Better to have too much rather than too little, Gigi always said, and my heart skipped to think of her. I’d promised to call when I knew the outcome of today’s meeting. Acting on reflex, I pulled my phone from the deep pocket of my skirt, a just-finished midi that flared at the perfect length and showcased a new pair of ankle-strap heels I’d found on the way back to the Gansevoort the day before. My phone showed just one new message, from Gigi. It read:
Break a log! I am so proud of you and can’t wart to heal about the meat today! You’re going to knock their songs off, honey!
I smiled and reminded myself (again) not to feel anything but fine that Tucker hadn’t texted. Tucker was not going to text. I was not going to text Tucker. We were done, just as it needed to be, and today I had no room for extra distractions. I slipped my phone out of sight into the new Saffron handbag James had brought down for me during our cleaning frenzy the day before. I ran my hand across the smooth leather, loving the way it felt on my fingertips, and made a mental note to thank James again when the chaos of the day died down.
The light above the elevator door lit up and I heard Chase take a sharp breath. Before the doors could open I spoke quickly to my team. “You three are outstanding. Be confident. You deserve to be.” Eleanor nodded, Chase looked like he was going to pass out, and Moira looked like she was ready to call 911 and drive the ambulance if Chase passed out.
The doors opened slowly and the first leg out was clad in the most exquisite, perfectly tailored pair of trousers I’d seen on a real human. I was pretty sure they were Valentino, I was pretty sure I’d salivated over them in the last Vogue, and I was pretty sure they weren’t even available to the general public yet. The woman wearing those pants, I realized with a gulp, knew beautiful clothes. She was not going to get distracted by a story about a few sweet grandmas and a converted barn. I would need to know my stuff.
I crossed the room to her, James, and the two other people in their group. One appeared to be the woman’s Moira, only this assistant was so busy studying the phone in her hand, she barely looked up. The final member of the party was a man with a bow tie, shaved head, and smart seersucker suit. His oversize tortoiseshell glasses were so prominent on his face, I had to concentrate to get past them to his eyes.
James made the introductions as I held out my hand, first to the woman in Valentino.
“Grace Kleren, meet Hedda Lind.” James’s eyebrows were doing a lambada, and I ignored them the best I could while shaking Hedda’s hand. It took me a beat to realize this was Hedda Lind, as in the daughter of Lionel Lind, the owner of Solomon’s and patriarch of one of the wealthiest families in the city. James had told us that Solomon’s senior fashion buyer, Aaron De Castro, would be the one we were sweating to impress today. De Castro had a fierce reputation as having a searingly accurate view of how fashion moved and what inventory to acquire. He was enough of a force to have James popping Tums like candy for the last three days. If he’d known Hedda Lind herself was going to stop by instead, he might have needed a quick trip to urgent care, just to get a grip.
“Ms. Lind,” I said, more confidently than I felt. “It’s an honor to meet you.”
She dipped her chin gracefully, as if to acknowledge that yes, it was an honor to meet her. She let my hand drop almost as quickly as she grasped it, already looking behind me to the mannequins. I could feel her quiet impatience as I met her assistant, Agnes, and the seersucker man, Claude, who was Solomon’s accounting guru. He brandished a sleek, monogrammed calculator while we were still introducing our team and was so absorbed in cleaning off its screen with a microfiber cloth that he didn’t acknowledge the profound crack in Chase’s voice when he spoke.
James cleared his throat, still wagging his eyebrows at me whenever Hedda was looking the other way, and offered Moira’s magnificent table of refreshments to the party.
Hedda waved one slender, manicured hand in the direction of a rhubarb muffin. She shook her head. “Cleansing,” she explained.
I caught Moira’s eye and tried to convey to her my deep appreciation for the rhubarb and everything else on that table. She kept her face neutral, a reminder of why Moira was going to do very well in her life. James’s eyebrows could have taken a page from Moira’s poise.
“Shall we, then?” he said, leading us to the line. I walked in step with the group, eyes narrowed on the clothes. Hedda Lind, I knew, would not suffer mistakes of any kind. I glanced at James and saw tension radiating in his posture and face.
