“That was the most words I’ve heard him say at one time,” James said quietly as he pulled out my chair. “I think he has a crush on my date.” He leaned over me from behind and kissed me chastely on the cheek.
I smiled as he sat down. “A man of impeccable taste, then.” I speared a beautifully crisped ring of calamari and didn’t even wait for James to respond before murmuring with fresh-catch pleasure. “This is delicious,” I said, putting a shrimp on the end of my fork and feeling another rush of happiness as I bit into the morsel. I shook my head and waited to finish chewing. “I think I’m the one who has a crush on Jean-Luc.”
And that was just the first course. The steak-and-tomato salad, with tarragon from James’s herb garden, sang of summer, and I told Jean-Luc just that. My words made him blush as he set down a basket of his fresh-made ciabatta, and James raised his eyebrows in amusement. “Now he’s just showing off,” he said, but he broke the bread with his hands and slathered on chilled salted butter, and I noted he might want me to eat there more often, if Jean-Luc had this kind of reaction.
James laughed. “True enough,” he agreed, “though if things at Flyover keep moving in the direction and at the speed they are currently headed, I don’t think you’ll have any more free evenings for terrace dining than I have.”
I frowned, and he tore off another piece of bread as he continued. “Don’t worry that pretty head,” he said, bemused. “You’ll be seeing plenty of other breathtaking views.”
I listened as he described the upcoming travel he was booking for us as we followed the plan of expansion. An industry friend in Paris had asked us to visit before the end of fall, James had a contact in Milan who was itching for samples, he said, and a stop in London had already been booked. I thanked Jean-Luc for the slice of raspberry crème fraîche tart that he slid in front of me, and took a deep breath in, letting it out slowly. My parents and I had always dreamed of going to Paris together after my high school graduation.
“Wow,” I breathed. “I’ve never been to Paris.”
“You will love it,” James said with a smile. “It’s very romantic.”
James pushed away from the table and came to stand in front of me. He held out his hand. “The City of Love and all that,” he said, and pulled me to my feet. “Now I want to make something very clear.” I stood inches away, but he didn’t take a step back. My breath caught as I stared into his startling blue eyes. He drew even closer to me, his hands tight around my waist. He leaned down and kissed me. It was earnest, intense. I pulled back to catch my breath and searched his face, my thoughts spinning. A smile broke from my lips.
“Who would have thought,” I said quietly, “that the whole reason I’m standing here again is because of a group of sweet little old ladies sewing their hearts out in a converted barn?”
Something flickered across James’s face, and he stepped deftly out of our embrace and back to his side of the table. I watched him, wondering if I’d said something wrong, and when he daintily speared his first bite of tart, he answered my internal questions.
“Grace, you know the granny thing will need to stop, right?” He took a sip of water.
I stared, still standing where he’d left me. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he said slowly, “that we love the grannies. We love the idea of the grannies. But when it comes down to logistics, the grannies can’t keep up.”
I could feel my pulse rate start to climb. “I know there are some challenges,” I said quickly, “but I’ve thought a lot about it and I know how to keep production in Iowa.”
James’s smile was pitying. “Grace, it will never work. The investment in human capital is outrageous if we keep production in the Midwest. That’s why things aren’t produced in the Midwest. The Midwest is”—he paused, a sad smile forming—“well, flyover country.”
I could feel my blood start to boil. “What are you saying?” My voice had raised and I saw Jean-Luc pass by the soaring patio doors and look outside, concern on his face.
“I’m saying the grannies were the perfect start, and I’ve kept them in the business as long as I could, but they are simply not sustainable. You had to know that.” He waited a moment for me to agree but saw only my fixed stare and set jaw. Hurrying the conversation onward, he put up his hands in surrender. “I know they were important to you, but we have to do what’s best for Saffron. And Flyover. You have the next level to think about. The decision is between India or China. You pick.” He kept eating his blasted tart, and I gripped the chair in front of me, worried I might just pick up the tart and fling it over the terrace wall to an unceremonious demise on the pavement ten stories below.
