three-month period to protect both Monique and Tess in case the job didn’t work out, but Tess was thrilled by the blank slate spread before her. Here was a chance to make her mark in a whole different way.
The first few weeks hadn’t been easy. Outside of avoiding her family like the plague, Tess had spent much of the time navigating the torrents of Monique’s complex ego. Monique demanded she have the final say in each design and had changed a few of Tess’s visions. Tess had bitten her tongue over a few, choosing to bend rather than break.
But the biggest challenge came when she faced Cecily Webb, the head of design for Upstart. The fifty-year-old artist, who’d been with Monique since Graham had left the business, resented Tess and obviously wasn’t going to play fair, if her cold treatment was any evidence. Not to mention, the woman seemed to have hoodwinked the staff by giving counter directives on several float designs, making Tess look wishy-washy. Monique seemed to look on with amused tolerance, as if she thought it best for Tess to handle Cecily herself.
At Ullo, Tess had had final say in design work… even when it came to her father. And she’d never had to deal with fellow employees who didn’t love her.
“Hey, new girl.” One of the papier-mâché guys who worked on a sculpture of a pig flying motioned her over.
“Yeah?” Tess asked, walking over to the man wearing overalls and a fedora—artists were wonderfully weird. “You told Halle to make this part larger, but I think it distorts the face.”
Tess studied the sculpture critically. “I think the larger body will have more punch. The face will be forward but this prop is on the back of the float, so the effect is in the wings and body. Let’s do it that way.”
The man frowned and studied the shape in front of him for a few seconds. “Cecily trusts my judgment.”
“I trust the design. Nothing to do with you, Ben.”
“Whatever you want.”
Tess closed her eyes and sucked in a short breath. “I’m open to suggestions for the poster board props along the sides. What do you think?”
“Bacon?”
Okay, so Ben was a master of sarcasm. “Hmm… actually I like that idea. Let’s go with bacon.”
“Seriously?” He made a face, but after a few seconds he laughed. “It would be ironic.”
“And I love ironic. Let me check with the captain before we go to too much trouble, but I think the effect will be almost iconic. Good call.”
Ben smiled turning back to the large foam pigs torn down to basic concept.
Score one for the new girl.
She strolled over to where Upstart’s head sculptor showed Monique the start of the huge image of the governor that would be affixed to the float for the Krewe d’Etat’s royalty float. Never easy to win the trust of a group of artists. By definition, artists had their own ideas about what worked, and at a Mardi Gras float company they were often free to interpret many props in their own way, but Tess wanted this lead float for the satirical krewe to be spot on. She’d promised Mark Curtis it would have the proper “wow” factor the acerbic krewe demanded.
“Let’s build the nose bigger,” Monique said studying the work-in-progress. “It needs overemphasis to give the right effect.”
“I agree,” Tess said with a nod, sweeping her hand over the entire sculpture. “Makes it more comical… like the guy on Mad Magazine.”
Monique tossed her a smile. “Exactly.”
Score two for the new girl.
Yesterday Monique had asked Tess to attend a meeting with the Krewe of Cleopatra and they had contracted five of the company’s thirty rental floats. Tess had worked on some designs for the company that would meet their theme of “Take it to the Dance Floor” but also be versatile for several other krewes that would be looking to rent. As of yesterday, Monique hadn’t altered the sketches.
Maybe Monique would trust Tess’s visions soon… rather than merely tugging her along for liquid lunches with krewe fat cats.
“Mommy!” the shriek came from their left.
Graham’s daughter. Tess had seen her once from afar and hadn’t engaged her yet, hoping she could forget every aspect about the man.
Tess watched as a rounded little body collided with Monique, causing her to stumble in the too-high-for-the warehouse stilettos.
“Emily,” Monique admonished, trying to gain her footing. Louie, the head sculptor who’d been passing by, pressed a hand against the woman’s back and kept her from falling.
“A spider!” the child cried,