by Sophie Lark
“They sound fantastic,” Liam said. “Where did you find them?”
“That was Gwen.” Anika said. “I think she used to date the bassist.”
“Ah, thank you,” Liam said to James, who had just brought him a drink from the bar. He had one for Aunt Molly as well.
“Would you like anything?” he asked Anika. His stiff politeness made her sigh.
“No, thank you,” she said.
She was about to say she’d better check on the food, make sure they weren’t running low on anything, when the band struck up a version of TI’s “Whatever You Like.” Anika couldn’t help turning back to James, laughing out loud.
“Do you remember—" he began.
She knew what he was going to say. They used to joke it was “their song.” Of course that was when they were students. They couldn’t buy each other jets or cars or vacations, just a latte from their favorite cafe or a shared password to a Netflix account.
“We have to dance to this one,” Mr. Doyle said, pulling Aunt Molly out onto the ballroom floor. With her heels on, Liam was slightly shorter and probably lighter, but he managed to twirl her around with impressive grace. Aunt Molly bent her head slightly to rest her cheek against his. She looked extremely content.
Her aunt’s happiness made Anika happy, and the glow of her smile lit up her whole face. When James saw it, he couldn’t help but open his mouth to ask her to dance.
But someone else asked her first—Marco Moretti, sliding smoothly between them and holding out his hand to pull Anika onto the dance floor.
“Oh,” she said, “alright...”
She glanced back at James. Now she was certain of his jealousy—he’d never been able to hide his emotions from her. And truly, the idea that she was causing him any amount of pain made her insides twist into knots. But on the other hand, what good was his interest in her if it only flared up under direct competition with someone else? It didn’t mean he still loved her. It only meant that he found it unpleasant to watch her flirt with someone else.
Marco took her hand, placing his other palm on the small of her back. He steered her between the other couples on the dance floor.
His hands were strong—he was strong. His muscles were taut beneath the expensive fabric of his crisp white dinner jacket. His intensity and energy intimidated her a little. He stood very close to her as they danced, as Italians tended to do. The song changed to “Glass Heart,”—a little slower—and he pulled her even closer.
“You’re an excellent dancer,” Marco said approvingly.
“It’s been a while,” Anika said. In some ways, dancing was like horseback riding—it was moving in sync with someone else, matching them so closely that you became like one creature.
“Did you take classes as a child?” Marco asked.
“A few,” Anika said. “My mother wanted us to try everything—ballet, tennis, painting, French...”
“My father was the same,” Marco said. “All the elegant pursuits. And he wanted me to excel at school too. But I only wanted to kick a soccer ball or be a race car driver.”
“Did you?” Anika asked.
“Actually, yes!” Marco laughed. “My father has a Formula One car—have you seen it?”
Anika shook her head.
“I drove it for him three seasons. But I crashed last year in Monaco and injured my leg.”
“That’s horrible!” Anika said. “Your father must have been terrified for you.”
“Perhaps more for the car,” Marco said. “It was a very expensive mistake. My front wheel hit the back wheel of another driver—we both spun off the track. Both cars were destroyed. My father was furious. I don’t think he’ll get another. We had been losing anyway, that last season.”
“Was the other driver alright?” Anika asked.
“What? Oh, yes, of course, he was fine. The cars today are not like the ones of old. You’re very protected. Still, the papers blamed me completely,” Marco said, scowling slightly. “The journalists in Italy, they’re like wild dogs. They wanted to rip me to shreds. They said...they said many things. That I had no business driving at all, that I was a hobbyist and a fool, a spoiled child. My father agreed. He said I better come here and take a proper position in his company.”
“One door closes, another one opens,” Anika said, trying to be positive.
Marco looked at her and smiled. “Well,” he said, “I must admit, I’m enjoying myself so far.”
Anika flushed and looked away, pretending to be watching the growing crowd of party-goers. But Marco gently touched her face to turn her eyes back to his.
“You’re a mystery, Anika,” he said in a low voice. “Your sister—everyone seems to know her, everyone has a story to tell. But nobody can tell me anything about you.”
“I’m…I’m not very social,” Anika said. “I don’t go to many parties.”
“And yet when you throw one, it’s the most beautiful party anyone has seen.”
“The Red Line means a lot to me,” Anika said. “My mother was brilliant, and she could have done so many things—if she had more time, or if she hadn’t spent so much time with me. With Stella and me. So it’s her only legacy. And I want it to live on a long time.”
“I’m sure it will,” Marco said.
The song ended. Anika, feeling overheated, said “I’d better go check on the food.” Really, she wanted some air, but if she said that, she was afraid Marco would offer to accompany her.
“I’ll call you,” Marco said, as he released her hand. “This week, don’t forget.”
Anika nodded. As she brushed through the swirling couples, she almost stepped on Calvin’s foot. He had brought his pretty date again, Joselyn. Anika was impressed to see that Calvin was wearing a proper suit, not just a t-shirt printed like a tux or some other form of sartorial rebellion.
“You’re having such a good influence on him,” Anika said to Joselyn, squeezing her shoulder as she passed.
Joselyn rolled her eyes. “He still wore sneakers,” she said.
