yancey’s folder, certain the refrigerator drawers could be moved with no issue. I first met Patrice a month after her husband’s heart attack that ended their sixty-eight-year marriage. No warning. No opportunity to say goodbye. Irving Yancey had apparently gotten up during the night for a glass of juice. Patrice found him sprawled on the kitchen floor the next morning.

This was Patrice’s third time remodeling her kitchen since burying him. No matter what you did, some mental pictures could never be erased.

Sixty-eight years . . .

Stephen and I had only twenty-two under our belt, and if things didn’t change, I couldn’t imagine an additional forty-six. My entire lifetime again? Sobering. I’d be ninety-two. Based on current circumstances in my life and the world in general, I wasn’t certain I wanted to live to that ripe old age.

My desk phone rang. It was Sandra.

“How did the Bellingham appointment go, Claire? Success, I’m betting?”

“Very well! We met with the architect, and I brought back signed contracts for the house, the pool house, and the guest cottage. We agreed to look at plans for the boathouse later. I wouldn’t be at all surprised, considering the Bellinghams’ influence in this city, if this doesn’t end up on the cover of Denver Homes & Lifestyles. It’s going to be spectacular!”

“Correction, Ms. Powell. Your skills will put that house on the cover, and I expect another uptick in clientele like we gained from your first cover.”

I smiled beneath her affirmation. “Listen, can we talk in a bit? I have Mrs. Yancey waiting.”

“By all means, see to our lovely Mrs. Yancey, then come see me. It’s important.”

“Will do.”

To say I admired Sandra was an understatement. Recently named as a recipient of Network Journal’s annual 25 Influential Black Women in Business Awards, she’d built Schaffer & Associates Design from the ground up, and I was proud to be one of three senior associates. I still had to pinch myself that I got to do what I loved for a living.

I wondered why she wanted to see me. Issues with the Patricks’ condo renovation perhaps? Or the Stewarts’ “Victorian Beast,” as we’d nicknamed the massive nineteenth-century-style home the couple was building? Thank goodness that project was near completion. Leaving my office, I spotted the cube of sticky notes on my desk and hesitated, then tucked a few in my purse.

An hour later, I accompanied a far-more-contented Patrice Yancey to the lobby, then headed to see Sandra.

Muted tones of white and whisper-light green decor evoked an understated elegance that was the hallmark of Schaffer & Associates Design, one of Denver’s top five residential design firms six years running. Sandra’s energy and business savvy made her an excellent mentor, and over the past decade I’d made it my goal to learn everything I could from her—even if she didn’t like my shopping at T.J. Maxx for the trendy items a client wanted. But why spend more money if you didn’t have to? She finally agreed, as long as I agreed not to advertise the fact. It became a running joke between us.

We’d become friends too, mostly due to her needing an ear during a messy divorce a few years back. But I was careful to keep our office relationship strictly professional. “Friendship should be reserved for outside of work,” Stephen always said—advice he’d promptly forgotten.

Sandra looked up from her laptop as I sat across from her.

She pointed to her screen. “The Bellingham deposit just landed in the account, and with quite a thud, I might add. You’re the best closer I’ve got.”

“Thank you. I learned from the best.” My cell phone vibrated. I sent it to voice mail without looking.

“I do see a lot of myself in you, Claire. For better or worse.” Smiling, she cocked a brow and leaned forward. “You’re my best designer, and the most prolific. You handle yourself the same way, tious and enduring, as it says on your business card. Clients trust you. Which is why”—she stood and extended a hand—“I’m thrilled to announce a change in partnership. From now on, we’ll be known as Schaffer, Powell & Associates Design. How does that sound?”

“Sandra, I-I don’t know what to say.”

But more than that, what would Stephen say? I was quite certain he would react to my good news with as much enthusiasm as I had to his.