Faith came in the kitchen and leaned against the doorjamb. “Stop beating around the bush and answer the question.”
Grace turned to face her. “When have you ever known me to let a client get under my skin?”
“Never,” Faith said, joining her by the stove. “But what I want to know is if you plan on letting this one get into your pants.”
“What I plan to do, little sister, is make her a suit. Nothing more.” Grace grabbed a fork from the utensil drawer and nudged the drawer closed with her hip. “So don’t go running that mouth of yours any more than you already have.”
Faith held up her hands in mock surrender. “Fine. I won’t say anything to anyone. But you’d better make sure you tell Lillie the same thing you just told me.”
“Don’t worry. I intend to have a come-to-Jesus meeting with her first thing Monday morning.”
Grace picked up her plate and headed out of the kitchen. She replayed the events of the day as she climbed the stairs. She couldn’t deny the charged tension that had coursed between her and Dakota that afternoon, but she had dismissed it as a fluke. Now she wasn’t so sure. How had one bike ride managed to change her perspective? Perhaps it wasn’t the ride itself but the woman behind the wheel.
Grace made clothes that drew attention, but she preferred to fit in rather than stand out. Everywhere she went, Dakota drew stares. Not because of what she was wearing but because of the way she looked. Grace had seen it firsthand tonight from people they had passed on the street. Sometimes the looks were of admiration, sometimes of scorn.
Grace didn’t want that kind of scrutiny. She didn’t want a woman like Dakota.
After she reached her room, she closed the door behind her, pulled out her cell phone, and called Lynette.
“Okay, I’m listening,” she said after Lynette picked up. “Tell me about Karin.”
Chapter Four
Dakota squirted styling gel into her palm, rubbed her hands together, and worked the gel into her damp hair with her fingers. “What are you smiling at?” she asked as Rich stood in the doorway and watched her get ready.
Rich folded his arms across his chest. He was wearing penny loafers, hot pink capri pants, a dark blue cardigan, and a scoop-neck white T-shirt that hugged his narrow frame. He was nearly half a foot shorter than she was and so thin one might be tempted to refer to him as delicate. Dakota knew from experience, however, that he was stronger than he looked. She had witnessed both his mental and physical toughness over the years as he used his quick wit to shrug off taunts from bullies and disapproving family members alike. She had known him since she was three and she felt privileged to be able to call him her friend.
The tiny bathroom in the apartment they shared was barely large enough for one person. Two crammed into the same space felt crowded, even if Rich was pocket-sized. He draped his arm across her shoulders after he joined her in front of the mirror. “If you had a penis, I’d fuck you.”
She straightened the plastic tiara perched haphazardly on his head. “I’ve got one in the nightstand next to my bed. Will that do?”
“If I don’t meet any cute guys tonight, I might ask you to pull it out.” He rested his head against her like he needed a shoulder to cry on. “How did we get here?”
“By ‘here,’ I take it you don’t mean this apartment.”
She and Rich lived in a third-floor walkup around the corner from the Stonewall Inn, the iconic tavern often referred to as the birthplace of the gay rights movement. The bar and the park across the street from it were two of their favorite places to meet up with friends. Thanks to the Stonewall’s history and symbolism, Dakota couldn’t think of a better venue for Rich’s going-away party. Its proximity was a motivating factor as well. Since their destination was close enough to walk to, they wouldn’t need to hail a cab or depend on a designated driver when the time came for them to stumble home. Dakota didn’t plan on getting too wasted tonight, but she couldn’t let an occasion this momentous go by without toasting it with a drink or three. And toasting with water was allegedly bad luck, so why take the chance?
“No, I mean how did we get here?” Rich said. “On the verge of everything we’ve ever wanted.” He wrapped his arms around her, his green eyes wet with tears. He cried at the drop of a hat. He always had. Sappy commercials that left her doubled over with laughter made him bawl like a baby. Lately, though, he needed even less reason than normal to start the waterworks. “We’re just a couple of small-town kids from south Georgia. How did we get all the way to New York City?”
“We dreamed big, then we worked our asses off to make those dreams come true.” In school, she had been his de facto bodyguard. Though he no longer needed protecting, she still felt responsible for keeping him safe. “Be careful, okay?”
“Don’t worry. I packed so many condoms, each of Trojan’s stockholders should send me a handwritten thank-you note.”
She wrapped her arms around his as he continued to hold on to her. “That’s not what I mean.”
Ever since the mass shooting at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando, Dakota had held her breath when Rich went to work at Mainline or made a guest appearance at another venue. She didn’t live her life in fear—neither of them did—but she was much more cautious than she had been before the night domestic terrorism hit the heart of their community. She held her friends even closer than she had before. And she told them she loved them every day, whether they wanted to hear it or not.
“I know it isn’t,” Rich said, giving her a squeeze, “but everything’s going to be fine. And on the off chance that I’m wrong, just think of the millions you stand to inherit.”
She laughed at the absurdity of his comment and turned to face him. “I’ve seen your bank statements. At the moment, the only things I stand to inherit are your overdraft balances. And what’s with all the condoms? I thought you and Aaron were getting serious.”
