She’s shattering the glass ceiling one building at a time
Bridget Steele’s father taught her two things: how to build and how to fight. With those skills, she created her own company and began building for New York City’s elite. Often the only woman in the room, she’s faced sexism, corruption and harassment, but armed with her designer hard hat and steel-toed stilettos, she’s up for any challenge. Bridget figured out quickly she had to be ten times better just to be considered equal.
Even with a stellar reputation, this scrappy young woman from the Bronx can’t seem to gain access to the old boys’ club. She doesn’t fit in with the powerful men in commercial real estate and construction. But this single mom has learned how to play the game, and she never gives up. With her quick wit and determination, she won’t let anyone get in the way of her dream—including the irresistible man who is also her biggest competitor. She’s learned the hard way that if she wants the view from the top, she’ll have to build it herself.
Heels of Steel
Barbara Kavovit
This book is dedicated to
My Mom
For giving me the discipline, determination and belief in myself to never give up and never stop swimming. You are the true essence of an independent woman, and I love you.
My Dad
My love for you is endless, and I miss you every day. Thank you for putting a hammer in my hand when I was nine years old and for all the building projects we did together. Your encouragement and belief that a young girl from the Bronx could be a successful entrepreneur and own a construction company was second only to your love and support.
My Sister, Caryn Kavovit
Thank you for your friendship, love and support throughout the years. You are the best sister anyone can ask for, and I love you.
My Son, Zachary Kavovit
You are my inspiration, my love, my light and life. Don’t forget to just keep swimming! I love you.
BARBARA KAVOVIT, aka Barbara K, is a construction trailblazer and women’s tool creator who founded one of the first general contracting and construction management firms in New York, becoming one of Crain’s “100 Most Influential Women in Business” by the time she was thirty. A New York Post columnist for six years, she’s authored two nonfiction books, Room for Improvement and Invest in Your Nest. Barbara lives in New York City with her son, Zachary, and is a member of the season eleven cast of The Real Housewives of New York City. Heels of Steel is her first novel.
Contents
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part Two
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Part Three
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Epilogue
Part One
Chapter 1
Bridget Steele’s father taught her two things she never forgot: how to fight and how to build.
The fight lessons started after Bridget was mugged in an elevator by a full-grown man who was either dumb or desperate enough to think a ten-year-old girl would be carrying anything of value.
“Hold the door!” he’d called, and obediently, Bridget held the door, allowing him in.
She would dream about that mistake for years to come; his mouth, slack and wet, his eyes, twin points of bleakness, his breath, hot and foul on her cheek as he turned and almost casually slammed her up against the wall, one hand on her throat, the other crudely groping and squeezing as he methodically rifled through the pockets of her jacket and jeans. He found her two dollars of allowance money, broke the cheap charm bracelet from her wrist and then, when the elevator doors opened, dropped her to the floor and skittered away, leaving Bridget gasping and shaken.
After Bridget managed to make it back to her apartment and, through chattering teeth, explain what had happened to her increasingly alarmed mother, the police were called, and her father rushed home from work.
“This is the third one this week,” the officer said as Bridget sat in her father’s lap, resisting the urge to turn and sob into his shoulder. “I mean, this is the first time I’ve heard of a kid this young being targeted, but—” he flipped his notebook closed with a shake of his head “—it seems like the Bronx just ain’t what it used it be, you know?”
Her parents nodded as the officer promised to get in touch if they managed to track the mugger down. They thanked him as he left. When the door shut, Bridget’s mother went into the kitchen to make Bridget some warm milk, and Bridget’s father knelt to the floor, gently taking her by the shoulders and looking into her eyes.
“You okay, darling?” he said.
She nodded.
“Are you still scared?”
Bridget shrugged, not wanting to let on how her stomach was horribly sour, how a knot in her throat was jerking up and down so that she couldn’t speak.
Her father bit his lip. His handsome face was flushed and his warm brown eyes looked suspiciously bright. “Okay,” he said, and his voice faltered. He suddenly pulled Bridget toward him and crushed her into his arms, giving her a fierce hug. They stayed that way for a moment, breathing in sync, as Bridget leaned into his familiar warmth. Then he cleared his throat and stood up again. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, let me show you how to make a fist.”
