“Thank you, Patrick.”
A moment later, my door opened and what I’d been seeing through the windows was now felt. The breeze blowing the trees poured into the car with sweltering summer heat replacing the air conditioning.
There were many things I missed when I was forced to move to Colorado. The extreme weather of Chicago wasn’t one of them. It was difficult for people who didn’t live in climates like Chicago’s to understand that while summertime was scorching, the same area could easily be ten below zero in the winter. That didn’t include heat index or wind chill.
If you don’t know what those terms mean, you don’t live in Chicago.
Gathering my bag with my reports and tablet, I stepped out of the back seat, my heeled pumps landing on the soft asphalt as heat seared my bare legs and under my skirt. My blouse clung to my skin as the sun beat down. With my eyes covered by sunglasses, my gaze was drawn to the man I’d seen moments before.
I hoped that he wouldn’t be able to see that I was looking his way.
I didn’t know why I was concerned. He wasn’t hiding the fact that he was still watching me.
With each step I took, his stare continued as his head tilted ever so slightly toward his broad shoulder. In the midst of blistering heat, his menacing demeanor appeared calculating yet calm if not downright cold as he scrutinized me from head to toe.
There was confidence in his disposition.
It was as if instead of the temperature radiating from the sun, it was the heat of his gaze penetrating beyond my surface to me—the real me.
Kennedy 3
My skin peppered with goose bumps as the absurdity of the thought settled into the pit of my stomach.
He saw the real me.
That was impossible.
I didn’t know the real me.
My back straightened, unwilling to allow this man to intimidate me with only his gaze. Yet if I were honest, that was happening. His stare alone was the impetus to the foreboding feeling now coursing through my blood. With my chin held high, I continued to walk toward my destination, pretending I didn’t notice him.
Patrick moved in sync as we silently walked past the ogling man. I forced myself to keep going, step by step, up the stairs to the door near the loading dock. Once there, I recalled again that I was where the dark-haired man had just been.
Why had he been in my warehouse?
Once the door closed, I let out the breath I’d been holding and removed my sunglasses.
“Ms. Hawkins, are you all right?” Patrick asked.
“Yes,” I said with a shiver. “I think it’s the heat.”
My eyes adjusted to the dim interior. While the inside of the building lacked the glare of the sun, there was little change in the temperature. The still air was sweltering, and yet the icy chill of the dark-haired man’s stare had me on edge.
I pushed it away and surveyed my surroundings. The setup of the warehouse was similar to our others throughout the country. Nodding at men and women as they moved merchandise, I made my way beyond the rows of tall shelves to the offices near the back of the warehouse.
A push of a button and the door to the offices opened.
“May I help you?” a young woman asked. The name Connie was on a nameplate on the counter separating me from her desk.
“Yes, Connie, I’m here to see Franco Francesca.”
She looked down at an old-fashioned desk calendar covered in scribbles. “Do you have an appointment?”
I stood taller. “No. Is Franco in?”
“Ma’am, if you don’t—”
“Please tell him that Kennedy Hawkins is here to see him.”
Her complexion paled. “Ms. Hawkins, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…” Her apology faded as the sound of ringing came from her desk phone. Just as quickly it silenced as she spoke into the handset, taking the call off speaker and only allowing me the ability to hear her side of the impending conversation. “Franco, um, Mr. Francesca, Ms. Hawkins is here to see you.” She nodded, agreeing with what I couldn’t hear. “Yes, sir, Ms. Hawkins…Just arrived.” She lifted her eyes back to me. “This second…I don’t know…Yes, sir.”
I’d met Franco twice, both times in Boulder. This was Louisa’s territory, and no doubt, my unannounced arrival was both a surprise and possibly a shock. Yet, I wasn’t sure it warranted Connie’s clipped responses.
“Ma’am,” she said, lowering the headset to her desk, “please follow me, and I’ll take you to his office.”