“So does Tim Cook,” Calvin protested. “So does Jerry Seinfeld!”
“And I wouldn’t take them home to meet my mother either,” Joselyn said.
Anika tried to make her way off the floor, but as she neared the edge of the crowd, she was waylaid by her father.
“Was that Marco Moretti you were dancing with?” he asked.
Anika nodded.
“Did he ask you to dance?”
“He did.”
Bennet gave her a highly approving look—an expression she hadn’t seen from him since who could remember.
“Well,” he said, “I’m not surprised, you’re looking very nice tonight. Stella’s dressed like a drag queen. I’ve told her before, black isn’t her color.”
“I’d better check on the food, Papa,” Anika said. “We don’t want to run short on anything.”
“Never mind the food,” Bennet said. “You need to make friends with Marco if you can. Dominic’s been hinting constantly how he plans to turn the business over as soon as he can. With the ownership percentages as they are now, that boy is going to be running things. If you can work on him...show him how things ought to be done...”
“We’ve only just met,” Anika said. “I’m sure Dominic will work with him to make the transition as smooth as possible.”
“We’re in a very precarious position here,” Bennet said, highly agitated. His hand shook, spilling what Anika was sure was not his first or even his third drink. She wanted to remind him exactly whose fault it was that their position had become precarious—that their business was about to be taken over by a complete stranger.
But she remembered something her mother had said, one of the few times she had ever criticized her husband in front of Anika. She said “Your father has no capacity to change. Don’t exhaust yourself trying to make him into what he will never become.”
“I’ll try to help if I can,” she said. “Marco wants me to take him out this week, show him
around. I’ll try to impress upon him what’s important—your creative freedom, your vision for the company.”
“Thank you,” Bennet said, pressing her hand.
Anika sighed. She still felt too hot, too flushed, and wished she had time to slip outside into the cool night air. But she really did need to check on the food, and the drinks, and a hundred other things that would ensure the party continued to run smoothly into the wee hours of the morning.
She looked back once more to see if James was still standing where he had been. Instead, she saw that Blaine had come to the gala, dressed up sharp in a navy tux. He seemed to be making headway in wooing Gwen back into his arms. At least, he had convinced her to do a kind of ridiculous Charleston with him, and Gwen was laughing.
With her sister thus distracted, Hannah had swooped in on James. James was waltzing her around the dance floor—he had always been a good dancer. Hannah gazed blissfully up into his face. James was smiling too.
Anika sighed and headed for the kitchen.
11
The gala was a great success. In the end, they raised almost three times what they’d hoped for the Red Line Charity, and in the magnanimous flush of all the compliments he’d received over the course of the night, Bennet even promised Anika that he would design a limited-edition sneaker and backpack to go along with the fall collection, 100% of the proceeds to be donated to the education fund. (“Or some percentage,” he muttered. “We can figure that part out later.”)
Even Stella had cheered up once she’d convinced Marco to dance with her twice, and also some scruffy blond who apparently was the child of a Baldwin, set to star in the next Greta Gerwig film.
The party hadn’t wrapped up until three in the morning, so Anika wasn’t surprised to see that as late as she was coming into work the next morning, Gwen and Hannah were even later. Calvin was already at his desk with an enormous styrofoam cup of Mountain Dew, but he appeared to be wearing his clothes from the night before, minus the suit jacket. So it was likely he had simply slept an hour or two in the sleeping bag he kept rolled up under his desk—for times when he wanted to avoid taking the train back out to Queens.
Gwen and Hannah rolled in an hour or so later, Gwen still wearing her false eyelashes from the night before, and Hannah looking reasonably coiffed, but yawning constantly.
“Gwen,” Anika said as soon as they walked in, “I’ve got some questions for you about the silent auction items...”
“We’re not actually going to work today, are we?” Hannah cried in dismay.
“We probably deserve a break,” Gwen agreed. “Considering how we absolutely crushed it last night.”
“You did,” Anika conceded with a smile.
“Good!” Hannah said, “Because I was thinking today we should just have Calvin hook up that thingy that plays Dance Dance Revolution, and we can eat all those trays of tiny cakes Gwen stole from the party, and—" She broke off because someone was coming up the stairs to the office.
“Oh, I thought James was going out to Hamptons today!” Hannah said, in happy surprise.
But it wasn’t James who pushed his head curiously through the office door. It was Marco Moretti.
He was wearing designer jeans and a fitted leather jacket, his dark wavy hair attractively tousled. He was also carrying a box of warm croissants and tray of lattes, of which Gwen quickly relieved him.
“Hello,” he said to Anika, “I know I said I’d call, but I wanted to see your office.”
“I’m impressed you managed to find it,” Anika said.
“It was a journey,” he grinned, wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead. Honestly, he didn’t look as if he had ever sweat in his life. Anika was struck again by his brilliant white teeth, his mischievous smile.
“Do you want the tour?” Anika asked.
The tour took five minutes through their cramped space.
“You need a bigger office,” he said. “Not to mention some windows.”
“Oh we’re happy here,” Anika assured him. “It keeps us all friendly.”