* * *
Every day for week
s, after he came home from work and before they sat down for dinner, Bridget’s dad had taken twenty minutes to teach Bridget how to defend herself. First, he made her promise that if she was ever in a situation like that again and she saw a chance to get away, that she would take off as fast as her legs could carry her. Run and scream for help. But if she couldn’t run, he wanted her to know some basic self-defense. He taught her how to hold up her hands, how to cover her face, throw a punch, how to find the weak and unprotected spots on her opponent and take merciless advantage of them.
“It’s okay to fight dirty if you need to,” he said to her as she swung at him and just barely missed. “A good punch to the nose is great, but if you can’t land that, use your teeth, use your nails, go for the crotch. For you, honey, it’s all fair game. The important thing is that, if you can’t escape, you do what you need to do to keep yourself safe. You do what you need to do to win.” He chuckled as she moved in closer and swung at him again. “A sweet little girl like you? They’ll never see it coming.”
But Bridget didn’t feel like a sweet little girl any longer. Even before she was attacked in the elevator, Barker Avenue had started to feel like it was changing. Bridget used to move through life safely under the radar, just another kid in a tough, tight-knit Bronx neighborhood teeming with children, but lately, something had shifted. Gone were the days when she could happily skip down the sidewalk, unnoticed by adults except for the occasional fond smile from a shopkeeper or friendly wink from one of the old men who sat on their stoop playing cards in their shirtsleeves. Almost overnight, as if she had been visited by a fairy godmother with a twisted sense of humor, ten-year-old Bridget had opened her eyes and suddenly looked like a woman, with a woman’s breasts and a woman’s hips and lips and smile. And even more suddenly, adult men were treating her like she was something else—not a child, not a little girl, but a target.
Hey, baby! Look at the way she bounces when she walks! Why don’t you move that hot bod right on over here?
Oooeee, Mama! What are you doing later tonight, sweet thing?
The attention confused and embarrassed Bridget, made her feel ashamed of the way her new and unruly body moved and the messages she thought it must be sending. She felt even worse when she would catch her mother’s eyes sweeping over her, a disapproving look on her face. Bridget’s mother was small and slim and contained, never a thread out of place, and she seemed equally offended and befuddled by the lushness of her young daughter’s newly blossoming physique.
Late at night Bridget would lie in bed, replaying the mugging on a loop in her mind. Somehow the unfamiliar curves and softness of her body, the men calling out to her on the street, the way an eighteen-year-old boy had chased her down at the park, insisting on a date, her mother’s sudden inexplicable distance and judgment, and the cold, pale eyes of the mugger as his hands yanked at her clothes and his fingers snaked against her skin, all became tangled together into one long, waking nightmare.
Her father saw the dark circles under his daughter’s eyes, the way her smile regularly died on her face before it fully bloomed, noticed how her voice got smaller and she hunched over as if trying to shrink herself, and one day, instead of self-defense lessons, he pulled a cardboard box from his briefcase.
Golden summer light poured through the two narrow windows by her bed. Her father handed Bridget the box and she looked at it with a pang of disappointment. She’d been hoping for a new Barbie.
“Daddy?” said Bridget. “Isn’t an ERECTOR set a toy for boys?”
Her father just smiled and shook his head. “Open it,” he said.
Bridget tore through the wrappings and shook out the pieces onto her bed, then turned back to her father. “What now?”
“Well...” Her father put a warm hand on her shoulder. “Let’s look at what we’re building first. This is the Flatiron Building, one of my favorite buildings in the world. There’s nothing like it anywhere else.”
Bridget turned over the box and looked at the strange, narrow building on the cover. It looked like the prow of a ship or a big piece of pie. Her dad was right—she hadn’t seen anything like it before.
“It’s very famous now. One of the first skyscrapers north of Fourteenth Street. But back when it was built, people hated it. People said it was a big mistake, that it would fall down. But they were wrong.”
Bridget traced her finger over the picture. “I like it,” she decided. “It’s...different.”
Her dad laughed. “That’s because you are a very smart girl with extremely good taste.” He settled onto the floor behind her, picking up the rods and quickly laying them out by size, then carefully smoothing out the written instructions on the bed. “Now, what’s first?” he asked, squinting at the papers.
Bridget happily leaned against him and read the sentences out loud, pausing to let him correct or help her when necessary. She loved everything about her father. The way he smelled—like mothballs and freshly cut wood and the ocean. The soft, gentle sound of his voice. The way he always wore a suit and tie and dress shoes—even on the weekends—so he would look proper, no matter what the occasion.
