Heart Land

by Kimberly Stuart

  Tucker held the door for our little party as we stepped into the dark kitchen. Gigi hit the light switch with her elbow and continued to the kitchen sink, her back to me. “That’s unbelievable,” she said over the spill of the faucet. “I’m so happy for you, Grace. Really.” She offered her cheek to me and I kissed it. “Now leave me alone. I want dish duty on my own tonight. No offense to either of you, but an old lady needs some peace and quiet every now and then.” Her smile seemed sad and I furrowed my brow.

  “Are you sure you don’t want company?”

  “Not at all. Just let me be. I’m about to turn on my Garth, and I know how you feel about that.” She nodded at my eye roll. Garth Brooks knew how to write a song, I supposed, but when Gigi got her Garth on, she sang along with a wide vibrato that could rival the mating calls of wildlife. “You two sit out under those lights I nearly killed myself stringing. It’s a beautiful night, and it sounds like Gracie might be gone for a while. Best to enjoy the evening while you can.”

  Tucker held my hand as we walked out to the patio again, a cascade of stars and tree lights falling around us. He stopped at a spot out of view of Gigi’s kitchen window and pulled me to himself. I could hear his heart beating.

  “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, relishing the warmth of him. “It’s been a really good day.” We could hear the strains of music filtering through Gigi’s windows and, without saying a word, started to dance, a slow sway under the night sky.

  “When do you leave?” he said after a long time.

  “Tomorrow,” I said, still stunned by the suddenness of it all. I pulled back to meet his eyes. “But this is different. You know that, right?”

  I saw his jaw tense before he answered. “Absolutely. We are much older and much wiser. And we have our own cell plans.” He smiled, but I saw a hesitation in his eyes that made me frown.

  “We won’t even need those phones that much.” I stopped swaying. “I’ll be home on Friday. This is different.” I searched his face, willing him to understand.

  He leaned down and kissed me, a soft, lingering kiss that made my scalp tingle, it was so good. When he pulled away, a small smile played on his lips and in his eyes. “So far, our adult version of us is even more fantastic than our kid version. So different is good, right?”

  “Right,” I said, full of confidence in the truth of the word. “Home on Friday.”

  “Home on Friday.” He kissed me again, this time traveling toward my jawline, my neck. “But don’t bring the doof, okay? I want you on Friday, but James can stay in New York in his fancy Italian loafers.”

  I giggled. “How did you know he loves Italian loafers?”

  “Just a wild guess.” Kiss on the tender spot under my ear.

  I sighed happily. “Friday it is. Just five days away.” Though, when he kissed me like that, looked at me like that, the distance between me and Friday felt like five days too many.

  eighteen

  I wanted to purr. In fact, I must have made some sort of purr-like noise because the man in the seat beside me looked over his reading glasses, amused. “First time in business class?”

  I nodded and felt gloriously small in the wide leather seat. “Am I that obvious?”

  He shrugged, shoulders lifting within his suit jacket. “You looked like you were getting misty when the flight attendant brought champagne before takeoff.”

  I made a face. “I have allergies,” I said, but he was already returning to his noise-canceling headphones and open laptop. Just as well, I thought. He clearly was not going to understand the intoxicating beauty of this moment, jaded business class–er that he was.

  I sighed happily and turned toward my window. We’d risen far above the clouds and were soon to make our descent to New York. I thought of Gigi’s advice when she dropped me off at the airport in Des Moines.

  “Be smart. And enjoy the ride,” she’d said before giving me a quick hug and pulling away in the minivan. Still within earshot, she’d yelled out the window, “Don’t forget to send Goldie some self shots!”

  I sipped my chilled cucumber water and giggled, remembering Goldie taking me by the shoulders and issuing her command. A selfie a day, she’d said. It was the least I could do for the rest of the team. They didn’t seem quite as interested in shots of Manhattan, but I readily obliged. I took out my phone and snapped a photo of myself surrounded by the deep blue leather, a view from the window, and a toast of my chilled drink. “Suffering for the brand!” I typed and sent the picture to Goldie and Gigi, awed again that rich people could have Wi-Fi even at thirty-five thousand feet.

