Alex bathed Tweet, dressed her in the sailor dress, frilly white socks, and white patent leather Mary Janes her mother provided, and brought her back downstairs.
“There’s my baby girl! Thanks so much, Alex.”
“Not a problem,” Alex said, shooting Birdie an evil look.
“I’ll have her back by three,” Jennifer said to Birdie. “And I know this is your weekend. Thanks for understanding.”
“Bye, baby girl,” Birdie said to his daughter.
“Bye, Daddy,” Tweet said.
Before he could get all the locks turned, Alex exploded.
“I really don’t think it’s too much to ask for you to remember when she’s coming over here!”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“That’s what you say every time. But it never changes. I can’t stand it.”
“You can’t stand it? Or you can’t stand her?”
“Both. Whatever. What difference does it make?”
“I’m just saying. She’s Tweet’s mother. Technically, she can come over unannounced if she wants to.”
“No. She can’t.”
“Yeah. She can. Tweet’s her child.”
“I still feel like I should know when she’s coming up to my house.”
“Right. Your house. I see.”
Alex began to shake her head. “No. Birdie. That’s not what I meant.”
“Yeah. I know. I’m living with you in your house, so I better remember that. What was the name of the story you wrote? ‘Keeping His Ex in Check.’ ”
“I didn’t mean that this is only my house.”
“But that’s what you said.”
“I just feel like you could do a better job of keeping me in the loop.”
“I forgot. I said I was sorry. I have a meeting in ten minutes. Can we pick up this argument later?”
Alex made breakfast for Birdie and he went into his office in the basement for a meeting with his manager and a tour promoter. Alex made herself a smoothie with frozen fruit and yogurt and then went up to her office on the top floor of the brownstone.
ALEX’S FATHER WOULD NOT TAKE NO FOR AN ANSWER WHEN IT CAME TO buying her the brownstone in Fort Greene, Brooklyn. She begged and pleaded for him to just buy it for himself and rent it out. At one point, she even told him flat out that she would not live in it, no matter what. She was living with two roommates in a three-bedroom apartment in Williamsburg. The apartment was a piece of crap but Alex felt like she belonged there. She got a thrill out of leaving her four one-hundred-dollar bills on the kitchen counter for Debbie to send off with the rest of the rent. Spoiled beyond belief by her father, an entertainment attorney who had money to burn, Alex woke up one morning in his apartment in the Time Warner Center and decided she wanted to make her own way. Her father said it was like she caught some kind of viral work ethic infection. She knew he was proud of her. In six years, she’d established herself as a music critic and investigative reporter. But he’d worked his way from carrying Quincy Jones’s bags to being Mariah Carey’s manager. Alex’s daddy wanted his only child to enjoy the fruits of his labor.
And so, the house. The minute Alex walked in, with her father and the agent, she knew he had her right where he wanted her.
The wood-burning fireplace. The three huge bedrooms on the second floor. The deck. But she was still tight-lipped and smiling politely while her father showed her the chef ’s kitchen with the stainless steel appliances. And she just nodded when the agent pulled up the curtains and the view of Manhattan hit her like a sledgehammer to the chest. Her resistance dissolved when they went to the third floor. Alex expected a dingy, musty attic, like the one in her grandmother’s North Carolina farmhouse. But the attic was a sanctuary.
There were two small rooms, decorated as guest rooms by the current tenants, each with stained glass windows, beamed ceilings, and glossy hardwood floors. A huge bathroom with a massive porcelain clawfoot tub connected them. On the other side of the hallway was the Room. It was twice as big as the master bedroom. Alex could have run up, done a cartwheel and three back handsprings before making it to the other side (which is exactly what she wanted to do when she walked in). Her father and the agent had stayed behind, in one of the small rooms, checking out the architectural details. Alex stood in the doorway of the Room, her breath ragged.