Rich lowered his eyes. “We were.”
“But?”
“I’m going to be on the road for four months, sixty cities, and twelve countries. That’s a lot of miles and a lot of men. You know me. I can resist anything except temptation. And when I’m hungry, nothing beats a good sampler platter.” He put his hands on his slim hips. “Don’t give me that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you think I’ve chosen to do something I might end up regretting. Why are you lecturing me anyway? You pick up someone new every time you go out. Do you expect me to believe you don’t hook up when you head to some exotic locale for a photo shoot?”
“That’s not true.”
“Which part?”
“I don’t hook up every time I go out.”
“No? When was the last time you went clubbing and didn’t get laid?”
“Probably junior high school.”
“Ha!”
“Don’t ha me. I’m single.”
“So am I.”
“Since when?”
“Since about six hours ago.”
“Rich—”
“Stop. I know what you’re going to say. I whined about not having a boyfriend, then I found one and kicked him to the curb the first chance I got. Aaron will still be here when I get back. If he wants to pick up where we left off, fine. If he doesn’t, I’ll deal. Don’t look so worried. I got this, girlfriend.”
Like a boxer with great defense, Rich had learned to roll with the punches. Dakota, on the other hand, usually ended up taking most blows on the chin. Thankfully, she didn’t have a glass jaw.
She buttoned her French blue oxford shirt and tucked the hem into her jeans. Then she buckled her belt, took one last look in the mirror, and reached for her jacket. “Ready?”
Rich sat on the couch instead of heading for the door. “Let’s wait a few minutes. I want to be fashionably late.” He pointed to his new fashion accessory. “This tiara means I’m queen for the day.”
“I thought that was every day.”
“Bitch.” He tossed a throw
pillow at her and missed by a mile. “I heard Sophie moved to town. Is that true?”
“Sophie Mestach?” Dakota picked up the throw pillow and returned it to its place on the couch. “Where did you hear that?”
“Luke and I had brunch this afternoon. You know clients tell their hairdressers everything. One of Luke’s best customers is an editor who was going on and on about a photo shoot her magazine has planned with Sophie for an upcoming issue.”
Thanks to the bombshell Rich had just dropped on her, Dakota no longer felt like celebrating. Sophie Mestach, a former Olympic swimmer from Belgium, was her main rival in a competitive niche market. With her broad shoulders and blond hair, Sophie looked like a surfer waiting for the next big wave. Despite—or perhaps because of—her all-American looks, she worked primarily in Europe. Dakota had lost out on more than one well-paying gig in that market because the designers or photographers had chosen to go with Sophie instead. If Sophie had relocated to New York, that meant they would be competing for jobs stateside as well.
Fewer gigs meant less money. And with Rich not around to kick in his half of the rent for the next four months, less money was not an option.
“Remind me to call my agent tomorrow. He and I have some things we need to discuss.”
“And in the meantime?”
“Let’s go get laid.”
* * *
Grace always woke up on Sunday mornings feeling inspired. With good reason. Ever since she was a little girl, Sunday meant getting dressed up, walking to church with her family, and heading to their favorite local restaurant for a leisurely brunch after services. The day usually started early when Grace’s mother woke around six a.m. to have a cup of coffee and watch the sun rise through the kitchen window. To put everyone in the proper mood, she tuned the radio in the living room to a gospel station and cranked the volume up loud. That meant Grace woke to the rousing sound of soaring vocals drifting from one floor to the next as they made their way to the heavens.
This Sunday morning was different. This Sunday she didn’t wake up with thoughts of salvation or soul food on her mind. She woke thinking of Dakota Lane. More precisely, the suit she had been asked to craft for her. She had a design idea in mind, and she wanted to get the images on paper while they were still fresh.
She tossed her bed covers aside and padded barefoot across the cold hardwood floor. Then she grabbed her sketchbook and drawing pencils off her bureau and returned to bed. After she propped her pillow against the headboard and rested the sketchbook against her bent knees, she went to work.
She started on the dress shirt first. Instead of the classic or button-down collar, she decided to go with the semi-spread to give the shirt a slightly different look. She used the same approach on the cuffs, ditching the traditional one-button square cuff in favor of a three-button angle cuff. The rest of the shirt was easy. Roomy through the chest and shoulders but tight to the body, giving the finished product a tapered look that would perfectly mimic Dakota’s silhouette.
After she completed the design for the shirt, Grace flipped to a new page so she could start on the preliminary sketches for the suit. She tapped her pencil against her chin as she debated the proper cut. There were three to choose from, and she needed to make sure she chose wisely. Otherwise, she would have to start from scratch. Thanks to the tight schedule they were on, she didn’t have time for do-overs.
She decided against the American Cut, which was designed for comfort rather than style. People in the industry didn’t call it the sack suit without reason. Its moderately padded shoulders, single vent, roomy waist, and overall boxy look were ideal for clients with wide middles. Dakota might have been slightly larger in the waist than her last set of official measurements, but she was still a long way away from having to shop in the plus size department.
