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, a small niggling feeling had been bothering me for weeks about Mister Tate’s nephew, Jason, who’d joined the firm just last year after moving down from Virginia. No. Jason didn’t have near my experience with historical ordinances and designs. He was always submitting brash glass and concrete monstrosities better suited for big city tenements than the genteel low-profile look Charleston was desperately trying to save. I was the better designer and I had more experience, and after they saw my designs today, it would be a no-brainer to make me the Senior Associate.

My phone dinged. It was Meredith.

Sorry I missed you this morning. Heard about girl’s night tonight. I’m in. We’ll celebrate your promotion. You’ve got this! HUGS

I took a deep breath and pushed open the door to my office building with confidence.

Chapter Two

Barbara, my friend and Donovan and Tate’s longtime assistant, greeted me formally since she sat right outside both partners’ offices. “I’m afraid Mr. Donovan couldn’t come in today. Martha was taken into the hospital.”

Mr. Donovan’s sweet wife who I absolutely adored had struggled with several cardiac incidents over the last year. “Oh no.” I frowned. “Is she … is it serious?”

“I’m not sure.” Barbara grimaced. “Mr. Tate is doing your review,” she said with forced positivity.