Hedda led the way, soon striding ahead, her eyes on the clothes. Hands on each bony hip, she came to a stop in front of the first piece, a dress with a fitted skirt that followed a woman’s natural curves down to just below the knee, a curved slit making its way prettily up to the lower part of the thigh. Hedda gathered a handful of the skirt fabric, let it fall. She touched the bodice fabric, a coquettish eyelet, and cocked her head as she took in the entire look. After a long beat, she moved on. She walked slowly from left to right, giving each piece her full and focused attention. When, halfway down the line, James asked if she had any questions or wanted to hear more about the story behind the brand, she shook her head slightly, saying only, “No words, please.”
James clamped his mouth shut, eager to please. I glimpsed Chase out of the corner of my eye. His head was in his hands. Eleanor was close enough to Hedda to be dissecting with her gaze the way Hedda’s own haute couture blouse was moving as she walked. I stifled a smile, feeling the same giddiness underneath my nerves. Normal people, even people within the fashion industry, didn’t often get the chance to see clothes like Hedda’s up close and personal. I knew Eleanor was thinking what I was thinking, that we would have loved to hold the blouse, the pants, the shoes, the belt, in our hands and read the stitching and construction like a map of buried treasure. Of course, asking Hedda Lind to remove her clothing would likely not help us close the deal for Flyover. I swallowed hard as she finished her progression down the row that represented a decade of dreaming and an insane number of hours over the last two weeks.
Hedda finished her perusal of the clothes and kept walking at a measured pace toward the window. She stood there, looking out at the busy street below, for what felt like an entire lifetime. I stole a glance at Claude, seeking clues of how normal this behavior was, but he had co-opted a nearby desk chair and was sitting, seersucker pant legs crossed, eyes closed, and head tipped back slightly. Claude appeared to be either meditating or napping, I wasn’t sure which. Agnes the assistant had followed a few steps behind Hedda as she’d inspected the garments, but she had not followed Hedda to the window and was instead standing next to the blown-up photo of New York, hands behind her back as if she were in a museum on a lazy Saturday afternoon.
I shifted in my shoes, feeling my toes slip toward the front of the heels. I heard my stomach growl, finally waking up after so many nerves that morning and so many meals at odd hours that it was never quite sure anymore when average people ate. Hedda had been standing in silence for so long, I was seriously considering tiptoeing to Moira’s table and snagging a bagel when Hedda finally turned on one very expensive Blahnik.
“USP.” She said the three letters and waited, eyes on me.
I paused and opened my mouth to speak, but James beat me to it.
“Flyover’s unique selling point? I really think—”
Hedda silenced James with a hand and the look on her face. “I ask this question of Grace.” She returned her gaze to me. “Tell me what makes these clothes worthy of my customers’ hard-earned money.”
“These clothes,” I began, and then cleared my throat, starting over and forcing the timidity out of my voice. “These clothes are about feeling beautiful effortlessly. The fabrics, the lines, the silhouettes, the movement—everything points to ease and elegance without trying too hard. My team and I have worked hard to create garments that make sense on a woman’s body. The curve of that skirt, the gentle arc on the back of that blouse, the pretty dip in the neckline of that d
ress . . .” I pointed as I talked, feeling a fresh wave of pride in what we—what I—had built from scratch. “Those are not just design details meant to look great on a mannequin. Those are details meant to make a woman feel gorgeous. These clothes fit today’s woman, and not just because the measurements are sound. They are inspired by women in my hometown. Hardworking, smart, funny women who love to look pretty and don’t take themselves too seriously.” I could feel my eyes stinging. “This company is all about joy. I want joy to come out in the designs, in the wearing of the garments, even in the moment in the dressing room when a girl sees herself for real and likes what she sees. That’s the unique selling point. Clothes from the full, boisterous hearts of real women. Women who know the value of true joy.”
Hedda watched my face, still taking in my expression even when the words had stopped. I met her gaze, completely sure that no matter her decision, no matter if she decided to take on Flyover for her stores, I had spoken the truth. So much truth, in fact, that I knew Gigi and the girls would be applauding if they had borne witness.