At that moment, Calvin turned his head to sneeze directly onto Hannah’s arm, prompting a disgusted shriek.
“I can see that,” Marco laughed. “I know you’re probably busy, after that party. But do you want to take a walk with me?”
“Oh...” Anika looked at her open office door, mentally tallying the dozen tasks she had planned to finish before lunch.
“Go on!” Gwen encouraged her. “There’s nothing that needs doing this minute.”
“Well...” Anika said. “Let me get my jacket.”
It was beautiful and breezy out. It had rained just the smallest bit early in the morning, and the air still had that fresh smell of geosmin rising off the pavement and the slightest salt tang blowing west from the bay. It was fully springtime now.
As they walked along, Marco tucked her arm into his as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He asked her questions—a hundred questions about the Red Line, about her coworkers, about Bennet and Stella, about her mother. Anika tried to reciprocate, to turn the conversation back to Marco, but he wanted to know so many details. It was strange to talk so much about herself, yet he seemed genuinely interested.
She did learn a few things about Marco—that he had been fairly wild until his accident the year before. That he had reached a turning point, and now wanted desperately to settle in here, to make a success of himself and the opportunity his father was giving him.
“Bennet can be difficult to work with,” Anika warned him.
“I’m not worried about that,” Marco said. “Your father is a genius at design. I’ll leave him to do what he does best, and I’ll simply take over the parts he has no interest in. There’s been some issues with profitability the last few years. I have ideas of how to solve that.”
“That’s great,” Anika said with some relief. “The designs are all he cares about.”
“Should we stop in at Bennet Knight?” Marco asked. “I want your opinion on a few things.”
“Oh,” Anika faltered. “I’m not sure I’ll be much help—I have almost nothing to do with the main fashion line. I really only work on the charity.”
“Come on,” Marco pleaded. “We’re right by it.”
Steering Anika along, he led her through the massive glass doors of her father’s flagship store and design studio.
It really had been years since she’d come inside. She was immediately beset with the old anxiety and awe of entering her father’s domain. Her mother used to bring her here occasionally, in her attempts to promote a closer relationship between Anika and Bennet. Bennet had always been extremely busy and irritable, clearly viewing their visits as an imposition.
Stella he had tolerated, allowing her to work as an assistant, and later as a buyer. Her real job had been to spy on her fellow employees and report back to Bennet. In time, she had become distracted with social opportunities, and after a few spats with Bennet, she had quit.
Anika had never felt welcome here in any capacity. Still, she couldn’t deny the stark beauty of the space. Bennet loved fame and wealth, but unlike Stella, he wasn’t ostentatious. He had an acute aesthetic sense.
His store and his studio were built on the principle of bold, clean, elegance. The retail section was an open glass atrium, three stories in height. Dresses, jackets, jumpers, and blouses seemed to float on transparent hooks. The central point of honor was dedicated to Bennet’s footwear, the crown jewels of his collection. Crocodile-skin thigh-high boots, stilettos studded with dangerous metal spikes, ermine-trimmed sneakers that cost more than a month’s rent in Manhattan—all displayed on glass pedestals as if they truly were the Cullinan Diamond or the Durbar Tiara.
An iron spiral staircase led to studio space. Anika knew there was a more prosaic entrance round the back, connected to the parking lot, but her father would want her to bring Marco through reception.
They climbed the stairs, pushing through yet another double glass door to the s
tudio. They were immediately greeted by the statuesque blonde receptionist, who apparently did not remember Anika, but had been briefed to expect Marco.
“Mr. Moretti!” she greeted his warmly. “Mr. Bennet is expecting you. Can I offer you a drink?”
“Just water please,” Marco said.
“Cucumber, blackberry, or distilled?”
“Just normal, thanks.”
Before she had returned with the water, Bennet was already coming out of his office to meet them. This was remarkably prompt, and a clear sign of Bennet’s nervousness.
“Marco!” he said with a strained smile. “Welcome.”
He actually looked pleased to see Anika in attendance. She had intended to loiter back by reception while Marco walked around with her father, but both Bennet and Marco seemed eager to include her.
Bennet introduced Marco to each of the head designers, then gave him a basic rundown on the concept for their fall line. Anika could tell he was trying to gloss over the details of the design team, while steering Marco toward the offices of the CFO and the marketing team. But Marco refused to be steered. He had as many questions for Bennet as he had for Anika earlier, asked more rapidly and bluntly. Bennet quickly became flustered, and Anika felt forced to intervene.
“Marco was telling me how much he loved last year’s designs,” she told her father. “He said he saw them everywhere in Rome and Venice.”
“I did,” Marco agreed.
Soothed by the flattery, Bennet said, “Last year’s collections sold very well, especially the resort wear.”
“My father showed me the numbers,” Marco said. “It is selling well, but the demographic is aging upwards. If we’re not careful, Bennet Knight is going to become known as the line your mother wears. And that’s a death knell.”
This so infuriated Bennet that he was speechless. Anika could tell that when he recovered his voice, he was going to say something unwise, so she quickly pulled Marco over to the next room to show him the 3-D printers used to create the accessory line.