“Like this dress, for example.” Julia turned, giving us a close-range view of her tanned back. “I wore this in the Hamptons over Memorial Day. And I’ll have you know,” she said, eyebrows telegraphing more important messages, “Gwyneth even commented on it. She loved the detailing on the bodice.”
I did my best surprised face, but it was becoming a struggle after hearing this part of the story three times before. Julia had little need for me by that time in her pitch, and Sophie/Sophia and Joyce/Joy listened with rapt attention as Julia detailed her conversation with Gwyneth over chocolate balsamic red beets (Gwyneth was vegan) and avocado gazpacho at a party in Montauk (way less stuffy than Bridgehampton these days). When Julia launched into another telling of her recent allergic reaction to stevia, I took my leave, excusing myself to the restroom without actually following through. As I walked over to a waiter holding a tray of hors d’oeuvre, James stepped in front of me to block my way. We had spent much of the day together, already at work on the new line, before he’d startled at the clock and pronounced quitting time. A party in my honor was set to begin in an hour, and he escorted me up one floor to the Saffron headquarters. Leading me to my very happiest of happy places, he’d shown me a room burgeoning with samples from designers we loved. The Brainstorm, that was his moniker for the room, and he said any dress was mine for the picking, but to do it fast because the car was soon leaving for the rooftop party and it would be a serious gaffe to be late.
He stood before me now and took me in, holding me out by one hand to gather my look from top to toe. A wolfish grin spread across his face. “Stunning,” he said, leaning in so I could hear him above the noise. I could smell his cologne, and I felt a rush of memories as he kissed my cheek. “How does it feel to be the guest of honor?” he said into my ear before pulling away to see my face.
I shook my head, still stunned at the day’s events. The lights of the city sparkled around and below us. The combo was settling into “Night and Day,” and I was wearing a shimmery champagne-hued dress that hugged me in every spot I liked and gave in every spot I didn’t. The world was waiting for me, and James was a huge part of that offering, but I couldn’t shake a feeling that I was playing dress-up again, that I was an unlikely guest at someone else’s party.
“It’s unbelievable,” I ventured slowly, hoping James would understand my honesty. “I feel like I’m living a fairy tale but can barely grasp that the tale is my own.”
James grinned and waved to a man in a perfectly cut suit and Prada wing tips. “This is all for you, Grace, so enjoy it.” He squeezed my arm before starting away. “Gianni from GQ. Old friend of my mother’s. I need to schmooze. I’ll bring him over so you can meet him too.”
I nodded, trying to smile away the feeling that I was standing on the outside of something breathtaking but just not able to open the door. The feeling became acute when Julia silenced the combo and insisted on a toast. She did manage to mention Gwyneth but Max was able to rein her in when he looped his arm through hers and raised his glass.
“Ahem, yes. A toast. To the ones who made this evening possible.” He smiled, but the effect was more of a grimace, perhaps due to underuse. “To the grannies!”
“To the grannies!” the crowd echoed with a smattering of laughter and clinking glasses.
I could feel eyes on me, including those of James and Gianni, and I raised my glass before I sipped. The faces of the Sewing Club ladies filtered into my thoughts and the champagne wasn’t smooth going down, despite its impressive pedigree. I set down my champagne flute a little too hard on a waiter’s tray and squared my shoulders, suddenly irritated with myself.
You belong here, I reminded myself before finally snagging one of the elusive hors d’oeuvre, some sort of tartlet with fig and smoky bacon, likely an ironic nod toward my hometown. It was delicious, I admitted freely, and I plucked a second tart from the passing tray. I set my jaw, giving sharp stand-down orders to my nerves and second-guessing. I lifted my gaze to see James and Gianni headed in my direction. This is all for you, I said to myself, repeating James’s words. Now start acting like it. I flashed a smile, took a step forward, and extended my hand to the powers that be.
twenty
By the time James offered to take me home, after the last guests had left, their well wishes still echoing on the rooftop, I was feeling the deep-seated, exhausted satisfaction of a remarkable twenty-four hours. We bid the serving staff our thanks and good night, and we made our way down to street level. I slipped off my heels while we were still in the lobby, already back in the New York–native habit of tucking a pair of ballet flats into my bag for longer walks. James laughed as he held my heels for me.
“We have a car waiting, you freak,” he said. “You don’t have to walk anywhere anymore if you don’t want to.” He had loosened his necktie. Above it, I glimpsed the shadow of a beard that would be clean shaven again in a matter of hours.
I sighed happily and took the crook of his offered arm. He looped the straps of my heels in his fingers, using his free hand to open the back door of the waiting Escalade. I climbed in and sank down deep into the black leather seats. The sumptuous silk of my dress pooled at my feet. “So this is what it feels like to live in New York and not be a pauper.” I closed my eyes. “It’s like visiting a foreign country.”
James laughed softly as the car pulled away smoothly from the curb. “You are now a passport-carrying member of the waiting-car club. It suits you.”
I could feel him watching me. I opened my eyes and met his gaze.
He laced his fingers with mine. “I’ve missed you, Grace,” he said, eyes on me. “This city has plenty to offer, but even with all that, it just isn’t the same without you in it.”