  I felt the plane begin its descent and I leaned into the window, taking in as much of the emerging view as possible. The city soon spread before me, and I remembered with a pang the way I’d felt when I’d last seen its skyline drifting out of sight below. The defeat, the embarrassment, the discouragement—it all felt close and real, even months removed. I ran my hand along the armrest of my seat and shook my head slightly. I was returning to New York not as one exiled but as one sought after, one courted, one with something to offer that was valuable enough to come with preflight champagne and free Wi-Fi.

  What a difference some grit, some inspiration, and the Etsy could make.

  By the time I found my way out of the terminal, I was remembering with caffeinated alertness how to navigate the crowds of New York, and that those crowds were absolutely everywhere. As I stepped onto the escalator leading to baggage claim, I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop mirror and saw that a deep furrow had forged a path between my eyebrows. I immediately forced the muscles in my face to relax, determined to remember my well-rehearsed, no-nonsense “city face” that projected confidence, not worry. I was out of practice, I realized, particularly when I’d said hello to about fifteen people before realizing no one was returning my greeting. Silver Creek was getting farther away by the minute.

  I scanned the throngs below me, looking on the ever-changing screen for the carousel that listed my Des Moines flight. A man with a smart driver’s cap and pressed suit caught my eye and tipped his chin to me. My name, neatly lettered, lifted slightly when he pointed to the placard he was holding. I opened my mouth slightly before shutting it and nodding. Yes, I thought, I am Grace Kleren. And I have a driver. I swallowed hard, sure the businessman from the flight would have been rolling his eyes to the back of his head if he could have seen me then.

  “Ms. Kleren?” the driver said in a deep, smooth voice when I approached.

  I nodded, not trusting my Dorothy from Kansas voice to do anything but squeak in that moment.

  He gestured for me to follow him through the sliding doors. “I’ll show you to the car, where you can wait more comfortably while I get your bags.” He opened the door of a sleek black Escalade waiting along the curb. He offered me his hand and I stepped into the car. The door closed definitively behind me and James smiled.

  “Welcome home, Grace.” He leaned toward me and kissed me on the cheek. “You look phenomenal. Sun-kissed. The plains must have been good to you.”

  I shook my head, still stunned at the emotional whiplash since the last time I’d been in New York. “James, you didn’t have to go to all this trouble. I could have taken the train. Or really lived it up and sprung for a cab. But a private driver?”

  He pushed my frugality away. “Standard protocol. Saffron does this for all our big new talent.” He offered me a bottle of sparkling water. “How was the flight?”

  I took it and sipped, suddenly sheepish. “Perfect. Luxurious. I could get used to it.”

  James grinned. “That’s the hope anyway,” he said, leaning toward me as he raised his glass. “Let the adventure begin.”

  James let the door click quietly behind him as he left, and I stood a moment with my hand on the handle, taking a deep breath before I turned to face my hotel room. Room was such an insufficient word, really, when it came to where the valet had brought my bags and James had carried a bouquet of hyd
rangeas to place on my bedside table. The “room” was actually a series of rooms in a spacious suite in the Gansevoort, a hotel I had only drooled over when I’d lived in New York. The Gansevoort represented swank and style and a room rate that would have made Gigi spit out her coffee. I walked slowly into the living room, kicking off my flats as I went. My travel-weary feet sank into the plush carpet. I went straight to the sliding double doors and pulled the handle to move it soundlessly on its smooth track. Stepping onto the balcony, I felt warm summer air fall over my skin.

  It was nearly nine in the evening, but plenty of light still washed over the city. The sun was just starting to set, and my suite-worthy view allowed me to see a swath of the Hudson glittering below. I stood, transfixed as the light changed by the moment, and I remembered the excitement in James’s voice during the ride from the airport as he described his vision for our partnership. Saffron was the perfect place for Flyover, he’d said, because of our shared history and our similar design styles. The vision of my company fit beautifully with his for Saffron, and working together would have none of the drama or the frustration I’d felt at Milano. I’d come into my own as a designer, James said. It was written all over the dresses we were making in Silver Creek. It was time to take the company to the next level, and this was the place and avenue through which to do it.

