“Even though we’re the only shareholders, you and me and our wives?”
“The only shareholders for now,” he pointed out. “Still, I agree about the employees wanting to feel like they have a say in the company’s direction. But that’s your job. You’re better with people anyway, and everyone trusts you.”
“What about Shari?”
“We don’t need to elect her to the Board, but we can invite her to attend the meetings. She can take notes and keep the minutes. Our actual discussions are confidential, but she can write something for the newsletter about what the Board decides. Are you comfortable with that?”
I considered it and then nodded.
“Good. Then let’s go back to a point from a minute ago, about the business. We need to split the roles of CEO and President.”
“Okay. If you say so.”
“You don’t even know why, do you?”
I stole his line. “That’s your department.”
“Yeah, but this is exactly what we were just talking about. It’s about perception. The CEO sets the mission, vision, and strategy of the company. The President handles day-to-day operations and logistical details.”
“And you’re doing a great job. With both,” I added.
“Thank you, but… the CEO is also the most visible representative of a company, inside and out.”
“Okay. And…?”
“The inside perception is obvious. If I’m both, we have a hard time convincing the regular employees that you represent their best interests.”
“Makes sense,” I agreed.
“The outside perception is similar, but for different reasons. I don’t actually believe all this green stuff we’re doing. Hold on, let me rephrase. I don’t believe it like you do. Yeah, we’re making tons of money because we have a competitive advantage, but money is the only green I really care about.”
“Coulda fooled me.”
“Thanks, but I’m serious. And I recognize that me being CEO is a business liability. Well, not exactly a liability, but not an asset, either. Being President? Yeah, absolutely. But Wren’s been after me for a couple of months, and she’s right.”
“About what?”
“We’re getting big enough that we need to start worrying about our public image. Maybe not this year, but certainly next. People are bound to figure out that I’m not a real tree-hugger. We need a guy out front who actually believes. That’s you.”
“Okay,” I said slowly, “but what does it mean for the company? I can’t make business decisions like you. I mean, I’m just an architect.”
“That’s basically what a CEO is. You have the vision. I make it happen.”
“Fine by me,” I said. “I never really cared about titles anyway.”
“Well, it’ll make Christy happy. And that’s never a bad thing.”
“Ha! You can say that again!”
* * *
I’d been building my dream house since college, although it had only ever existed in my head. That all changed once the pace at work slowed to something manageable. I still didn’t have much free time, but I started going through my old notes and drawings. They were scattered through more than a dozen sketchbooks, so it was a trip down memory lane as well.
My tastes had evolved over the years, but I’d never lost my enthusiasm for good design. My skills as an architect had grown, and I had a much better understanding of what worked in the real world (and what didn’t), but my passion was the same.
My house ideas hadn’t changed very much either. I’d fallen in love with the American Craftsman style on the first project that Trip and I had done together. And I’d spent enough time in San Diego to find even more reasons to love it: the Marston House in Balboa Park and the entire North Park neighborhood, which was full of Craftsman bungalows.
The house I wanted would technically be an ultimate bungalow, which was much larger than a normal Craftsman home. The smaller ones were fine, especially as starter homes, but my family wasn’t a starter anymore. We were two adults, three kids, and three dogs. We needed way more space than a modest bungalow.
I still worked best with pencil and paper, so I began a new sketchbook. I showed my early designs to Christy, who asked her usual off-the-wall questions. She was more creative in many ways, and her questions made me see things from a new perspective.
She also added ideas of her own, things that made the house ours instead of just mine. Sometimes I’d open my sketchbook and find two or three pages of new drawings, everything from decorative elements to sketches of how she wanted her studio and workshop laid out. She signed the first ones with her usual chop, CMH, but then she came up with a new one, PCH.
“I still think it’s weird to sign my name like that,” she laughed.
“Why? It’s who we are.”
“Yeah, but— Oh, right. Sometimes I forget. You aren’t a real Californian.”
“Neither are you,” I shot back.
“I am too! Never mind. PCH is the Pacific Coast Highway.”
“Oh, that. Well, it’s also Paul and Christy Hughes.”
“Mmm, I know.”
“Besides, all roads lead to my heart.”
“Oh my gosh,” she laughed brightly, “you’ll say anything to get lucky.”
“Of course, especially when it works. But it’s true in this case. Now, I have a certain P that wants a little CH. Are you interested?”
* * *
I showed my house designs to Bob Drake, our landscape architect. He and I had similar feelings about how a building should exist in harmony with the land instead of trying to dominate it.
“This is for you, isn’t it?” he said. “I mean, it’s a personal project.”
“Yeah.”
“For the Lake Lanier property? I thought that development was dead.”
“It is. We may resurrect it, but for now it’s just this.”
“Let me walk the land,” he suggested. “I’ve seen the plats and topos, but I need to put eyes on the ground.”
“Sure. How about this weekend?”
He grinned and checked his watch. “How about now?”
“Hold on, lemme check my schedule.” I picked up the phone and dialed Whitney.
“Yes?”
“Hey, it’s Paul,” I said unnecessarily. She could read my extension on her own phone, but old habits died hard. “What’re we doing this afternoon?”
“Working.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. Ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer. “What’s on my schedule?”
“It’s on your computer.”
“Yeah, but my computer doesn’t have details.”
“Okay. I’ll add them.”
“No! I mean— No, thank you. Just give me the highlights. I’ll ask if I need details.”
“Why not check your computer?” Her implication was clear: Instead of wasting my time.
“Just humor me,” I said. She sighed, and I could imagine her accessing the computer in her head.
“You have a two o’clock meeting with Darci to go over the Paces Ferry designs. You have a three o’clock meeting with Barbara…”
“Okay, thanks,” I said when she reached six o’clock. “Please clear everything. I’ll be out of the office the rest of the day. I’ll stop by Darci’s desk before I leave. Tell Barbara…”
I finished and chuckled silently when Whitney didn’t ask what I’d be doing instead. She was an exceptional project manager, my de facto right hand, but she didn’t understand subtext at all.
“Is that all?” she asked.
I resisted the urge to suggest a raise. Anyone else would understand it was a joke, but not Whitney. She was too literal, and I’d spend ten minutes explaining.
“No, that’s it,” I said instead. “And thank you.”