“She was?” Maya and her father asked in unison.
“She was. Jamila loves New Life, and I think a lot of it has to do with you and the youth ministry.”
If Jamila loved her father so much, then there could be hope for Maya to mend things with her.
Pops smiled. “Once I get up and running again, I hope to be more involved. The physical therapist said I should be transitioning to a walker in the next few weeks or so.”
“Good to hear, Mr. Jackson,” Derek said.
The speakers near the DJ booth squeaked to life, and Maya closed her eardrums with her fingers.
“All right, ladies and gents. I know that y’all are enjoying this volleyball game, but no cookout is complete without some dancing.” The DJ put on some dark shades and twisted his baseball cap to the side. “So let’s get some folks on this grassy dance floor.”
Maya turned her attention to her sandals and toenail polish again. Seemed like the best place to focus her energy.
“I’m going to find Ginger,” Pops said. “I may not be able to dance right now, but I can sway from side to side with my lady.”
“My lady”? This was too precious. “I love that you want to dance, but you’re still recovering. You don’t want to move around too much and get injured.”
“I’m fine, darling. See you kids later,” her father said, and then he winked.
What was that wink about? Was her father trying to send her a message or something? He left, and Maya stood next to Derek. Discomfort edged through her. “Nice to know that Jamila and my father get along,” she said to Derek.
“I’ve been thinking about that ever since Jamila mentioned your father.” Derek didn’t elaborate.
Was that a good thing? Maya could only see it as a good thing. If Jamila loved Pops, then that had to be a positive step in the right direction.
Maybe coming to this cookout wasn’t a bad thing after all. It was the perfect opportunity to get to know Derek outside of work and show him she wasn’t physically ill (or at least pretend that she wasn’t ill). She could also build on the good seeds her father had planted with Jamila. Derek and Maya could start with a dance, right?
Maybe not. Derek already lost his wife. It wouldn’t be fair to get involved with him. Maya didn’t want Derek to deal with her health issues too.
This was complicated, but after seeing how her father put them at ease, Maya placed her bets on hope.
“Would you like to dance?” Maya blurted the question.
Derek’s face turned a shade of grim that Maya hadn’t seen before. Regret bubbled within her, and a flushed heat made her cheeks tingle. Not good.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Derek’s words came out slow and pained, as if he had to force himself to say them.
Embarrassment hung on her like a deadweight. “O-kay. I thought I’d ask.” She motioned to the dancers. “Looked like they were having a good time out there.”
“They are. And that’s fine you asked. Completely fine.”
Not “fine” enough since you said no. “Enjoy the rest of the cookout. Nice to see you here.” Maya left and zipped right on over to the tree, to her comfortable spot. How stupid of her to assume he wanted to dance. Even more, how stupid of her to think she could have a fighting chance with Derek.
Maya glanced over at happy little Louise, and sadness poked at her. Maybe Derek turning her down was a blessing in disguise. She shouldn’t be thinking about building connections when Derek had lost so much. He’d experienced a lot of grief already. No need to even try.
Chapter Eight
Maya opened the store early the following Tuesday, arriving there before Derek. She needed to get her head in the right place for today, and that meant owning up to the fact that yes, she’d made a fool of herself at the cookout. She should’ve never taken the liberty of asking Derek to dance.
First, he’d already mentioned his priority was Jamila—which meant his priority wasn’t bridal gown designers based in New York. Second, the fact that he was returning to a church-related event after his wife died so tragically at a church, well—Maya should not get too friendly with him. Derek couldn’t handle knowing about Maya’s predicament after living through what he’d experienced. Third, hadn’t she already told herself that work was first? Mixing up work with a man would only hurt her in the end. The sting at the cookout served as a potent reminder.
Soon as Derek arrived today, she would apologize. The last thing she needed was for there to be any tense moments between them. An apology would get rid of that right away. She was only working at the boutique to make money and take care of her father before returning to New York.
Maya flipped on the lights in the rear of the store and immediately started on painting the back walls. She’d spent the next hour painting when Derek entered the store. Their eyes met and he waved. “Morning, you’re here early.”
“I figured I’d get a head start on the remodel,” she said.
“Head starts are good.” He smiled. “I wish Jamila would’ve gotten a longer head start on her school project. She’s still stressing about it, and I can’t help her with it at all.”
“The sewing one?”
“That’s the one,” Derek said.
Maya didn’t say anything, seeing that she was on shaky ground with Jamila. No need for her to impose. She’d help if she could, but Jamila most likely didn’t want her help. “I wanted to apologize to you.”
His eyebrows raised. “Apologize for what?”
O-kay. Maybe he wasn’t thinking about that uncomfortable moment at the cookout as much as she was. If that was the case, then this was going to be completely embarrassing. “About asking you to dance and all. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot or anything.”
He bit his lower lip. “When I declined, I didn’t mean for that to be a slight on you. I just have a lot going on. I also wanted to focus on Jamila’s game. She was pretty nervous about it and really wanted me to watch her play. That’s all.”