“No,” I said, shrugging slightly, righteous anger giving my words momentum. “Production stays in Iowa.”
James let out a short bark of a laugh. “Grace, calm down.”
“Do not tell me to calm down,” I said through gritted teeth. “I have worked too long and too hard for this for you to ruin it by cutting corners.”
He pushed back his chair from the table and studied me, hands slowly folding his linen napkin into a tidy square. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“Well, it’s not the first time,” I said. I could feel the anger flushing my cheeks.
“Hey, now,” he said, and I hated it that he remained so calm, amused even. “No need to get personal.”
“This is personal. That’s the whole point, James. This is incredibly personal. The women in Silver Creek are real people with real dreams and real families and real bills to pay. They believed in this crazy idea long before you came on board.” I was breathing heavily by that point, and I paused to catch my breath before continuing, forcing myself to use a more measured tone. “I can’t move production overseas. I won’t.”
“You can and you will,” he said with a dismissive shrug. “Perhaps you’re forgetting the contract you signed?”
“That contract was a non-compete, a first draft of a larger contract that I have never seen.” I narrowed my eyes at him, feeling the adrenaline pulse in my fingertips.
“I’m afraid that’s not exactly true,” James said. “Consult your copy, but I think you’ll find that it’s pretty airtight. The ideas, the samples, the relationships with all buyers, Hedda included—those all belong to Saffron, the parent company of Flyover. You may choose to leave, but the rest of it stays. Including decisions of where we continue production.”
The terrace, the lights strung in its potted trees, the view of the city, it all swam in my vision, and I grabbed my bag that sat on a nearby patio couch. “I can’t be here anymore,” I said, stumbling away from the table as the weight and truth of James’s words made a tangled mess of my thoughts. I hurried past Jean-Luc and into the living room, my only focus the front door, the atrium, the elevator, the world outside of this room. Somewhere in my brain, I registered the plush white rug that greeted my bare feet as I made my way to the door and my shoes. The feeling made me shudder, remembering a cavalier story of the afternoon James had purchased that rug and spent more than my entire first year’s salary from Milano on a stupid piece of carpet. I stopped suddenly, feeling the calamari, the steak, the shrimp that I’d just devoured take a sharp and nasty turn in my stomach. I paused, my hand on the back of James’s white leather sofa, my feet rooted to their spots on the carpet. I closed my eyes as the room continued to spin, and I felt sweat form on the back of my neck.
“Are you all right?” James said from his stance in the doorway.
I waited for the nausea to pass, eyes still closed. I saw Gigi, her bright smile as she directed the sewing women in the barn. I saw Goldie, writing a check to her nephew as seed money for his new hardware store. I saw Tucker, his eyes finding mine from across the barn as he placed a Ball jar of flowers on my worktable.
I knew James was nearer to me and I willed him not to do it, but he placed a cool hand on my arm and said, “Gracie?”
“Don’t call me that,” I said, right before emptying the con
tents of my stomach all over his fifty-thousand-dollar rug.
twenty-seven
I clutched my bag to my chest and pushed past the elevator doors as soon as they opened wide enough to let me through to the lobby. I must have looked wild-eyed because James’s doorman snapped his head in my direction, worry knitting the brow of his otherwise smooth, clean-shaven head.
“Madam, are you all right?” he asked, taking a step toward me.
I looked at him blankly, trying to locate an appropriate response but only able to blink, stuck on his question.
“Shall I call Mr. Campbell?”
“No,” I snarled, finding my voice. Then, more carefully, “No, thank you.” My eyes darted to the door and I started to walk.
I stepped onto the sidewalk and headed south on Central Park West, my teeth grinding and my legs shaking as I walked. I would not sit, I would not stop, I would not be still, not until I’d put as much distance as possible between myself and that man.
