Gigi was holding the phone far too close to her face, but I could still make out the disapproval there.
“I suppose she brought up those G-strings again,” she said with a huff. “The woman is going to careen into her grave without a shred of dignity left.”
I grinned. “It’s so good to see you and hear you. Though I can’t actually see you.” I stifled a giggle, knowing this was thin ice. “Would you maybe pull back a bit on the phone? You’re coming in hot over here.”
“Is this better?” She moved it all right, but to the left, so now all I could see was one eye and one ear and a tuft of hair.
“Much better,” I said, knowing when I was beat. “How’s it going, Gigi? Everyone doing all right there?”
She nodded. “We’re great. Myrna’s a little high-strung about all those orders that keep coming to the Googlemail you set up for us, but we’re doing our best to keep up. I just hope folks don’t mind waiting a bit.” An offscreen Goldie hollered back to Gigi, “You tell Grace that Myrna has no right to be high-strung. She just paid off her house with her new fancy job at Flyover!” Gigi turned away from the phone to tell Goldie to hush and took stock of the group behind her. “I hope it’s all right with you, sweetie, but I’ve taken the liberty to hire some more seamstresses. Irma and Gert are from First Methodist, and I nabbed Shirley from Silver Creek Reformed. They’re all hard workers and are picking things up quick. That will help with the lag time.”
My mind was racing and I felt the skin at the back of my neck shiver with a new, potentially fantastic idea. First Methodist, Silver Creek Reformed. “Gigi,” I said slowly while the puzzle pieces started to fit, “you might very well be a genius.”
“Oh, give me a break,” she said, before adding, “it’s about time you noticed. What’d I do?”
“You might have just solved the problem that I’ve been turning over and over in my head for days.” I stood up, brushed grass hurriedly off my tush and legs, and began to pace the little clearing. “Our orders are actually going to get even more insane within the next few weeks,” I said, head down as I walked, knowing that Gigi wasn’t watching anyway. FaceTime was beyond our capabilities for the moment. “Lots of orders, and by that I mean thousands, Gigi.”
“Thousands? Good gracious,” she said, surprise and pride in her voice. “You must be the toast of the town out there, Grace. I’m so happy for you.”
“Thank you,” I said, mind still reeling. “I’m happy for us, Gigi, and I have been racking my brain, trying to figure out how to keep up with the demand. If we don’t keep up, if we can’t show that we can handle such rapid growth, all our work might be for nothing. Everything can tank just as fast as it rises around here.”
“Well, I do have those three new women,” Gigi said, and I could hear her wheels clicking. “But that won’t be enough to help with such a huge increase.”
“Exactly,” I said, starting to hop a little as I walked. “That’s why you’re a genius. You already did what we need to do again, just on a larger scale.” I stopped talking and looked at the phone. I could see most of her face. “First Methodist is just the beginning, Gigi. What we need is a whole network of First Methodists and Silver Creek Reformeds—a network of ladies across Iowa who know their stuff and are ready to help this thing take off.”
Gigi’s face lit up. “A network of sewing clubs.”
“Yes. And I think we should start with churches.”
She nodded, convinced. “Absolutely. Every small town around here has three or four groups just like ours, women who have been sewing for their families and communities for decades. They’re very experienced and very good.”
“And they will be well paid for their experience,” I said firmly. “I want them to know that from the first. This is not just about Flyover. This is about breathing new life into communities that need a lift. I really believe in this, Gigi.” I found my throat constricting with sudden emotion, surprising me.
“I can see you do,” she said softly.
“No, you can’t,” I said, light laughter filling my chest. “You can’t see me at all when you hold the phone that close.”
“I sure as heck can,” she said, all bristly. “And I’m going to finish saying what I started, even though you’re being difficult.” She paused and pulled the phone back, too far this time, but I could still hear her. “Thank you for thinking this way, Gracie. Your mom and dad would say it if they were here, but since they’re not, I will. I’m awfully proud of who you are.”