Maya nodded. She completely embarrassed herself all right. “Makes total sense. Guess we won’t dwell on it then. I’ll focus on painting.” She returned to the work at hand, putting the finishing touches on the white trim on the baseboard. At least she’d gotten the apology out of her system; now they could return to being their normal selves—whatever that was.
The sound of Derek’s footsteps made her heart skip. He was drawing near.
“I love the paint color, by the way. It looks great.” He surveyed the place. “You’re a godsend.”
A godsend, but not cool enough to dance with. Stop it, Maya. “Thank you. Nice to hear a compliment every once in a while.”
His eyes flashed for a quick second. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No. I wasn’t referring to you. I was thinking about my boss back in New York. She’s opinionated about my work. I mean, I know she thinks I’m a good designer and all since she hasn’t fired me yet, but she rarely hands out a compliment. Her criticisms are harsh.” Something squeezed inside of Maya. She would have to work on that redesign for Laura. Hopefully she wouldn’t rip it to shreds this time.
“You like her to give compliments?” he asked.
Did she? She did. She cared about Laura’s opinion way too much, and that bothered her. “I do. She’s a talented woman who has made a big splash in the industry. Now that I’ve worked for her, I see how she does it. How she’s so successful. Laura works long hours. She’s competitive and a perfectionist. If that’s what it takes to succeed, that’s what I’ll do.”
“So you like the fast-paced, competitive nature of your job?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Derek clasped his hands behind his head and seemed to consider her statement. “It was like that for me in the military, especially in the early years. I sacrificed a lot to get promoted. With each promotion came greater sacrifices. Cost me a lot of time with my family. Time that I now can’t get back.”
“I’ve always wanted to work fo
r Laura Whitcomb. It’s been a dream of mine since . . .” She stopped talking. Last thing she wanted to do was get into all her reasons for working for Laura.
“Since what?”
“Since Mama passed away nine years ago.” The words came out of her mouth slowly and deliberately. “She always thought that Laura Whitcomb was the business. When I was my mother’s fashion design apprentice, she always hoped that I’d work for Laura Whitcomb one day.”
Derek tapped his fingers on the counter. “What are your hopes?”
She did a double take. “What do you mean?”
“You mentioned what your mother hoped for you. What do you hope for yourself?”
Discomfort flitted through her. What did she hope for herself? “I don’t know.”
Derek paused. “Laura Whitcomb is a pretty prestigious brand. The customers typically mention her dresses as ones they’re considering, but I can’t afford to put her merchandise in our inventory. Her wholesale prices are way too expensive. Still, she seems to be the design standard in the bridal gown world.”
“That she is.” The memory of Laura’s last email came to life and stung.
“You don’t sound too happy. What’s on your mind?” Derek asked.
Maya took a deep breath. “The prestige of working for Laura Whitcomb comes at a cost, that cost being my creative freedom. I’ve tried to incorporate my signature Afro-Asian style into the Laura Whitcomb line. I’ve suggested a West African design pattern or a Filipino method of stitching. As soon as Laura saw it, she shot it down quick. Said that there wouldn’t be a market for it anywhere. Sometimes working for Laura is like being tied in a straitjacket.”
“Straitjacket.” Maya let that word settle into her. It stabbed at something she’d never paid attention to before, something she held dear and close to her heart. It stabbed at her mother’s advice.
Her mother’s maxim to always stay true to herself rose in Maya’s conscience, but on the other hand, her mother wanted her to work for Laura Whitcomb. Strange. The dichotomy was unnerving.
“A straitjacket? That’s not good. Do you really want to work in a place where you’re stifled?”
Did she really want to have this conversation right now? Gah! Why’d she say all of that aloud? Maya had never come close to this hard-hitting realization, yet standing in this tiny boutique made her do so, for some reason.
If she really let the idea stick, if she delved too deep into it, then she may find something even more unsettling underneath, something she didn’t want to face. Perhaps she’d ignore the idea of her New York job being a straitjacket—yet ignoring this truth had led her to a quiet misery up north.
“Maya? Do you think working for Laura is worth compromising your creative freedom?”
She snapped out of her musings. “Yes?”
“So you really want to work in a place where you’re not appreciated?”
It was best to bury the realization. Burying it was best. “I never considered it seriously until now. It’s not that important really. Just some jibber-jabber. I really like my job.”
Saying those last words sounded fake coming out of her mouth.
“I see . . . but maybe you should consider the limitations on your creative license. I wouldn’t want to be in a place where my uniqueness was devalued.” He nodded. “Working in the military, there’s not much room for creativity. It’s all about obeying orders and listening to your superiors. You’re a designer. You should guard your creative freedom. Uniformity and following orders are a matter of life and death in the military, but it’s not a matter of life and death in your industry.”
Her heart revved. If only Derek knew. For Maya, dress design was life and death. If she was honest with herself, that was her one true hope: that she’d leave a legacy of beautiful Afro-Asian gowns behind for future brides to wear on their special day, especially since Maya would never ever become a bride herself. Not while living with sickle cell anemia.
She had to make something of the work she had created, the unique work she had created. Maya had to get it out and circulating in the world. Laura’s micromanagement had stifled Maya in so many ways.