A cab passed, slowing down like a visual question mark. Did I want a ride? I shook my head and waved the driver on. I walked faster, feeling like someone was chasing me but knowing it was only my desire to escape the conversation I’d just endured. After I’d ruined James’s rug, not without a little stab of delight, I remembered taking the napkin offered to me by Jean-Luc and then backing up slowly until I bumped into the front door. I fumbled for the knob and I must have found it and opened it, made my way to the elevator. All I could picture now as I hurried along the sidewalk was the look of disgust on James’s face. I’d felt the same revulsion, of course, though not because of any spill to clean up. Unless you counted my entire life, I thought bitterly.
Anger bloomed in my chest as I walked, passing the elegant buildings that faced the west side of Central Park. Burgeoning flowerpots, doormen in smart uniforms, tasteful lighting illuminating pristine, monogrammed awnings over spotless entryways—I wondered if all the beauty, all the perfection hid the same emotional bankruptcy I’d just witnessed in James’s penthouse.
How could he do that to me? I fumed as I walked. What kind of a person was able to fleece someone he supposedly cared about and then calmly shove bites of raspberry tart into his face as if we were merely talking about the weather or the Yankees’ hope for a pennant this year? He didn’t even see me, I thought, adrenaline shooting through my veins as a ferocious additive to the anger already there. He’d never had any real commitment to business partnership, much less to helping Silver Creek or the sewing ladies or to the idea of infusing life back into struggling economies in small towns. He wanted my ideas, my story, just to get the ball rolling with Hedda and her cronies, and then he was done with me. I’d served my purpose, the momentum was sufficiently built, and it didn’t matter to him whether I stayed on board or not.
I thought of James’s excitement over the new sketches he’d seen in the office just that evening, of the photographs of those sketches that were on his phone right that second. I had to pause, gripping a stately spear on a wrought-iron fence.
James had taken it all.
I was breathing hard, still clutching the fence, as I felt the full weight of my failure start to descend.
James had taken it all. But I was the fool who had let him do it.
I slowly loosened my grip on the fence and resumed my walk, the urgency gone from my step. I don’t know when the tears started to fall, but by the time I noticed, my cheeks were wet and my palms hurt from the fingernails I was gouging into their tender skin. I’d let this happen. James was a selfish, manipulative, ego-stroking, elitist piece of work, but I had played right into what he wanted. I’d been so eager to prove myself, so eager to be at the top, so eager to let the fashion world know I was someone to watch, I’d pushed everything else out of the way. I’d ignored common sense, signing those papers and assuming the greater business world operated with the same honesty and integrity as Gigi and her Silver Creek neighbors. I swallowed hard, thinking of how foolish I’d been. I’d dug into my work here, eyes on the prize of recognition and respect and, yes, hoping to help along the folks back home, but always finding an excuse to not actually call those folks, reach out to them, thank them for the work they were doing on my behalf.
And then there was Tucker. A sob escaped my throat, and a man passing took a deep drag on his cigarette and quickened his pace, not looking up to make eye contact with the crazy woman who was stumbling past Central Park after midnight, whimpering like a hurt animal. Tucker, the one who had risked feeling for me again, who had dropped what he was doing to help me build the first foundational steps of this business, who had driven to Omaha on a whim, transformed an old barn into a beautiful work space—that Tucker had been discarded when things got a little complicated. I shuddered as I cried, wondering if I’d made Tucker feel as easily dismissed as James had made me feel tonight.
I walked block after block, not registering where I was, just following the well-lit path in front me, letting it take me past grand apartment buildings on my right, the long expanse of the park on my left. At some point, the apartments gave way to other buildings, businesses closed at the late hour, restaurants still alight with candles and conversation, a club with strains of a jazz standard making it past the darkened door and into the street. My thoughts were muddled, as I thought of Tucker, Gigi, the sewing ladies, the people who were rooting for me back home, and even some who were not. I thought of Natalie, sure that Tucker would have been better off just marrying her straightaway and avoiding the mess I’d created for him and the town he loved. I thought of Hedda and Chase and Eleanor and Moira, of all the people in New York who would wonder about what went wrong with Grace Kleren but who would move on and forget within a week’s time. I thought of Isa and Luca and the friends I needed but never made time for anymore.