Nodding, I turned toward Patrick. “Please wait here.” I tilted my head to a few rather uncomfortable-looking chairs along the wall.
He nodded, but instead of sitting, stood along the wall with his hands clasped in front of him. The stance brought a brief smile to my face. It was like the bodyguards on TV. I’d never felt the need to have one, but I liked the optics if nothing else.
Through the door, we entered the typical cubicle farm of a shared area. Men and women working on computers and talking on telephones filled each space. No one paid attention to us as Connie took me around the perimeter. We came to a stop at a closed door.
Though the sidelight was covered with small blinds and closed for privacy, I was certain I heard Franco’s voice speaking as Connie knocked on the door. Within seconds, the door opened, and the man I’d meant to surprise was standing before us. By the way his eyes were opened as wide as saucers, I’d say my goal was accomplished.
“Ms. Hawkins, what brings you to Chicago? I hope everything is well with Mrs. Toney.”
I didn’t know Franco well enough to assess his frame of mind—if he were truly surprised; however, intuition told me that perhaps nervous was a better assessment. Perhaps it was the perspiration dotting his brow or his clammy complexion. Then again, the warehouse was warm, and even the air conditioning in the offices was having trouble keeping up. Franco also didn’t appear to be the type of man who worshipped the sun or worried about his physical appearance. In his mid-fifties, he was not aging well. With a receding hairline and soft, paunchy middle, his presentation led me to believe that the only weightlifting he did was twelve ounces at a time.
And yet I reminded myself that despite his appearance, up until recently, we’d had no difficulties with his facility.
I thought it best to wait on his first question—what brought me to Chicago—and concentrated on his second—Mrs. Toney. “Yes, Louisa is well. As you know, her baby is due soon so traveling isn’t easy for her. She asked me to make Chicago a priority.”
“Connie,” Franco said, speaking past me, “will you make sure that we’re not disturbed?” At the same time, he took a step back, gesturing for me to enter.
His office was plain, done in an industrial manner with OSHA regulations hanging on a poster on one wall as well as maps of the Chicago line of distribution. His metal desk was unimpressive, and the only window was the sidelight looking out to the cubicles.
“Yes, sir,” Connie replied. “Do you want me to make that contact for you?”
“No, I’ve handled it.”
I wasn’t sure what they were talking about, but I could guess it had to do with whomever he was speaking to when Connie and I arrived to his door.
Once the door was shut, he went on, “Make Chicago a priority? Is there a problem?”
I took the seat opposite Franco’s desk and pulled my tablet from my bag. “Louisa has been corresponding with you about some discrepancies, correct?”
He sat on his side of the desk near the front of his seat and leaned forward. “Yes, I thought we had it all worked out.”
“Can you tell me what you think was worked out?”
I let him talk, nodding occasionally as he rambled about standard human error with the added factor of new employees. It was when his speech made a complete loop bordering on redundancy that I interrupted.
“Franco, who was the man leaving the facility when I arrived?”
“What man? We have different people coming and going.”
“Well, Ms. Hawkins, I wouldn’t be surprised that you’d catch the attention of any or every man.”
His inappropriate reply was not reassuring. “No, this was different. He was staring at the car before I ever got out.”
Franco’s thin lips formed a straight line as his head shook from side to side. “I don’t know. We could ask Connie if he signed in.”
“Is everyone who enters the facility required to sign in?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t.”
“No, but you’re you. This is your facility.”
“I’m glad you remember that, Mr. Francesca. I’d like to see the staging area for inventory. Let me meet some of these new employees.”
“I’m sure it wouldn’t be that exciting. It’s most likely the same as in all of your facilities,” he said dismissively as he stood.
“The difference,” I said, my voice that of the CEO, “is that in our other facilities, we aren’t having discrepancies between the warehouse and distribution center. When a valued retailer orders twenty-five golden scarves from Sinful Threads, is invoiced for said twenty-five scarves, and only seventeen arrive, you can understand how that is a concern.” His lips flattened as his Adam’s apple bobbed. “If that happened once, Louisa and I could overlook it. The scenario I described has not happened once. It has happened with too much frequency.”