I swallowed hard. “Thank you, Gigi.”
She waited and it looked like she was weighing whether or not to say what was on her mind. After a beat, she said, “When’s the last time you spoke to Tucker, honey?”
I took a deep breath and let it out in a rush, not ready to give up the heady victory of a problem solved and exchange it with feelings still bruised and tender. I shook my head. “It’s been a while,” I said, wishing now we were not using FaceTime and that she couldn’t see my expression. It was easier to fake cheeriness when it only involved my voice. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s all right, I suppose,” Gigi said, her voice sounding pinched.
“What’s that face for?”
“He may have been seen skulking around town with that Natalie girl last weekend,” Gigi said, apologetic.
My heart stopped for a moment.
“Oh.”
The screen panned sharply upward and I heard Gigi calling across the room. “I have to go, sweetheart. Bev has a bobbin issue.” She lowered her voice. “Again. The woman attracts calamity, I swear.”
Our good-bye was cut short as Gigi pushed to end the call abruptly. I stood in the clearing, feeling the breeze cool the sweat on my skin and raise a crop of goose bumps on my arms.
I’d wanted to know, I realized with a heavy weight settling in my chest. I’d really wanted to know how he was doing. I walked slowly back to the path and heard a sigh escape my lips as I moved onward, head down, no particular route in mind. I missed him. The sky here was wide enough, I’d stopped long enough, it was quiet enough, and I couldn’t escape what was true. I missed Tucker. And Tucker, I realized anew, my feet hitting the pavement with increased speed as I pushed away the thoughts with a stubbornness I was remembering better with each step, Tucker wasn’t anywhere close to me. In fact, Tucker Van Es was worlds away.
twenty-five
I sat at the worktable, bare feet tucked under me, and stared at the spreadsheets littered across the desktop, the only sound the hum of the air-conditioning that cycled on and off, dispelling the muggy heat of outside.
Saturday night meant a quiet office, which was just what I needed. I’d tried figuring out the problem at hand while sitting at the makeshift desk in my pied-à-terre, but to no avail. All I wanted to do in that cozy space was sleep the week away, and that wouldn’t solve the issues I was facing on the papers in front of me.
The day before, I’d been quick to encourage Chase and Eleanor to enjoy their weekend. They’d put in plenty of overtime throughout the last days and weeks, and I was determined not to have Flyover become Milano, Part Two. That I myself was never more than a breath away from the office was a separate issue. This time, the company was mine, the direction was mine, the work was mine. I needed to be there. The other designers, however, needed a break, a long breakfast at a sidewalk café, a walk along the Hudson, a movie or play or show. I would not repeat the way I’d been required to sacrifice my life at Milano. Flyover would be a more humane place to work, even if it killed me.
I chuckled at the irony as I ran my fingers through my unwashed hair and reflected that it just might do that, kill me. I was wrestling with how to pull off this feat of freelancing grannies. I had Gigi’s lists before me. She had outlined names of local congregations and the women who had agreed to help us out. I had figured the cost of monthly payroll, and while it was more than I had anticipated, I was certain it was the right thing to do. People were always the costliest part of any su
ccessful business, but they were also what made a business thrive. The women in Iowa were the heart of this thing, and I was determined to make it work for them and for their communities.
I was just struggling with the details of how.
How would I manage payroll in a way that didn’t make me go insane? How would I structure the pay schedules of the original six women, knowing they were the ones who would bear the most responsibility while I was so far away? How would I coordinate the purchase and regular delivery of new equipment and supplies to all these churches, some of them over an hour away from Silver Creek and none of them near a large city? The logistics were overwhelming me, and I ran my hand through my hair again, feeling it stay in an upright position even when my hand dropped back to my side.