But what Bridget liked best about her father was the way he paid attention. Sometimes Bridget would watch other parents with their kids and she couldn’t help but feel that they were only halfway there at best. They were always interrupting their children and turning away and rushing them through. When Bridget talked to her father, he would stop what he was doing and look her in the eyes and she knew that he was really listening. When he played with her, he would get down at her level and become so absorbed in their games that it almost felt like he was another kid—except better. He made her feel safe and seen.
“You know,” he said as they laid out the foundation for the model, “this building reminds me of you.” He poked her playfully in the side. “Beautiful. Exceptional. Unique in all the world.”
A blossom of warmth unfurled in Bridget’s chest. Suddenly, the men on the street, her mother’s bewildered glances, even the feel of the mugger’s hand on her throat, all paled in comparison to the fact that, when her father looked at her, he didn’t see something wrong or twisted or out of control. Instead, he saw something as special as this strange and amazing building.
Bridget and her father had built dozens of models over the years, LEGO and ERECTOR sets, and intricate hobby store creations that they glued together piece by piece. Every one of them meant something to Bridget. She treated each one with pride and care. But it was the model of the Flatiron Building that Bridget kept on her bedside table. Every night for years, it was the last thing she saw before she turned out the lights.
* * *
“You taste like candy.”
Bridget and her date, Hal, were leaning against a brick wall in the park, taking advantage of a shadowy alcove to kiss and pet while a group of younger kids ran yelling and laughing, playing a game of kickball just feet from where the teens were twined together.
Bridget kissed Hal and giggled. “That’s because I just ate a ring pop, remember?” She kissed him again. “You taste like salt.”
Hal nodded. “Fritos.”
Bridget was fifteen but looked twenty, all pillowy lips, long, thick dark hair and dangerous curves. Hal was fifteen and looked like he was fifteen, with braces and light brown hair that kept falling into his eyes. Sometimes his voice cracked, but Bridget didn’t mind. Over the past few years, she had grown into her body and learned to mostly ignore the unwanted attention she got on the streets. Sometimes she even felt a little thrill of power caused by the undeniable impact of her physique. She was Jewish, but people regularly mistook her for one of the flashier Italian or Puerto Rican girls in the neighborhood. She wore tight designer jeans or even tighter miniskirts and artfully ripped sweatshirts. She teased her hair and did her makeup with bold slashes of blues and purples on her brown eyes, spiky mascara, sticky pink frosted lips.
Bridget knew that she regularly disappointed her parents in so many ways. They both had multiple degrees—her mother was the vice principal of a local high school and Bridget’s father was an engineer. They expected their only child to follow in their academic footsteps like a good Jewish girl should. But school was torture for Bridget. Sitting still was a chore. She could barely read a chapter of a book without wanting to get up and run around the block screaming, she got so bored.
She didn’t fit in socially, either. The boys were all fascinated by Bridget. They followed her around like dumb teenage puppies, and it made the girls in her class suspicious and hostile. Friends Bridget had had since she was little suddenly turned their backs and whispered when she came into the room. Desperate for a connection, Bridget dated early and often, but a movie and a make-out session somehow never made her feel any less misunderstood.
The only respite from Bridget’s loneliness came from the place it always did—her father. When Bridget was eleven, her father came home with a stack of two-by-fours and laid them out on the living room floor. He told her they were moving beyond models—they were going to build bunk beds. Her mother said they were crazy—who was Bridget going to share it with? She was an only child. But her father insisted that Bridget would need the space for all the friends he knew she would make. “Think of the slumber parties!” he enthused as he placed the hammer in her hand and carefully directed her to strike the nail. Bridget was filled with pride when she swung the hammer and the first two pieces of wood kissed and stuck.
Bridget didn’t harbor high hopes for any slumber parties, but she would never tell her father that. She was just happy to be working side by side with him. They spent weeks working on the project. Bridget was amazed at the way a pile of wood and nails slowly grew into a recognizable piece of furniture. She loved lining up all the materials, nailing things together with the heavy hammer, having her patient and gentle father guide her through the process, until, like magic, they came out on the other end with something new—something that had not existed until they made it together.
Almost every week after that, there was something else to do. Her dad told Bridget that she was going to help him put in crown moldings in the living room and paint the room a soft baby blue. After that they fixed the leak under the kitchen sink. For her birthday that year, Bridget received her own tool belt with her name pressed into the leather. Sometimes, for the bigger jobs, her father’s buddy Danny Schwartz, a shy guy who could fix and build almost anything, would come over and help, but mainly it was just Bridget and her father. Bridget liked it best that way.
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