He rounded the desk, coming to a stop inches in front of me. “Let me look into this further. There was no reason for you to make the trip.”
Standing, I met him eye to eye. Without my heels I was nearly five feet, seven inches tall. In my current shoes, I was approaching five-ten, possibly an inch taller than the man infringing upon my space. “I will take that tour now, and we can continue our conversation this evening at the Riverwalk.”
His lips twitched before moving to a feigned smile. “That’s great news. I’m certain you’ll find the investors all interested in Sinful Threads. I’ll be sure to alert Connie to have your name added to the guest list.”
“That won’t be necessary. It’s been taken care of.”
It hadn’t—and that was on purpose—but it would be. Winnie had instructions to have me added moments before I was to arrive. There was no need to make my appearance public any sooner than necessary.
Kennedy 4
I smoothed the silken fabric of the dress’s skirt as I took one last look in the full-length mirror within my hotel suite. My long golden hair was piled on the back of my head in a French twist as spirals of curls dangled near my neck and around my freshly made-up face. The black onyx-like jewels glistened around my neck, making my light brown eyes pop. I would like to say my hair took me hours, but the truth was that the humidity of Chicago turned my usually straight hair to ringlets.
I had a memory of years earlier when my adoptive mother told me that one day I’d be happy with the curls. In this instant, her wisdom made me smile. I reached down and spun the gold bracelet upon my right wrist. The older I became the less often I wore my mother’s old bracelet, yet there was something about being back in Chicago that made it seem right.
I could go days or even weeks and not think about her, but when I did, the loss would be as staggering as it was the moment I boarded the plane for Boulder ten years ago, as if it were fresh and new. My eyes filled with moisture as I stared at the charms. When she’d given it to me, there was an old-fashioned key and a golden heart locket. Upon my high school graduation, Louisa’s mother, Lucy, added what appeared to be a diploma. Then when Louisa and I cut the ribbon on the very first Sinful Threads manufacturing facility, Lucy added a small golden pair of scissors.
Though Lucy had helped me cope, I missed the woman I knew as my mom.
Was she safe? Would I ever know?
Did she know about Sinful Threads? And if she did, was she proud of what I’d created?
There were so many questions that would forever remain unanswered. I pulled the worn photo from my clutch bag and studied it for over the millionth time since I last saw her. It was a picture of me and both my parents, Byron and Josey—my adoptive parents. I was nearly fifteen years old in the photo. That was the age where taking a picture with your parents was the last thing a teenager wanted to do. I’d do anything to go back and put a real smile on my face, one to match theirs.
The photo had been hidden, folded in half and stuck in a pocket within my purse. Besides my mom’s bracelet, everything else connecting me to the Marshes had been taken from me before I even realized. When I entered the airport that cold afternoon, my purse was nearly empty. My phone was gone and so too all the pictures within it. Friends, family, and classmates were erased. My mother must not have known about this one picture tucked in a zippered pocket hiding amongst a tube of lip gloss and some dried-out mascara.
I sighed, looking down at the three of us. “You said to carry you in my heart, Mom. I do.” A lump formed in my throat as I spoke audibly to the picture. “But Daddy didn’t have the chance to…. I feel better when you’re both with me.”
Bringing the picture on this trip seemed silly. Yet I did it, taking it from the drawer in my bedside stand where it usually stayed and slipping it into my carry-on.
I smoothed the crease that would never go away. With my mom in the middle, it was ironic that the crease separated me from her and Dad, as if fate was saying we’d forever be separated.
As I tucked the photo back into my clutch, I stopped. Outside the large windows were the tall buildings of Chicago. I was back, being where she told me not to go. Quickly, I changed my mind, opened the small safe at the top of the closet, placed the picture along with some other jewelry in the small secure enclosure, and using the last four digits of my mom’s phone number, set the code.