It was after eight, so the light coming from the windows had just started to soften with the early dusk of a summer’s night. I loved summer, or at least I usually loved summer, when I was able to be outside more than I had during the last month. The days were so long, I was just now reaching for the lamp on my desk to switch it on for extra light. Hunched over the papers, I glanced up only briefly when I heard the elevator doors open. James walked toward me with a brisk, efficient stride. He arrived at my desk, but I kept my eyes on the papers, feeling close to a breakthrough and not wanting to interrupt my train of thought.
“Here late again?” James said, dropping a neat stack of paper on my desk. “These are the latest orders. I thought you’d want to see where we stand.” He moved around to my side of the desk to see what I was seeing, but recoiled slightly. “Good grief, woman. You smell like a locker room.”
I made a face. “Thanks. You really know how to charm a girl.”
He tugged at some sketches that were peeking out under my spreadsheets. I kept working on numbers, crunching one series over and over, trying to make them work as I tweaked. Maybe we could hire a runner, a high school kid who could drive afternoons and weekends and deliver fabric and embellishments and other supplies to towns outside of Silver Creek. Maybe that would work more efficiently than UPS, and we could add another job or two to the Silver Creek community. I could ask Gigi. Or Gigi could ask Tucker, I thought with a dip in my heart. Tucker would know the right person, but I wasn’t going to be the one to ask. The thought of even pushing his number on my phone caused a sharp pain to ripple through my gut, which was currently empty after hours of neglect.
James let out a low whistle, startling me from my thoughts. I’d nearly forgotten he was still there. I glanced at his face and saw he was shaking his head.
“What?” I asked. I grabbed the sketches, defensive. “These are rough. Don’t judge.”
He shook his head. “If those are rough, I can’t wait to see the finals. Grace, are you even kidding me?” He pointed to the papers in my hand. “These are extraordinary. They’re fresh and beautiful and on trend but also iconic in a way. They remind me of . . .” He paused, searching for the word. “They remind me of all the things I like the most.”
I laughed at the lunacy of that compliment. “Wow,” I said, laying the sketches on top of the numbers sheets and giving them a critical glance. “I feel like that is a gross exaggeration, but I’m tired and hungry, so I’ll let you get away with it.”
James took his phone from his pocket and started photographing the sketches.
“Hey, now, wait a minute,” I said, grabbing for his phone, but he moved too quickly and finished the shot. “I’m not done! You can’t have documentation of a work in progress. That’s just mean.”
“Give me a break,” he said, teasing in his eyes. “It’s not like they’re going on Facebook. I just want to look at them later and remember the level of awe I maintain for you and your design prowess.”
I put both hands on my hips, staring him down.
He shrugged. “Also, I want to show them to my new favorite photographer so she can be thinking of where we will shoot your first catalog.”
“My first catalog.” I said the words in the same voice I had reserved for Justin Timberlake as a tween. “Sounds lovely.”
James took the pencil out of my grip and laid it down on the desk. “Yes, but if I might remind you, you don’t smell lovely. No offense.”
“Offense taken.”
He put an arm around my shoulders and guided me to my feet. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to leave this place because we both need to remember what the world looks like outside these walls. We’re trying to clothe that world, after all, so think of it as market research.”
I mumbled a protest. “But I’m so close to figuring out logistics. I can’t leave now.”
“You can and you will.” He was already walking ahead of me and turning off lights. “Come to my place. I can justify having a personal chef for once since we’ll be there to actually eat what Jean-Luc cooks.”
“Jean-Luc?” I asked, draping my bag across my shoulders and feeling muscles creak as I joined him at the elevator. “What happened to Noemi?”
James sniffed. “Noemi became too fond of borscht and not fond enough of flavor. She went on an anti-salt kick and we had to part ways.” He led the way into the elevator and I had to scurry to get in before the door closed.
“You’re kind of pushy about this,” I said, trying to sound miffed but already wondering what Jean-Luc would cook up for us and if the dining room chairs in James’s apartment were as luxuriously comfortable as they’d looked.
He punched the code to the underground parking garage. “I’m entitled to be pushy. I’m your boss.”
