Barbara from your office. We can celebrate your promotion and me surviving that call. Oh, wait. Didn’t Mer want to set you up with a new guy from her office?”
I gave a small eye roll. “Yeah. Jed or something.”
“His name is Jed? No. Way too ‘dude bro’ for you.”
I laughed. “You can’t judge someone on their name.”
“I can. And I will. You wouldn’t date someone named Adolf, would you? Anyway,” she barreled on as she often did, waving a hand elaborately in the air. “You need to be with someone who sounds foreign and exotic. Josephine and … Xavier. I like that.” She pronounced it—Zav-ee-yeah.
“Who the heck is Xavier?” I asked, pouring some granola and yoghurt into a bowl.
“The filthy rich Frenchman I have a call with today. That name is … ahhh. I’m not saying him, obviously, but a name like that. Though, wow, he’s hot. You’re named after a queen. Your guy’s name should be just as awesome. Just saying.”
I shook my head with a grin. “You’re hilarious. I believe she was an empress, not a queen. But the name obsession is better than when you were obsessed with matching everyone’s Chinese horoscopes in college.”
“Hey, that’s a real thing.”
Tabs ducked into her room and I called my mother back.
“Ma.”
“Josephine. I thought you were going to forget to call me before you left for work.” Her voice was a mix of relief and accusation with a healthy side of guilt-tripping. Ah, mothers.
I took a deep breath. “Nope. Just trying to get showered and dressed. I’ll call you as soon as I get out of the meeting.”
“I’m so proud of you, Josephine. If I don’t say it enough, I just want you to know it. After Nicolas—” her voice hitched. “Well, I’m so thankful our family name will be prestigious once again. Your father, God rest his soul, is so proud of you. I know it.”
“Thank you. And Mom, I’m not making partner yet. That’s a few years away. No pressure or anything. ”
“You know I don’t mean it like that.”
“I know.” And I did.
“Good luck, my darling.”
“Thanks. I love you, Ma.”
We hung up, and I gobbled down granola, brushed my teeth, applied lip gloss, and headed out.
The streets were just waking up. Street sweepers were finishing their shifts, and garbage trucks tipped last night’s bottles and trash from the alleys behind all the bars and restaurants.
I stopped in at my favorite coffee shop, Armand’s, and ordered an espresso with a shot of cream. It was served in a tiny paper cup, and it was just the bolt of energy I needed before a day like today. I swung onto East Bay Street, taking a hit of the marsh and sea breeze coming in off the water, and passed by Rainbow Row, the colorful historic townhomes that faced the Charleston Historic Foundation building and the Charleston Yacht Club. I waved at the French lady, Sylvie, who worked at the yacht showroom on King Street as she passed me on the opposite side of the road. Most mornings I ran into her at Armand’s, and we sometimes exchanged small talk.
Finally, I arrived at the plate glass doors of Donovan and Tate, FAIA, CPBD, NSPE, one of Charleston’s most prestigious architecture firms. With my hand on the stainless steel bar that served as a door handle, I paused and thought of my conversation with my mom. Without her believing in me as hard as she did, I doubt I would have made it this far this soon. It helped that I felt as though I was doing this for my father. Hopefully one day, there’d be another name on the door plate. Mine. I’d been so happy to be granted an interview after my graduate degree, and even more overwhelmed to have been offered a position at such a prestigious firm to complete my three-year residency requirement to get licensed that I’d jumped aboard and never looked back. I’d always loved architecture, ever since my dad would take me on long walks on Sundays around the city and point out all the various details people used that evoked the feel of this influence or that.
I’d also been relieved to have Mr. Donovan instead of Mr. Tate as the partner overseeing my residency requirement. It seemed it was an unspoken understanding that it was best if Mr. Tate didn’t mentor young, impressionable women. Mr. Donovan, I knew, had my back. He respected my work and often made sure my contributions weren’t overlooked. However,