The Room had floor-to-ceiling windows along one side, showing off water views of the East River. The owners had completely converted it into a pristine workspace. There were built-in bookshelves on one wall and cherrywood shelving installed behind a wall inside an alcove that was the perfect size for a desk. Alex walked to the center of the Room and turned around in a small circle, ticking off the features. Recessed track lighting. High ceilings. A wide-open floor plan. Dramatic and yet cozy. Alex hadn’t even noticed when her father and the agent came into the Room. When her father walked up to her and put his hands on her shoulders, all she could do was exhale and say, “Thank you, Daddy.”
So after sending Tweet off with Jen, Alex went up to her room and sat at her desk. Her to-do list, carefully handwritten on a yellow legal pad the night before, was to her right. Her daily planner, black leather and embossed with her name on the front cover, was to her left. She kept on her desk a framed photo of herself and Tweet, a small houseplant, and a silver container of pens, all the same brand and color. Her desk was cool, crisp, and inviting. It made her want to sit down to work.
She had two stories due and three stories she wanted to pitch. She had one story that an editor had sent back with minor changes. She still had to find a caterer for the wedding, a place to actually have the wedding, and a dress to wear. Alex’s eyes went to her left hand. She didn’t know how Birdie had been able to afford the ring. It was at least two carats. (She hadn’t asked. And she’d cursed her stepmother out for trying to take her to get it appraised two days after Birdie proposed.) Alex didn’t know much about cut and clarity. But she knew that whenever she waved at someone or took her wallet out of her bag at a store, people’s eyes lingered on her hand. She was ashamed to be so in love with a material object. Especially something as superficial as a diamond. She’d once prided herself on being bigger than that. But at thirty, she knew her ring was exactly what it was supposed to be, a symbol. Someone was claiming her. And he was willing to go into debt to do it.
Alex twirled the ring around her finger a few times while she waited for her computer to boot up. The ring was a full size too big but she refused to take it off even for an hour to have it resized.
She was still seething about Jennifer’s showing up. But she knew it wasn’t healthy to dwell on it. She went to her desk drawer and picked up her daily affirmations book. She hadn’t been to an AA meeting in years, not since she got her chip marking a year of sobriety.
Thought of the day: Get a grip on letting go.
It was like magic. Every time she picked up the book, every few months or so, she’d let the page fall randomly, and it always matched whatever she was feeling. She knew that she had to do exactly that: let go. She was marrying Birdie. His ex and their child would always be a constant presence. She was crazy about Tweet, lukewarm on her mother. She needed to let go.
Alex put the book back and turned to a new page in her notebook. She wrote “Get a grip on letting go” over and over in fancy script until her wrist began to cramp.
AT THE CORNER OF MADISON AVENUE AND THIRTY-SIXTH STREET, Josephine’s dog, a bichon frise named Mink, jumped into her arms. She pulled him up over her cleavage and kissed the top of his well-groomed head. When the driver stopped in front of her building, she put Mink down next to her and adjusted her clothing. The ride in from Jersey was close to an hour with traffic, so she always felt a bit rumpled by the time she got out of the Bentley. She smoothed down her pencil skirt, which hit her legs exactly two inches above the knee. After checking to make sure the driver wasn’t looking, she reached into her suit jacket (she was not wearing a blouse underneath), gave her breasts a quick heave, and refas
tened the jacket.
When the driver opened the door she looked both ways, up the street and then back down. Ras always said she was silly to be so cautious. He said that no one knew who she was. And if they did, they weren’t interested in harming her. Josephine didn’t care. Her husband was from a country where people could be kidnapped for a five-thousand-dollar ransom. The address to the showroom was listed in the phone book. What was to stop some lunatic from hatching a plan to get money out of Ras? Josephine was private; only her closest friends and family even knew where she and Ras lived. But her husband. Well, he was different. He was a weakling. He craved attention. Which led him to make some dumb decisions. Decisions that Josephine felt could put her at risk.
