Grace had heard this speech so many times she could quote it from memory. Her father was an important member of the community. His was one of the few black-owned businesses outside of Harlem that had managed to maintain a consistent level of success. And so on. And so on.
She would never do anything that might tarnish her father’s legacy or negatively affect her future. Hadn’t she proved that time and time again? “Pay no attention to Faith. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
“Does Lillie?” her father asked. “Because she certainly had plenty to say when she called the house Friday night.” He looked back at Grace to make sure she was paying attention. “She said you and one of your clients were having a hard time keeping your hands to yourselves.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“Then how would you put it? You know how I feel about mixing business with pleasure.”
“Yes, Dad, I do. I feel the same way.”
“You don’t want to get with Dakota Lane, anyway,” Hope said.
Grace wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the reasons behind Hope’s statement, but she asked the question nevertheless. “Why not?”
“She’s too mannish. The women you normally date look like women, not imitation men. What’s the point of being a lesbian if you’re going to date a woman who looks like a dude?”
“Because underneath it all, she’s still a woman, isn’t she?”
“Way underneath.”
Grace felt offended. On her behalf or Dakota’s, she wasn’t sure. Butch women might not be her cup of tea, but they deserved to be able to express themselves in any way they chose. In the immortal words of the famed philosopher RuPaul, everyone’s born naked and the rest was drag. Hope threw her shoulders back as if she didn’t expect Grace to challenge either her statements or her attitude, but Grace decided to push the issue rather than letting it drop. “Perhaps I had a change of heart.”
Hope stopped in her tracks. “You? Get real. You’re so set in your ways you won’t even change your hairstyle, let alone your dating patterns. You grew up with posters of Janet Jackson and Whitney Houston on your wall. You’re not about to start dating k.d. lang.”
“How do you know?” Grace asked defensively. What Hope referred to as being set in her ways, others might call being stuck in a rut. Neither situation felt like one Grace wanted to be in. “I might surprise all of you one day.”
“Dream on, sis,” Hope said with a caustic laugh. “The day you sleep with a woman who doesn’t look like Jet magazine’s Beauty of the Week is the day I finally walk down the aisle with Idris Elba. And the day you bring Dakota Lane home is the same day you get cut out of the will.”
“Why are you so dead set against her? You don’t even know her.”
“I know what I’ve seen. And since she doesn’t seem to know the meaning of the word discreet, I’ve seen plenty. She reminds me of that guy who was kicked off of a reality show on MTV years ago. The guy who used to dip the same finger he picked his nose with into the communal jar of peanut butter.”
“Ew.” Faith wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Gross.”
Since Dakota wasn’t around to defend herself, Grace felt compelled to do it for her. “She wasn’t like that when I met her. She was friendly, respectful, and well-mannered. Lillie even remarked on the fact that she said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and called her ‘ma’am.’”
“She sounds like the perfect gentleman,” Hope said sarcastically. “Did she pull Lillie’s chair out for her, too?”
“The opportunity didn’t present itself.”
“That’s too bad. For Lillie, I mean.” Hope examined Grace’s face as if she were trying to gauge her level of interest in Dakota. She narrowed her eyes after she seemed to reach her conclusion. “You know who we’re talking about, don’t you, Daddy?” She performed an image search on her phone and pulled up several unflattering photos of Dakota and a series of women in various stages of undress, as well as sobriety.
Grace’s father glanced at the photos but quickly averted his eyes. “Put that away. That’s not something any of us should be seeing on a Sunday morning.”
“Or any other morning, for that matter,” Grace’s mother said. “Shameful. Or should I say shameless?”
Grace’s mother made the word sound pejorative, but Grace considered it a compliment. Dakota lived her life on her own terms without caring who was watching or what they had to say about the way she looked, dressed, or acted. The only person’s approval she sought was her own. Grace wished she could say the same.
“Do her parents know what she’s up to?” her mother asked.
“They should,” Hope said. “She’s in the tabloids all the time.”
“And we all know tabloids never manufacture stories or headlines in order to sell magazines.”
“Does this look made up to you?” Hope showed Grace a picture of two people crammed into what looked like a bathroom stall. Dakota’s face was visible only in profile. Her companion’s visage, however, was plain to see as she paused to document the moment with a well-timed selfie.
Grace shrank from the picture—and the hint of cruelty in her sister’s gleeful smile.
“I trust you won’t find yourself in similar circumstances,” Hope said. “Unless having sex in a nightclub bathroom is your idea of a good time.”
“Not hardly.” Grace wasn’t into excessive public displays of affection. A kiss or two were okay as long as the busses remained relatively chaste. The images Hope was thrusting in her face, however, seemed like stills from a porn film.
“I didn’t think so.”
Grace’s father turned to face her. “We’ve serviced controversial customers before. I suppose it won’t hurt our bottom line to be associated with this Dakota person professionally. But given the photographic evidence Hope just produced, is she someone you think you’d like to spend time with on a personal basis?”