I shifted a bit in my seat. “I can hardly believe that’s true,” I said, tone light. “Though after tonight, I might just believe anything.”
He smiled and raised my hand to his lips, leaving a feather-light kiss on my palm. “Believe it,” he said just before I pulled my hand away. He turned to look out his window. We traveled the remaining blocks in companionable silence, lost in our own thoughts and in the late-night New York that streamed past our windows. When we pulled up to the Gansevoort, James got out of the car to open my door. I stepped onto the pavement, my feet reminding me that they deserved some time off.
James pulled me into a hug. He spoke into my hair. “You were luminous tonight. All day, really.”
“Thank you,” I said, stifling a yawn into his shoulder. “It was certainly a day for the history books.”
He pulled away and waited for me to meet his gaze. Then he leaned in, eyes closed, for a kiss. I ducked away, my hands pushing gently on his chest. “James.”
He stared at me, hands still around my waist.
“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” I said, instantly hating myself for sounding so apologetic. Tucker and I hadn’t exactly defined what we were, but I knew without consulting him that it didn’t feel right kissing someone else.
James forced a wry smile, but it didn’t cover the wounded look in his eyes. “You mean mixing business with pleasure? That never bothered you before.”
I spoke quietly but I knew he could hear me, even with the sound of a passing cab. “We never got that far. You know that.” An image of James holding a box with all the contents of my desk flashed through my mind, but by the look on his face, I could see he was thinking something else entirely.
“How about a nightcap then?” he said, his eyes searching my face, traveling to my neck. “I won’t stay.” Two fingers up. “Scout’s honor.”
I smiled but took a step back. “I’m going to go on a limb and assume you were never a Boy Scout.”
He put both hands up in surrender before running them through his thick hair. “Busted. Never a Boy Scout. Though I did help a local troop with a lemonade stand one year. Quadrupled their profits, I might add.” He shrugged in mock humility.
“Good night, James,” I said, taking a step backward
toward the gleaming front doors of the hotel. “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.”
“Sounds good,” James said, bowing slightly, the picture of a gentleman. “I’ll look forward to it.” He turned to the waiting car and called over his shoulder, one hand on the polished chrome handle, “Did I mention how stunning you look this evening?”
I shook my head slightly but smiled as I entered the spacious lobby. This can work, I reassured myself. We can be friends and business partners. This is the twenty-first century and we are both adults. I crossed the lobby to the elevators and entered a quiet cocoon when the doors parted. The elevator lifted me soundlessly and deposited me onto lush carpet leading to my suite door. I opened the door, dropped the key card on a glass-topped coffee table, kicked off my flats, and collapsed heavily onto the king bed. I stared at the ceiling, dimly lit by streetlight, and a wave of missing washed over me. The day had been a remarkable one, but I couldn’t put it to sleep. Not yet. I turned the switch on a bedside lamp and reached for my phone, sensing the day’s events would feel real only after I’d talked with him.
Tucker answered on the fourth ring, his voice heavy with sleep.
“Gracie?” he said. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I said hurriedly. “Totally okay. I’m sorry.” I worried my bottom lip with my teeth. “I know it’s super late.”
“Or early,” he said, his voice thick. “Depends on how you look at a clock.”
I smiled. “It’s so good to hear your voice. I miss you.”
“I miss you too,” he said. “Even at the ungodly hour of one in the morning, I miss you.”
I sighed heavily. “I wish you could have seen today. I was, um, kind of a celebrity.”
“Is that right?” He stifled a yawn but I could hear it in his voice anyway. “Sounds about right to me.”
“I saw my new offices. They’re beautiful. Huge windows, plenty of work space, all sorts of electricity without power cords.” I was trying for a joke, but I felt my words fall flat.
“Sounds very modern,” Tucker offered after a beat. I rushed on.
“I have a full-time assistant. And two design assistants. And investors who are falling all over themselves to help me expand Flyover.”
“They should be falling all over themselves,” Tucker said, his voice so low and soft I had to turn up the volume on my phone. “You’re what makes this all work, Grace. They know that.”
“They threw me a party. On a rooftop. It was beautiful. And romantic.” I meant to call to mind my wish that he’d been there with me, but Tucker landed elsewhere.
He cleared his throat. “How’s James, then?” I could hear the effort he was making to keep the words light and self-assured.
“Oh, fine,” I said, one hand instinctively going to my lips, remembering his attempt at a kiss. “He thinks Flyover will be a soaring success. I think so too, but the next week is going to be bruising.” I picked at a corner of the hotel stationery. “We have to put together an entire line by a week from Friday. Buyers are coming for potential orders.”
“So this Friday will have to wait?” Again with the forced ease, but I could hear a note of disappointment in the question.
“I’m sorry,” I said, startled that I hadn’t even considered this change of plans before that moment. “I’ll need the weekend to work here. But next Friday, I’m all yours.”
“I can pick you up in Des Moines,” Tucker said, all business. “If Gigi doesn’t mind me taking a turn.”
I closed my eyes, frustrated with our awkward rhythm. Why was this so much more difficult across miles? “I’m sure she won’t mind.” I waited a moment before letting us both off the hook. “We can talk later. I’m sorry to wake you.”