It was a mess, all of it, and I kept moving as I let the mess overwhelm me.
When I finally paused, forced to acknowledge the blisters forming on both of my feet, I took stock of where I was and my eyes widened, realizing how far I’d wandered. I was in Midtown, miles away from James’s apartment, standing near the entrance to Rockefeller Center. My eyes landed on the bronze statue of Atlas that guarded the courtyard, and I sighed, making my way to sit on the ledge that surrounded the sculpture. I sat down heavily, fully identifying with the stupidity of the Greek god enshrined and immobile above me. Muscles or not, I thought wryly, it’s not going to end well for you, dude. Holding the world on your shoulders is a fool’s errand. I should know. I’d tried and just tonight been fully demoted to can’t-hold-anything status.
I sat with my head in my hands, spent but dry-eyed. I felt an exhaustion I’d never felt before, one that dove deep, past my bones and into my heart. I was so, so tired. Tired of running after approval, tired of running after praise, tired of running after a way to prove myself to my colleagues, my employers, my hometown. Tired of messing up all the things that should be held most precious and dear, like my relationships with Gigi and the sewing girls. Tucker. Tired of missing my mom and dad, I realized with a jolt, and tired of pretending I didn’t. I needed help. Life and all its layers and complexities and questions and heartache were too hard.
I shivered as the tears fell, hot and slow-motion this time. All the initial rage of the evening had diminished, leaving only sadness and loss. So much running, so much movement, and none of it had gotten me anywhere I really wanted to stay.
I looked up, letting the tears fall into my lap, and took in a sharp breath. St. Patrick’s Cathedral faced me, illuminated and still, its spires reaching up into the dark night. I took in its grandeur, its steadfast beauty, witness to so many years, so many weddings, funerals, joys, sorrows. I suddenly realized what I had to do and who was waiting for me.
I stood and started to walk, not feeling the blisters I’d been stopped by only minutes before. I walked, my eyes on the cathedral, my heart full and aching as I made my way across the street. I startled when a car swerved around me. The driver honked and some remote
part of my brain reminded me to be careful, but I only walked more quickly, stepping up the curb and crossing the distance between the sidewalk and the front steps of the church. I stopped at the bottom step and breathed. Tilting my head back, I could just glimpse the top of the building. I felt tears stream down the sides of my face, into my hair, and I closed my eyes. I’d been running so long and it was time to stop.
I took the steps carefully, deliberately, and I kept going until I was standing directly in front of the massive doors. I leaned forward, my forehead resting on the cool bronze surface. I opened my arms, spreading my fingers and gripping the doors, willing them to hold me up, stay where they were, because I was finally here and I didn’t want to move. It had taken me ten years to reach this place, this moment, and all I wanted was to step into a love that was ferocious and strong. A love that would forgive and bind up the broken pieces. Not a brokenness, I realized with a hitch in my sobs, that God created but one that He was waiting and able to heal.
Tears dropped onto the pavement below. Leaning into the doors, desperate for the sweet sound of grace, forgiveness, and tender mercy, I closed my eyes and tried what Tucker had defined as prayer. I started the conversation.
“God,” I whispered, my words catching on tears. “I’m here.”
twenty-eight
My shoulder slumped against the window of seat 23C, decidedly not a part of business class this time around. The plane was full, and the woman next to me was snoring. I did my best to give her ample berth, but her head had fallen onto my shoulder three times before I just let it stay there. At least one of us was getting the rest we needed. After my late-night walk across the city, I’d caught a cab from St. Patrick’s back to the pied-à-terre and had immediately started to pack, stopping only to book a ticket out of New York and back to Iowa for the following day. Which was actually the same day, if I thought about it, and I didn’t really want to think about it.
Heart Land Page 20