Grace didn’t know Dakota well enough to be able to separate fantasy from reality. Logic said she should keep her distance, but curiosity tempted her to take a peek behind the curtain. One thing stopped her: she didn’t like being the center of attention, and Dakota couldn’t seem to get enough. “No, Dad, she’s just a client.”
“Good. Make sure that’s all she remains.”
Her father nodded as if the matter had been put to rest, but Grace felt unsettled. As she continued the trek to church, she wondered who she was trying to please in her thus far futile search for love: her family or herself.
Chapter Five
Dakota completed her last morning delivery, then made an unscheduled stop after she clocked out for lunch. She was under contract with Whitaker Models, one of the most prestigious modeling agencies in New York City. Laird Jennings was her agent. He was supposed to be at her beck and call twenty-four hours a day, but she hadn’t been able to get him on the phone since she dug her cell out of the bowl of uncooked rice it had been sitting in all weekend while she waited for it to dry out.
Laird usually returned her calls right away, but she hadn’t heard from him despite the four voice mails she had left asking him to call her as soon as he got her message. She needed to know how Sophie Mestach’s arrival on the scene would affect her standing in the industry. Had she gone out of style like last year’s fashions, or was she still on trend? Laird’s uncharacteristic silence was increasing her anxiety.
She hadn’t seen any press releases about Sophie signing with a New York–based agency. Was Whitaker planning to make a run at her? If so, the competition between them was about to get even more heated.
“Mr. Jennings has been in meetings all morning,” Laird’s personal assistant said as Dakota waited for him outside his office. “I told him you’re here. He’ll try to squeeze you in as soon as he can.”
Dakota picked up a two-month-old magazine and flipped through the pages. “I’ve got nothing but time.”
That wasn’t entirely true. She had a pickup scheduled for one o’clock and she
needed to get back on her bike in plenty of time for her to get there. And as for her second career, she was starting to feel like her time was running out. She’d had a good run, but she wasn’t ready for it to be over. She was having too much fun to jump off the merry-go-round now.
Her phone chimed while she waited for Laird to wrap things up with whoever was in his office. She dug her phone out of her messenger bag and checked the display. An email from Grace was sitting in her in-box. Technically, the email had come from Henderson Custom Suits since the company’s official email address was listed as the sender, but Grace was undoubtedly the author.
Dakota didn’t expect the email to be personal in nature since Grace had taken great pains to keep her distance thus far, so she wasn’t surprised to see the content was purely business-related. Grace had completed her design for the suit Dakota had commissioned and she needed approval before she could proceed to the next phase.
Dakota tossed the out-of-date magazine aside and opened the email attachment so she could take a look at the design. What she saw blew her away. Even though Grace’s sketches weren’t three-dimensional, they seemed to leap off the screen. Dakota could sense both the energy behind the drawings and the passion Grace had obviously put into them.
The suit was perfect. Every detail was one Dakota would have selected herself. She couldn’t believe Grace had been able to capture exactly what she wanted when she hadn’t been able to put it into words. She couldn’t wait to see the finished product—and to have Grace see her in it. She had modeled for thousands of people over the years. At the moment, she wanted to strut her stuff for an audience of one.
She hit the Reply button and typed her response.
I love it. Don’t change a thing.
She heard Laird’s door open right after she hit Send. She looked up to see Laird shaking hands with Sophie Mestach and her husband Ruben, an attorney who also served as her business manager.
“I look forward to working with you, Sophie,” Laird said. “I think we can do great things together.”
“I agree. I can’t wait to get started.” Sophie’s enthusiasm appeared to wane a bit when she turned and spotted Dakota sitting in the waiting area. She quickly plastered on a smile that seemed decidedly less than genuine. “Dakota, it’s a pleasure seeing you again.”
Sophie spread her arms and offered her cheeks to be kissed. Dakota obliged, bussing the air next to Sophie’s face. She didn’t have to force herself to make small talk because Ruben took Sophie by the arm and drew her away before she could say much more than hello.
“I have someplace I need to be,” Sophie said, “but let’s have lunch sometime. You pick the place and I’ll pick up the tab as long as you promise to be a cheap date.”
As Sophie and Ruben headed to the elevator, Dakota tried to gauge Laird’s reaction. He looked like he’d rather be somewhere else.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you today.” He shoved his hands in his pockets as if he didn’t know what else to do with them. “What’s with the surprise visit?”
“Didn’t you get my voice mails?”
“Yes, but I’ve been in meetings all morning.”
“So I see.” Dakota let her gaze drift to the elevator. The doors had just closed and the car was starting to make its descent to the ground floor.
“Come in and have a seat.” Laird steered her into his office and grabbed a bottle of mineral water from the stocked mini-bar. The thing looked like something out of Mad Men, the classic television show about boozing New York ad execs. Don Draper, the main character, would have been proud. “Would you like something to drink?”
“No, but I’d appreciate some answers.”
“I’m sure you would.” Laird sat on a corner of his desk. A pose he always took on when he was trying to seem personable rather than aloof. “I know what you’re thinking, but you don’t have anything to worry about.”