  A particularly headstrong star was pushing through the lights of the city, shining brightly far above the setting sun. A smattering of clouds caught the purple, magenta, rose, and coral of the sunset, and I scanned the western horizon, knowing that a lot of the people I loved were beyond my ability to see them but that I was grateful they were there, waiting, hoping I would do well.

  I started, remembering suddenly a note Tucker had slipped into my bag and, after getting caught, had asked me not to read until I’d made it to New York.

  I left the balcony and retrieved the note. Under the soft light of a bedside lamp, I read the words, his handwriting a familiar script I knew well from notes smuggled during classes for years.

  Gracie,

  Remember these New York people are lucky to have you, not the other way around.

  See you Friday.

  XO,

  T

  P.S. Leave the loafers.

  I looked up and saw the sun had dipped below the horizon. The aftereffect was stunning, and I heard Gigi reminding me of God’s fingerprints all over the beauty I was seeing.

  “Nice work, then,” I said aloud, and then smiled at the thought of Gigi having to wrestle with the idea that pagan Gotham had inspired the first almost-prayer her granddaughter had attempted in years. My worlds collided in that moment, and I waited, letting them mix, letting Iowa meet New York and letting the thought come without censorship: Maybe I really can have it all.

  The room fell to the velvety black of nightfall before I turned from the window and started to unpack, Tucker’s note still open beneath a hydrangea fully in bloom.

  nineteen

  I clutched my coffee and hoped the warmth from the cup would trigger some sort of relaxation response for my wired nerves. Earlier that morning, I’d arrived at the address James had texted after declining his offer to send a car and saying I would walk the five blocks instead. Hiring a car to drive five blocks? I could hear the sewing ladies cackle at such ridiculousness, and all of them were septuagenarians. Plus, a walk afforded me some time to take a few deep breaths and reorient myself to the city and its rhythm, the symphony of sound already in full voice before eight in the morning. I’d reached the address early and had walked right on by, not quite ready to face the moment without a little caffeine. I ducked into a café on the next block and had taken a few overzealous gulps of coffee on my way to the elevator. I sipped the last of my single-origin pour-over, relishing every drop, and waited to ascend to the fifth floor, one floor below the Saffron headquarters and the space James had allocated to Flyover.

  The bell above the elevator door chimed, and the doors slid open to a light-filled loft. I stepped over the threshold and froze, taking it in. Soaring windows on three sides made the room feel like it was a sheer heartbeat away from the energy of the streets outside. Through one break in the buildings, I glimpsed a view of the triangular Flatiron Building, a mark that I was in the heart of the Garment District. I took one step into the room, and James looked up from a worktable to grin at me. He covered the space between us, and I could feel the room go quiet. James took my hands and kissed me on the cheek.

  “Welcome to the international headquarters of Flyover, fashion’s newest coup and hottest place to work.”

  A group of people behind James laughed appreciatively at his hype and I smiled at them. “Quite the vote of confidence,” I said to James. “But I do like the way you’re thinking.”

  James gestured to the space. “What do you think? Will it do?”

  I turned my head slowly, taking in the tall ceilings, the crisp, clean light, the long wall of exposed brick that displayed an outsize framed photo of the Manhattan skyline. “It’s fantastic,” I said.

  “A far cry from the barn,” James said, met again with laughter. My smile remained, though the thought of Tucker and how hard he’d worked to get the barn ready for my work made the smile uneasy.

  “The barn has its merits,” I offered weakly, but James had walked away from me and toward the group. They parted with knowing looks. Behind them stood a mannequin, the center focal point of the room, wearing a Flyover maxi dress. I felt a slow smile spread across my face as I crossed the room. I reached out to touch the fabric, let it fall between my fingers, seeing the perfectly even stitching along the bodice by Myrna, the beading along the waist the handiwork of one of the twins. I looked up at James, my eyes shining.

  “It fits here,” I said, and he turned me around by the shoulders to greet the group of people standing in a loose semicircle around us.