“Not a problem,” he said, and I pushed away the thought that he used that same tone to sign off with his accountant. “I love hearing your voice, no matter the hour.”
“Night, Tuck,” I said quietly.
“Sleep well, Gracie,” he said.
We hung up. I let my head fall onto one of the voluminous pillows on the bed and tried to sort out what went awry in my conversation with Tucker. I didn’t get far before I felt my eyelids get heavy and the room start to fade, even with the bedside lamp still illuminated. It took a Herculean effort to stand and unzip my dress, letting it fall to the floor in a soft heap that would have to keep for a few hours until my alarm roused me to a long workday. I turned off the lamp, slipped between the sheets, and surrendered fully to what little was left of the night.
twenty-one
It took me a while to realize it, but Joan Jett had been on repeat for some time. As in, I’d probably been listening to her iconic screech during “I Love Rock ’n Roll” for at least an hour. Maybe more. I hadn’t been paying attention to Joan. I was puzzling over the design of a Flyover-worthy evening gown, and even Joan hadn’t broken through. The loft was empty but for me and the in-house stereo, synced with my phone and apparently unbothered by a long tribute to “putting another dime in the jukebox, baby.” The rest of the staff had left long ago, after clocking in yet another long, full day in our effort to create a line that would be buyer ready in the remaining two days before our meeting.
We were crushing it.
I glanced at the finished pieces that stood in an obedient line along the back wall. The mannequins wore a variety of looks, from day wear to evening, and the winners were exquisite. I studied them as I stood to stretch, newly impressed with what we had accomplished and how well we’d merged as a team, both in terms of workload and design inspiration. Chase was funny, really funny, and Eleanor and I were already getting to the point where we finished each other’s thoughts and sentences. Moira was a dream assistant, watchful with her wide-set brown eyes, ready with my phone, the latest spreadsheet, the number for the best button supplier in Manhattan. I had, on more than one occasion, professed my undying love for her and a blessing for a long and healthy life. She’d smiled noncommittally and handed me another dose of caffeine.
I blinked a few times and rolled my shoulders forward and backward, feeling every vertebra protest realignment from hunched to vertical. The oversize train clock above the elevator doors read three in the morning. I groaned aloud. Time would need to slow down a bit if I were to keep both sleep and work in my daily schedule. At least until the buyers’ meeting, I thought, my eyes on the sketches before me but my body reminding me that all work and no play made for things like sinus infections and unsightly drool stains on fabrics.
The elevator doors opened and I felt my heart skip a beat. A woman alone in an empty building at three in the morning? Not a recipe for safety or smarts. I reached for the scissors on my desk and was pulling them up to strike position when James stepped from the elevator.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “James,” I said, unnerved. “You scared me to death.” My hands were shaking as I returned the scissors to the desk. “I’m so glad you’re not a serial killer.”
He walked toward me, his shirt uncharacteristically rumpled to match a wild coif of hair. “You’re safe with me, babe. First, that sounds messy. And second, I don’t have that kind of time.” He walked toward me, his heels marking a crisp rhythm on the floor. “I’ve been working on an investment proposal upstairs and I thought I heard music.” He cocked his head in the silence. “Please tell me I’m not losing it.”
I laughed. “You’re not. Joan Jett was keeping me company. I just turned her off.”
He stopped in front of me and swept a hand at my cluttered desk. “How’s it going?”
I shrugged. “I’m stuck on this gown. It will come, but it’s not coming easily.”
He studied the sketch and, after a pause, nodded. “I think you’re close. And you’re right. It will come.” He lifted his chin at the back wall. “Like everything else. You’ve knocked those out of the park.”
I followed his gaze and let my exhale leave in an exhausted but satisfied rush. “Thanks. I think we’re on to somethin
g.”
James’s mouth lifted in a half smile when he turned to me. “Hey. We’re both too blitzed to be of any more use tonight. Let me buy you breakfast.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, running a hand over my face. “I would probably do better to go home and sleep for a while.”
“You can sleep afterward. Come in late,” he said, already turning my shoulders toward the elevator doors. “I’m sure Chase and Eleanor have plenty to do without you here, and Moira can continue organizing the universe until you arrive at noon. Case closed. Time for waffles.”
I protested again, but weakly. My stomach had growled at the thought of buttermilk and syrup.
A block and a half later, James held the door open for me at Lou’s and I stepped through to the smells of coffee, butter, and bacon. Only in New York, I thought as I scooted into an open booth, could a girl find a full breakfast and a fresh pot of coffee at an hour that most of the time zone was hard at sleep.
We were one of only three couples in the room, so our server came quickly and took two orders for waffles, one with strawberries and whipped cream, one with powdered sugar and blueberries, and both with sides of bacon and decaf coffee.
“So tell me,” James said after a dainty sip of ice water. “How is your team working out?”
“Beautifully,” I said. “Honestly. I can’t believe how seamlessly we work, how little drama there is among us. A bit different from Milano,” I added with a wry smile. We hadn’t revisited much of our shared work history, James and I, and I was a bit wary of opening that door.
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