I frowned at him. “Untrue. We’re business partners.”
He shrugged. “Semantics. But fine. Yes, partners. And as your business partner, I’m going to have to insist you eat. And brush your teeth.”
I gasped. “I have deliciously fresh breath. I am compulsive about it, and you know it.”
“Point in your favor,” he said, and his grin was wolfish as I slipped past him and walked toward his polished Mercedes. We ducked into the smooth leather seats and James started the engine, igniting it to a gentle purr and reversing out of his parking spot in one quick motion. I watched out the spotless windshield as we surfaced onto the city street, alive with weekend traffic and lights coming on to illuminate another steamy summer evening. I closed my eyes as James guided us to Upper Manhattan, ready to move forward, onward, upward, past persistent thoughts of a boy in Iowa who, we had agreed, was best to forget.
twenty-six
By the time James unlocked the door to his penthouse, Jean-Luc was already prepping dinner. We could hear his knife work from the foyer. James called out a greeting to him as I slipped off my shoes at the door, and then he turned to me.
“Follow.” He took off down the hallway, pausing only for a quick introduction as we passed the kitchen. Jean-Luc looked up from a cutting board and nodded quickly.
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle,” he said, and returned his attention immediately to a pile of calamari.
“Not a talker,” James said quietly as he steered me to the back of the apartment and the master suite. “But I much prefer wordlessness and outstanding food to unsalted borscht.” He opened a closet at the end of the hallway and threw a plush white hand towel at me. I caught it to my chest and inhaled its freshly laundered scent. I knew from his own admission James did not know how to do his own laundry and never had, following a long tradition enjoyed by generational wealth. His mother, he’d once told me, had brought a maid with her to Smith when she was a college girl. She’d boarded her off campus and continued the perks of having her laundry washed and folded, her dresses and blouses pressed, and shopping and errands efficiently performed by a professional, even as she discussed Shakespeare and world history in the hallowed halls of academia.
I excused myself to the restroom to freshen up before dinner. As I reapplied my makeup, I started to hum, pleased that I could feel the dynamic between the two of us shifting this time around. We were on the equal playing field I’d so wanted the first tim
e we’d tiptoed into getting to know each other. No uneasy work-life separations because we would be copiloting this time. I was just as likely as he was to go dark for days, intent on my work, and he would understand that in a way that other people might not. I closed my eyes, shoving out my thoughts of “other people.” Tucker had made his choice, I reminded myself again. And I’d made mine. It was time to move on.
When I opened the door to the restroom, the smells coming from the kitchen washed over me. Infinitely better than any slice of pizza I would have nabbed on my walk back to my apartment, Jean-Luc was performing marvels on the six-burner Viking stove.
James opened his arm toward the French doors leading to the balcony and said, “Shall we?”
I followed him to the terrace and a sweeping view of the park and the city beyond. We leaned against the stately brick railing, sipping our wine and watching as the park grew dark and the lights of the city dotted the landscape, rushing to meet the falling night. I took a step back and surveyed the terrace with appreciation.
“James, this is so beautiful with everything in bloom. All the color and the smell of these herbs.” I pinched off a basil leaf and raised it to my nose, then popped it into my mouth. “You are a lucky man.”
He nodded slowly, eyes on me. “That’s absolutely true.” He smiled and raised his glass. Walking to the patio table and the waiting bottle, he spoke as he poured. “This really is a great place. Killer view. Something of a tragedy, though, that I don’t spend more time out here. I think this is the first, maybe second time this summer that I’ve eaten on the terrace. Jean-Luc sounded stunned when I suggested it.” He winked, just as the chef himself appeared, bearing two beautifully plated appetizers.
“For your pleasure,” he said in a thick French cadence, “a sauté of calamari and shrimp, dressed with garlic, coriander, cardamom, and mint, finished with lemon zest. That you may enjoy.” He leaned over the table and placed each dish carefully at the two place settings before bowing slightly and hurrying back to the kitchen.
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