chapter 1

Confidence and optimism," I muttered as I made my way along the curving concrete walkway toward Shannon Dupree Young's front door.

"Pardon?" Steve Sullivan said.

"Nothing." My cheeks warmed; I hadn't realized I'd spoken aloud. Steve and I had merged our interior design companies less than two months ago, and I'd have preferred not to have him discover my idiosyncrasies quite so soon. "Just the mantra I use whenever I get nervous."

"You're nervous about this job, Erin?"

I scanned his handsome features, surprised by the lack of the wry grin, which would indicate he was being sarcastic. Things had grown steadily worse here in the six weeks since Shannon had signed on as our very first client. "A little. Aren't you?"

"Nah. What's there to worry about? Just a feud raging between neighbors, and our client on the verge of a nervous breakdown. That's par for the course for us."

Steve was being gracious in not pointing fingers. In the past year, my one-woman company, Designs by Gilbert, had experienced such bizarre problems with a few of its clients that I qualified for hazardous-duty pay. And, despite what at the time had been a fierce professional rivalry, Sullivan Designs had somehow gotten dragged into the fray—my fray—more than once.

On the south side of Shannon's original entranceway, the construction of her addition was finally starting to take shape. We were about to enter the fun phase of remodeling. Normally, I'd have to hold myself back from racing to the door. My head would be filled with one magical, delectable possibility after another—rainbows of colors, astonishing materials, and splendid furnishings. For me, designing a space is nothing less than being able to make my clients' dreams come true, and every step of the way is a joyous journey.

This particular client's "dream" was turning out to be a nightmare, however. Thanks to the proverbial Neighbor from Hell—Pate Hamlin.

I turned and eyed his house. Last night, Shannon had called us in hysterics about Pate's sprawling, fortresslike structure looming directly across the street. The protruding peak of the roof over its new porch was indeed pointing straight at this home—a feng shui no-no. "It's just that Shannon seemed so nice and rational at first," I explained to Sullivan now. "I never imagined she'd wind up so paranoid…thinking her neighbor's architecture was putting her in physical danger."

Although neither Sullivan nor I was an expert in the art of feng shui, we weren't neophytes either. We had a healthy respect for its ancient principles, which after six thousand years have more than stood the test of time. Feng shui was among the first schools of design—a beautiful philosophy of harmonizing one's home with its surroundings. Yet during our phone conversation last night, Shannon had declared that this was "now officially a no-holds-barred feng shui war." And then she'd asked us to launch a counteroffensive against her neighbor's designer. That notion made me a little queasy. Granted, Sullivan and I had waged many a battle against each other, but I'd naively thought those days were behind me, now that we'd joined forces.

"Everybody was feng shui fighting…" Sullivan sang to the tune of "Kung Foo Fighting" as we headed up the walk.

"Not funny," I said, resisting a smile.

"Why is Pate Hamlin so determined to buy this place?"

"Shannon says it's because she's got a better view of the Rockies than he does. Plus more land…eight acres."

We climbed the steps to Shannon's front porch, which would soon be removed. In its place, we had a fabulous design for a cedar wraparound deck. Its rich wood and gorgeous geometric patterns would embrace both the new and the original entrances of this sixty-year-old home. Our additions emphasized and augmented the home's best elements. Unlike her neighbor's slap-happy add-ons, which the architect had apparently drawn up while bouncing around in an old pickup truck. (My refusal to engage in a feng shui war did not, alas, morph me into the Mother Teresa of interior designers.)

"Aw, jeez," Sullivan said. I followed his gaze. Shannon had recently painted a red dragon on the center panel of her front door. While I was studying her intricate handiwork, Sullivan suddenly staggered forward, clutching at the center of his back. "Ow! Help me, Gilbert! I think I just got hit by a feng shui arrow!"

"Keep your voice down!" I pressed the doorbell. "If Shannon hears us making cracks about this, our first official job as Gilbert and Sullivan Designs will end today."

"You mean—" he paused as Shannon threw open the door "—Sullivan and Gilbert," he continued with a smile, deftly turning his correction of me into a greeting.

Copyright © 2007 by Leslie Caine.