That narrowed Grace’s choices down to two. Should she go with the English Cut or the Italian? The English Cut was the traditional choice for men’s suits. It featured flap pockets, tapered sides at the waist, and little to no padding in the shoulders. The dual vents in the back of the coat came from the days of horseback riding since the vents made the jacket set better at the waist while the owner was astride his steed. Now the vents were used to make the wearer look taller and thinner. Dakota didn’t need any help in that regard.
By process of elimination, that meant Grace had only one choice.
The Italian Cut played off the client’s small waist to create an inverted triangle. Slash pockets added to the streamlined silhouette. The look was highly fashionable, giving off an air of power and authority. The lack of vents meant less mobility, but Grace didn’t see that as too much of a drawback. Unless Dakota planned to breakdance at her sister’s wedding, she should be fine.
Grace drew a notch collar and designed the coat around it. The ideas were flowing so freely the whole process took only a matter of minutes. The sketch for the pants came together just as quickly. The traditional four-pocket design with cuffed hems and a flat-front waist.
She made a few tweaks to the final image and leaned back to take a look at what she had done.
She tried to make each suit she designed unique to the client’s personality. The questions she asked during the interview sessions before and after the initial fitting helped her get an idea of what the clients wanted and what they were about.
As she looked at the sketches, she thought she had captured Dakota’s personality on paper. Vibrant, playful, and far from traditional. She hoped Dakota would be pleased with her designs, but she wouldn’t know for sure until she got to the office on Monday, added fabric swatches to her sketches to offer a frame of reference, and emailed the completed presentation to Dakota for final approval.
Grace was tempted to ask Dakota to come into the office so she could watch her react to the designs in person, but that wasn’t how she normally operated. She always sent an email or fax and waited for her clients to reply in similar fashion. Why was she tempted to change her M.O. now? Why did Dakota’s opinion of her work—and, by extension, of her—matter so much? Granted, Dakota wasn’t like the rest of her clients, but was that the only reason she was treating her differently?
“Of course it is,” she told herself as she stood in front of her closet and searched for a dress to wear. “What other reason could there be?”
After she showered and dressed, she joined her family downstairs for the five-block walk to church. Services began at eleven and, unless the pastor was long-winded, were usually over by noon. Brunch, thankfully, didn’t have a time limit. It could last anywhere from a couple of hours to the rest of the afternoon, depending on how in-depth the conversation got between courses. If the topic was juicy enough, brunch sometimes segued into dinner.
Grace loved Sundays. They afforded her an opportunity to spend time with her family and play catch-up. Even though they lived in the same house, they didn’t get many chances to see each other during the week. Her parents were semiretired, but they were active in the church and the community. Her older sister Hope was a home health care aide who ping-ponged between day and night shifts, depending on her clients’ needs. And Faith was in her sophomore year at NYU. Her heavy class load didn’t give her many chances to socialize. Grace’s schedule was equally crazy since some clients treated the official business hours as little more than suggestions. When she left for work each morning, she never knew what time she would make it home. Yet another reason she had such a hard time establishing, let alone maintaining relationships.
One day, she thought as she slowly walked along the tree-lined streets leading to Bethlehem AME Zion Church. One day, all the sacrifices I’ve made will be worth it.
But would she have someone to share her accomplishments with, or would she be forced to enjoy them on her own?
“I heard you had a date Friday night,” her father said as he and her mother walked arm in arm at the front of the pack. “How did things go?”
“Fine,” Grace said noncommittally.
; Her family had always been outwardly accepting of her sexuality, but she sometimes sensed a subtle air of disapproval if a woman she was seeing didn’t meet their exacting standards.
Her father obsessed over even the slightest imperfection in a piece of fabric. He was just as demanding when it came to his daughters’ suitors, Grace’s included. Except the bar he set for her sisters’ potential partners seemed even higher for hers. Hope and Faith eventually stopped bringing their boyfriends to the house because their father always managed to find fault with them. Faith once complained he wanted them to be single for the rest of their lives because he was too stingy to pay for three weddings. Grace thought his reasons had more to do with heart strings than purse strings.
“I want you to do what makes you happy,” he’d told her after she came out to him, “but I don’t want to see you hurt. Any woman who breaks your heart will have to answer to me.”
Fortunately, that day hadn’t yet arrived. Grace had been in her fair share of relationships, but she’d never been so head over heels in love that she’d been heartbroken when the unions came to an end. She was starting to wonder if she ever would. Perhaps some of her exes were right. Perhaps she put so much of her energy into her job and her family that she didn’t have any left for anything—or anyone—else.
“Are you planning to see her again?”
Her mother’s question drew Grace out of her own head and back to the conversation at hand.
“No,” Faith said with a mischievous grin. “She already has her eye on someone else.”
Grace tried to dig an elbow into Faith’s ribs, but Faith danced out of the way before she could make contact.
“Oh?” her mother said. “Do I know her?”
“No, but you’ve seen her,” Faith said. “Her picture’s all over Times Square.”
“What?” her mother asked, frowning. “She’s not wanted or anything, is she, Grace? You know your father and I don’t approve of you and your sisters getting mixed up with someone with a criminal background. It wouldn’t reflect well on the business or our family.”
Tailor-Made Page 5