“You’re with me,” I said as I tested the handle and glanced at the bracelet I still wore. “I’m going to put your photo in here for tonight. It’s my turn to keep you safe.”
Going back to the mirror for one last assessment, I put on my figurative professional mask. I was the face for Sinful Threads, no longer a lonely, frightened teenager. With my chin held high, I looked the part.
The golden scarf wrapped around my midsection accentuated my waist. The color, as Louisa had expected, was the perfect counterbalance to my hair. A slight pitch to the left and then to the right demonstrated the quality and fullness of the skirt as the asymmetrical hem came between my knees and ankles. With the addition of stylish heels, my outfit was complete.
I was Sinful Threads.
With my shoulders straight, I made a quick call to my driver. An elevator ride later and I was seated in the back seat of Patrick’s sedan as he pulled away from the curb and eased into traffic.
Even with the perfect outfit, there was a sense of unease that I couldn’t shake. No matter what I had done or where I’d been, ever since the visit to the warehouse, my mind continually went back to the man in the parking lot. Without warning, the image of his dark stare twisted my stomach, setting me on edge.
My meeting tomorrow with Vanessa couldn’t come soon enough. I was ready to go home to Boulder and leave that image—this whole city—behind.
Looking forward, my gaze met Patrick’s reassuring smile in the rearview mirror, reminding me that I was protected. Though I didn’t really know the man who was now my driver, there was something in his demeanor that calmed me. Probably ten or more years my senior, he was obviously fit beneath his dark suit. That and his almost-military-cut short hair gave him a distinguished and capable air.
“Are you stuck with me for my whole trip?” I asked, trying to take my mind off the man from before.
“Hardly stuck, ma’am.”
“You’re very kind, Patrick. You don’t need to enter the dinner with me.”
“I don’t, but I would like to do just that. I’ll stay out of sight, but, Ms. Hawkins, you are my job.”
His determination comforted me. “Thank you.”
My attention went outside of the sedan’s darkened windows. Although it was nearly seven-thirty at night, the sky was still light and the sidewalks were filled with pedestrians as we approached Navy Pier.
Pulling to the curb, Patrick said, “I’ll be happy to drop you off here, and then I’ll slip into the dinner after I park. You can always reach me by phone.”
Holding my clutch purse, I nodded. “Thank you again.”
Lifting my chin and squaring my shoulders, I moved gracefully but determinedly along the walkway. This was my company—well, half—and though I didn’t know the investors within the restaurant, my job tonight was to show them that Sinful Threads could handle any situation.
Walking toward the restaurant, I mentally replayed my earlier conversation with Louisa. Franco was accommodating in my requests, yet not enthusiastic. Everything that he showed me was accurate. I insisted on opening freight ready for departure. It was a useless procedure. The manifests matched perfectly. After hours of investigation and inquiry, there wasn’t as much as one bangle, scarf, or woven brooch unaccounted for.
I nodded to the gentleman manning the entrance to the waterfront restaurant as he opened the door. Despite the large windows allowing in sunlight, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness.
“Ms. Hawkins.”
I turned to the voice coming above the din of the other guests and music seeping from speakers in every direction. Although she was dressed completely different from this afternoon, I recognized the person greeting me.
“Connie, thank you. It’s good to see you again. You look lovely.”
A far cry from the woman with a ponytail, polo shirt, and khaki slacks, tonight she was dressed for the occasion. For only a moment, her long tan dress reminded me of her khaki slacks—but only in color. The strapless dress with the fitted bodice was attractive, as was the Sinful Threads silk-spun bracelets on her left forearm.
I reached for one with a smile. “I see you’re wearing Sinful Threads.”
Her cheeks pinkened with a rush of blood. “I wish I could afford more.” She took a step back. “Is that dress…is it…?” Her voice grew higher in excitement. “Oh my gosh. It’s Sinful Threads.”
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