With Mink in the crook of one arm, Josephine gathered her packages and exited the car. In the lobby she had duties to perform before she could get to her office on the seventh floor. She dropped off a box of children’s clothing with the security guard. His wife was expecting triplets, and Josephine’s nephew was growing out of his clothes as fast as Josephine could buy them. Some of the clothes still had the price tags on them. She had homemade mofongo and tipili, her Dominican grandmother’s specialty, for the young lady who worked in the mail room. She had still-warm tarte au pistou, her French grandmother’s recipe, for the super of the building, who had a tiny office in the basement.
By the time Josephine got on the elevator, she felt warm and content inside. She’d made people happy and genuinely so. The nuns at the Convent of the Daughters of Mary Queen Immaculate of the Dominican Republic always insisted that she begin each day with charity. Sister Ana turned out to be wrong on many things, but she was absolutely right about starting out the day bringing happiness to others. When Josephine stepped off the elevator, she felt like she could conquer the world.
She drank in everything she loved about the office of J. Bennett Designs. She pulled open the large glass door, loving the way the brass handle felt in her hand. She clicked her five-inch Giuseppe stilettos across the hardwood floors, taking in the sound they made. She loved the space she was renting for her line. But she really wanted a back entrance. She knew Donna Karan and Ralph Lauren didn’t have to walk past their surly receptionist (and any waiting clients) to get to their offices. As she rounded the corner, she could see Mali sitting at her desk, flipping through the New York Post. Josephine gave her a smile and a quick “Good morning” and kept moving past the front desk, through the double doors, and into the showroom. To the right of the showroom was her office, a tiny space she’d had built just after signing the lease. The day’s papers were stacked on her desk and ready for her to flip through, her computer was already on, and her mug was filled with coffee, black with no sugar and piping hot. Josephine put Mink in his doggie bed and sat down at her desk.
In front of her was an inspiration wall: she had tear sheets of colors, patterns, and fabrics that inspired her to sketch. She also had quotes she loved (“Your dresses should be tight enough to show you’re a woman and loose enough to show you’re a lady,” Edith Head) and a few pictures thumbtacked on the wall as well—Ras at the Grammys, standing between rapper Jake and singer Kipenzi Hill; a wedding picture of Ras and Josephine; and a baby picture of Ras, taken two weeks before he left Kingston for Newark.
Josephine wiggled her butt in her seat, took a sip of coffee, and began to brainstorm. There was that fabric she wanted to buy, a beautiful point de Venise lace with a touch of Lycra that would be perfect for a casual cocktail bridal dress. She needed to check on the progress the seamstresses were making on a beaded gown she’d sketched out two weeks ago. And there were all the phone calls to make, including a follow-up call about showing her new bridal line on The View. She’d met the producer backstage at one of Ras’s shows. She’d sent her all the press clippings on J. Bennett Designs, and they’d been playing phone tag ever since.
There was a knock on Josephine’s office door. She ignored it. Five thousand dollars for a state-of-the-art intercom system and Mali still wanted to get up from her chair and knock on her door? Josephine rolled her eyes and waited. She ignored the second knock and swiveled her chair around to go online and check her emails. Ten seconds later, the intercom’s buzzer went off. She turned her chair back around and clicked it on.
“Yes, Mali.”
Josephine could practically hear Mali sucking her teeth; her assistant usually managed to fume only in her head.
“I have Marasa Wright here to see you.”
Josephine sat up straight and looked down at her desk calendar. It was empty for the day. It was empty for the whole week.
“Mali, can you please come back here?”
Mali opened the door and just stuck her head into the office. Josephine waved her in and pointed to the chair.
“Does this person have an appointment?”
“Yes, ma’am. She called last week and I scheduled her for today.”
Josephine clenched her teeth, kept her eyes on Mali, and jabbed a finger on the page of her desk calendar. “Then why isn’t it on the calendar?”
“You weren’t here and the office was locked. I couldn’t get in to put it there.”
“So when is her wedding?”
Mali looked down at her clipboard. “April first.”
“How’d she hear about J. Bennett?”
“She said she saw the segment on summer bridal dresses on Good Day New York.”