“So you didn’t sign Sophie as backup because you’re worried I’ll become a cautionary tale like Gia Carangi?”
Gia Carangi was considered to be the first supermodel. Before Naomi, Elle, Helena, Kate, and Christy, there was Gia. The Philadelphia native was known for her meteoric rise to fame and the heroin addiction that helped bring both her career and life to premature ends. Dakota liked to live close to the edge, but she always remained in control of herself and the situation. She had no intention of following Gia’s self-destructive path, but perhaps Laird and the rest of the executives at Whitaker thought she was already on her way to doing just that.
“Everyone at the agency is very happy with you and your work,” Laird said. “We aren’t looking to replace you. What we’re trying to do is shore up the team so we can corner the market. Demand for you and your peers is increasing, but you can’t be everywhere at once. That’s where Sophie comes in. With her on the roster, we’ll have two of the most sought-after models in the industry. Don’t look at her as your competition. Those days are over. From now on, she’s your ally. If everything works out, it could result in twice the bookings, which means more exposure for you and more money for everyone.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
He leaned back as if he had expected her to accept his proposal without raising any objections. “You’re seeing the glass as half-empty rather than half-full.”
“Wouldn’t you if you were in my position?” She took in his expensive clothes and accessories and looked around his well-appointed office. The room, filled with trappings of his success, was larger than her apartment. She was proud of the money she had made over the years, but it was chump change compared to what Laird pulled in. “You’ll get paid whether your little experiment succeeds or fails. I, on the other hand, might not.”
“You’re flying to Belize in two weeks for a photo shoot, you have shows scheduled throughout Fashion Week, and your face is going to be all over Vogue’s September issue,” he said, ticking off each point on his fingers. “Your calendar’s full, Dakota. Bringing Sophie into the fold isn’t going to change that.”
“But what about—”
Laird held out his hands in a placating gesture. “You’re not going anywhere. You have my word on that. You’re under contract for three more years and we aren’t looking for a loophole to spring you from it. I hope you aren’t either.”
Even if she found a way to break free, she wouldn’t be allowed to sign with another agency until her contract with Whitaker expired. Like it or not, she was stuck. If she wanted to keep working as a model, she had to do it for Whitaker. And she had to do it with Sophie Mestach.
Laird looked up when his assistant poked her head in the room to remind him he had a twelve thirty reservation at a high-end seafood restaurant run by a famed French chef with three Michelin stars under his toque. “I’m on my way.” He turned back to Dakota. “I hate to cut this short, but I’ve got to go. If I keep Anna Wintour waiting, she might decide to bump you from the cover. The September Vogue is the biggest and most important magazine publication of the year. Do you realize how much exposure you’d miss out on if the issue hits the stands with someone else on the front?”
“Yes,” Dakota said wearily.
“So are we cool?”
“Yeah, we’re cool.”
“Good.” He offered her one last bit of reassurance as he walked her to the door. “Relax, Dakota. You’re part of the family.”
She might have found comfort in his words if she hadn’t seen firsthand how easily family could turn their backs on her.
* * *
Grace picked up a bolt of charcoal gray pinstripe wool and rolled it out on the cutting table, where she pinned a series of paper sewing patterns to the material. She had always viewed putting a custom suit together like assembling a jigsaw puzzle. Each piece of cloth had to be precisely cut and placed in the correct position in order to form a cohesive whole. If even one measurement was slightly off, it threw everything else out of kilter.
“Have you seen all the requests for fittings that have co
me into the website today?” her father asked as she carefully traced the outlines of the patterns with her sewing scissors.
Grace waited until she had completed her task before she answered the question. She needed to make sure she didn’t cut too close to the paper or the seamstress assigned to the job wouldn’t have enough material to assemble a jacket based on the measurements she had taken during the fitting. The client was a seven-foot NBA center. When he tried on the coat, Grace didn’t want it to look like it had been made for a six-foot point guard.
“No,” she said as she gathered the assembled pieces of cloth into a pile and began to lay out the pattern for a pair of pants to match the jacket she had just finished working on. “I’ve been too busy trying to clear the backlog of orders to check on potential new ones.”
“We average two requests a day if we’re lucky, but we’ve had ten since Saturday night.”
“For real?” Business didn’t pick up that much unless Easter Sunday, All-Star weekend, or draft night were on the horizon. Two of those events had already passed, and they were currently working through the onslaught of orders for the third. “Who are the messages from?”
Her father reached for his reading glasses and moved closer to the monitor. The specs were his only concession to getting older. At sixty-six, he stood as straight and tall as ever, his face was wrinkle-free, and his close-cropped hair bore only a light dusting of gray. He looked a good ten years younger than his actual age, and he had the energy to match. She hoped she had inherited his genes as well as his business sense. “None of these emails are from our regulars. They all seem to be from new customers.”
Grace plucked a pin from the cushion strapped to her wrist and used it to affix the pattern to the wool. “The interview you did on Good Morning, New York must have captured people’s attention.”
Her father scowled at the computer screen. “I don’t think so.”
“Why do you say that?”
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