  “Grace Kleren, meet your team.”

  I shook hands with Moira, my new assistant, who was so excited to meet me, I feared she would curtsy. Chase and Eleanor were next, my assistant designers hired, in Chase’s words, “to further the promise and vision” of my designs. Eleanor nodded in agreement, her pixie cut bobbing up and down above impressively wide shoulder pads.

  “And these are the people behind the ledgers,” James said, gesturing with a flourish to the remaining three people in the room. “Max Grundwald, Suzanne Billings, and Michelle Epstein, I present Grace Kleren. You all should just group hug, because you’re about to make each other all sorts of money.”

  Suzanne’s laugh was higher in pitch than her tall, willowy frame would have suggested. “To borrow a phrase, James, dear, you might be counting chickens before they hatch.”

  All three investors looked at me with expectant faces, as if I must have felt most comfortable when farming metaphors were used. My smile was forced. “Yes, James, let’s talk chickens.”

  He shrugged. “Oh, this crew is always the worry contingency. Don’t pay any attention to them.”

  Max Grundwald crossed his arms on his chest and looked like he was weighing his words before he spoke. “I’m sure you’re a very capable designer, Miss Kleren. In fact, I’m positive of this because I showed your Etsy site to my wife, and she went hysterical. Hysterical, Miss Kleren. As in, she has worn one of your dresses to every one of our social events this spring.”

  Michelle put a manicured hand on my arm and said confidentially, “The Grundwalds are the social event of every spring. So your dresses have been seen by everyone who is anyone in this city, Grace.”

  Max mopped his brow with a polka-dot pocket square, though the room was cool. “So I know you can make pretty clothes and I see some huge growth potential with Saffron. However—”

  “Max, honestly,” Suzanne interrupted with a roll of her eyes. “You’re going to scare the girl. Grace.” She looked at me squarely. “We are thrilled to partner with you. And we know you can do this. You’ve worked at Milano, which can be a veritable pressure cooker. I went to
school with Nancy Strang. The woman is a beast.”

  I was starting to get concerned. What was with all the concern, the preamble, the way Max couldn’t stop mopping his receding hairline?

  “James?” I said by way of asking all my questions with one word. I searched his face.

  “We need an entire line. Fast.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “How fast?”

  He winced. “We present to buyers two weeks from today?”

  I inhaled sharply, one step away from shrieking. Two weeks?! I’d worked on my line for Milano for four months, and that had felt lightning fast. Two weeks was insane.

  I could feel the eyes of the investors on me. From where they stood around the mannequin, Chase and Eleanor stopped and stared. Moira looked up from a spacious white desk near a window. I could feel my heart beating in my temples.

  Two weeks. A full line. Insane.

  “No problem,” I heard myself say with a confidence I was only beginning to feel. “This is our chance to go big fast, and we can’t afford to wait. We can do it.”

  James was beaming at me as if I’d just gotten a gold star. “You see?” he said to all onlookers as he crushed me in a side hug. “Did I not tell you? This woman is fearless!”

  I smiled as another round of handshaking commenced. Max produced a short document for me to sign in order to get on the payroll, and I barely registered his explanations of each paragraph, his overview of the non-compete clause, his assurances that a more complete (and lucrative, he added) contract would follow. I handed the form and his engraved pen back to Max, noting that my signature looked a bit wobbly. Fearlessness, I couldn’t help but notice, felt a very close cousin to wild-eyed panic.

  As it turned out, Max Grundwald’s wife, Julia, was hysterical about my dresses.

  “You. Have. A. Gift,” she was saying, her eyebrows wagging with meaning. “I’m telling you, Grace. You understand a woman’s body. And I’m talking women of all ages, not just the young chippies who can wear anything. Am I right?” Her laugh was nasal, and she turned to the two women completing our little conversation circle. The jazz combo was nearby, so I couldn’t catch the murmurs of agreement by Sophie and Joyce. Or was it Sophia and Joy? Or were those the last two people Julia had introduced and these two were Maria and Janice? I just kept smiling and hoped I wouldn’t be quizzed later on.