Thinking about Laura was unsettling. Better to push it aside.
“I’m very excited about this remodel.” Derek walked around the store and inspected it more closely. “I’ve done some preliminary advertising for the trunk show. The next thing we need to do is get clear on a marketing plan. Can’t have a pretty place without anyone to fill it. I have to bring in sales. The bank is waiting for their mortgage money.”
“True. We need to bring in a good crowd. We can start with promoting and advertising the trunk show.”
“I’d love to hear your ideas on that, Maya. Feel free to take creative liberties in how you promote the event, within budget of course. I don’t think you’ll go over budget. You have an eye for style and finances.”
Exercising creative leeway was something she loved about working at Always a Bride. In addition to the remodel, Maya worked on new dress designs whenever the store wasn’t busy. Creativity was Maya’s oxygen. It gave her life. “There are a lot of ways that we can promote this event.”
She tapped her chin, thinking. Cat Clyne was the biggest fashion reviewer and blogger in the industry. She ran a high-end website and started a print magazine two years ago that recently received national circulation. Maya did some emergency alterations for Cat’s wedding gown last year. Cat had offered to return the favor one day. Perhaps this was that “one day.”
“I know some media folks. They could possibly help out with publicity.”
“Media contacts are great, especially if they’re national ones.”
Despite owing Maya a favor, Maya would have to make this little shop in Charleston appealing to Cat—appealing enough for Cat to travel down to cover the story. “We’ll have to put a spin on the pitch. Something that’ll pique the interest of readers. Something that’ll grab their attention. We need a story.”
“We need your story,” Derek said quickly.
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Your story. I think you should not only have your dresses on consignment here, but we should feature them in the trunk show. The Afro-Asian slant on your gowns will be a definite draw, as well as the story behind it. How you apprenticed under your mother and she taught you Filipino stitching techniques.” He rested his chin in his hands and studied her with admiration in his eyes. “Folks will love it.”
Was she that interesting of a person? “I’ve only sold two of my dress designs. That hardly counts as a draw to an entire trunk show. Are you sure you want my dresses to be the main feature?”
“No one can believe in you like you do, Maya. That’s the first thing.”
She twisted her mouth. How did this turn into a pep talk? Did she really believe in her designs? Were they good enough to carry an entire trunk show? Maya wasn’t sure. Also, doing a solo trunk show might jeopardize her career with Laura—and that would include her chances at being head designer. Even though Laura was allowing Maya to sell a few gowns since she was on leave without pay, an entire trunk show was a different story. Laura might think that Maya was trying to undermine her. “The boutique is the main attraction actually. What’s the story behind the boutique? What led your mother to start this business? I recall you saying that she had a tough time with it in the beginning. What encouraged her to persevere?”
Derek was quiet for a moment. “After my grandmother died, she left a whole bunch of money to my mother. About one hundred thousand dollars of cash sitting in a savings account. We were surprised, because all Grandma did was clean houses for the White ladies living in the suburbs and sell her handwoven West African–style baskets to the tourists in downtown Charleston. She sold them pretty close to the Black history museum down the block. Grandma was Gullah Geechee to the core, and the basket weaving craft was passed down through generations. I believe even prior to the Civil War. My mother knew how to make sweetgrass baskets too.”
&n
bsp; “Does Jamila know?”
He shook his head. “Maybe. I never asked. Always been so busy on deployment.”
There was a note of sadness in his voice. He probably carried so many regrets. Too many for Maya to know.
“Anyway, Grandma saved the money and Mama got it all when she died. The money came with a note. I framed it right over there.” Derek gestured to a tiny frame hanging near the front door. “You can read it if you’d like.”
Maya headed to the entrance. She hadn’t noticed that frame before until he pointed it out. Then she read the note:
My dearest Vivian,
Our ancestors came here on ships as enslaved people. They arrived on new lands, and with new lands came new struggles. But we retained some of our ways. I sold my baskets right near the docks where our people were enslaved and auctioned off. This is our history. This money is the culmination of their stories. Now it’s for you. Do something good with it. Make us proud.
Love,
Mama
Maya turned teary-eyed. “My goodness. That’s beautiful.”
“It is.” Derek’s voice hoarsened. “My mother opened this bridal shop during the eighties. It was a big deal because so many Black-owned businesses shut down in the sixties and seventies. Hopefully she made them proud.”
“I can see why you struggled with whether or not to sell this place. The story and this boutique are so meaningful to your family.”
“They are. Mama had to take out a second mortgage on this place because of her cancer treatments. Still, I want to keep the boutique. I want to continue to do right by them.”
Maya bit her lip. This was a chance for her to do something good. “If you’re looking for an angle to pitch your story, then the boutique’s history will be it. Heck, it could even rally folks together to want to keep this place in business. The boutique is living history.”
“True. I’m trying to preserve something that is in danger of dying,” Derek said.
Dying. There was that word again. She was dying. Perhaps giving life to Always a Bride was another way that Maya could make an impact—before she died. “I will help you do that.”
A Lowcountry Bride Page 10