“But they didn’t even say who the designer was!” Josephine was still salty that the newswoman was cut off before she could tell the world that the gowns had been designed by J. Bennett. She’d been sitting on the edge of her sofa, shaking her fists at the television, cursing the news anchor out in French, Spanish, and English.
“She said she called the station to find out the name of the designer and they told her.”
Josephine smiled. This woman really wanted a J. Bennett dress! She’d researched to get the information.
“Take Mink into the front with you,” said Josephine. “And then you can send Ms. Wright back here.”
Mali took Mink out of his bed and walked toward the door.
“Mali?”
“Ma’am.”
Josephine kept her eyes on her calendar. “How is your sister?”
Mali didn’t turn around. “Good. Big. Getting bigger every day.”
Josephine felt her stomach flip over and then settle. “My love to her,” she said to Mali in a whisper.
Mali nodded and left the office.
JOSEPHINE PUT ONE HAND ON THE WOMAN’S SHOULDERS AND TOOK IN her body, from the tiny feet all the way up to her small, round head.
“You trying to put some weight on before the wedding?”
The woman laughed. “I couldn’t if I wanted to. This is as big as I get.”
“Hair up or down?” Josephine said. She scooped up the mass of hair that hung down the woman’s back and placed it in a handheld bun on the top of her head.
“I haven’t even thought about it.”
Josephine clucked her tongue and scanned the back of the woman’s body. “Lord, if I had a body like yours, you’d have to pay me not to show it off!”
“You’re not doing so bad yourself,” the woman said. “I’ll bet your husband loves your curves.”
Josephine laughed and then stopped abruptly. Her eyebrows creased. “What did you say your name was?”
“Marasa Wright.”
“Yes, Ms. Wright. Come with me,” said Josephine, motioning for her to follow her into the office. Josephine stood behind her desk and waited for her to come inside and take a seat before she sat down. The young lady had the perfect body for a wedding dress, lean, slim, and sleek. She reminded Josephine of the white girl who used to do the print work for Calvin Klein, the one with the boyish shape, no hips or breasts but a nice backside.
“You are going to make a beautiful bride. I already have some ideas,” said Josephine, taking out a sketch pad. “You want something that is form-fitting, show off that body of yours.” Josep
hine looked up for a second and then back down at her pad. “You want a fabric that has a little give.”
Her new client nodded and leaned over to watch Josephine’s hands sketch out a gown.
“See, you want something dramatic in the back,” said Josephine. She drew a new sketch, next to the first one, showing the back of a gown. There was a deep V in the back and a long train.
“I definitely want something that is very simple,” the woman said.
Josephine nodded. “I have the perfect fabric too! I just found it.”
She went into her desk drawer and pulled out a swatch of the white lace fabric she was planning to order that very day. She laid it out on her desk and exhaled.
“It’s point d’Angleterre, handmade in Belgium.” Josephine looked up at the woman, still smoothing out the lace with her hand. “City called Bruges. Just about every woman there makes lace. I go myself twice a year.”
“You fly out there specifically for the lace?”
“I do,” Josephine said.
The woman nodded her head slowly. “You’re very dedicated to your work.”
Josephine smiled and looked down at her sample fabric square.
The woman leaned over Josephine’s desk and dropped her voice down to a whisper. “Are you just as dedicated to your marriage?”
Josephine froze. She kept her eyes on the fabric. And she kept her smile on her face. Her heart started to thump in her chest but she didn’t move a single muscle. She focused on breathing in and out, still smiling, still holding her lace.
“Do I know you, Ms. Wright?”
The woman leaned back in her chair and looked around the tiny office. “No. But I know you.”
Josephine’s chest was heaving, her nostrils flaring. And her teeth were clenched tight. She closed her eyes briefly and then sat up straight in her chair.
“You must be Cleo.”
“Your husband calls me Marasa. Some kind of Jamaican patois nickname. Not sure what it means.” The woman bit down on her bottom lip and extended a hand. When it was clear that Josephine wouldn’t touch her, the woman dropped her hand and shrugged.
Platinum Page 5