Hedda frowned, her deep red lipstick pulling down the porcelain skin around her mouth. “Thank you for your time.” She held out her hand for me to shake, which I did, despite her uninterrupted forward motion, eyes on the elevator. Agnes scurried ahead to press the down button.
My shoulders sank. Chase made a soft whimpering sound.
James looked panicked. He walked quickly to catch up with Hedda. “Let’s talk later this week—does that sound all right? We can get into market position, some price points, maybe think about cross merch opportunities.” His voice was getting unnaturally loud. When he got to Claude, still steps away from Hedda, Claude stopped him with a firm hand on the shoulder.
“No need to get ahead of ourselves, Mr. Campbell. Our office will be in touch.” Claude held the door for the women and waited as they stepped over the threshold.
“Right,” James said, not even hiding the defeat on his face. “Definitely stay in touch.”
Hedda furrowed her brow. “What is the matter with you?” She sounded like a prickly schoolteacher correcting her student. She shook her head at James. “Such a face.”
I stepped within view of the party, just as Claude entered the elevator and pressed the button to close the door. The doors began to slide shut as Hedda called, eyes on me, “We are taking it all. You should be happy!”
The face she got, I realized after the door closed completely, was one of shock: eyes big, mouth slack, hands paused in midair. I turned to James and saw he wasn’t much better.
“All of it?” I finally said, barely daring to utter the words in case I’d misunderstood.
James whooped, ran over to me, and picked me up. He spun in a crazy circle, and I could hear the laughter from Moira, Chase, and Eleanor, tentative at first and then giddy. James spun me until I pounded on his back to put me down, breathless from giggling.
“All of it,” I said, shaking my head, disbelief merging deliciously with victory. “I can’t believe it.”
“I can,” James said, all traces of panic fully erased as he strode to Moira’s buffet table. He scooped up empty champagne glasses and began filling them sloppily with bubbly and a splash of mango juice. He passed them around our little circle and toasted to our success.
“To flyover country. And to Hedda. And to Grace, the fearless.” His eyes shone as we took turns clinking glasses. He tipped his toward me before his first swig. “I knew you could do it. I knew I’d called the right girl.”
I smiled, basking in the moment. I stopped short of sipping and set down my glass in a hurry. “Wait,” I said, going to retrieve my phone. “We need to capture this.”
We posed with glasses raised, each with at least one bagel or muffin in our mouths, grins barely able to convey the relief and thrill of the conquest. I sent the photo to Goldie, asking her to spread the news that we’d won.
Flyover, I typed, is going big.
twenty-four
Two weeks later, I skipped down the stoop leading out of Flyover headquarters and into the street. A sense of freedom bloomed in my chest, quickening my step. I had broken loose of the workroom, and it was only seven o’clock. I stretched my stride as I made my way toward Central Park. I wiggled my toes within my running shoes, a pair of lovely, supportive delights I had totally neglected since coming back to New York. I’d warned my team hours before that I would be changing into my workout gear and my feet would hit the floor at exactly seven. And true to my word, even though Chase followed me out the door and into the elevator with a zipper in one hand, a design board in the other, I simply smiled and waited until the elevator doors deposited me on the ground floor and sent Chase back upstairs with the zipper and his question. A girl could take only so much, and I needed a prison break.
The loft office had become my second home. First home, really, in comparison to the time I’d spent in my little temporary pied-à-terre, still mostly empty and littered with sparse furniture and open suitcases. Only days after the meeting with Hedda, and Flyover was a thing. As in, the thing. Apparently Hedda was the magic word, and James had been dropping it with wild abandon in calls to other stores and buyers. He’d been flying down to our floor with increasing regularity, quickly abandoning the wait for the elevator and beating a path on the stairs instead. He would come in, more breathless and wild-eyed with each new proclamation of who was interested in carrying Flyover. I’d been stunned by Nordstrom’s interest in a trial run of the maxi dress, then I was bowled over by a tease from Barneys, and then I quickly lost track as the names added up with the number of garments ordered. First hundreds and now thousands of dresses were on order and my head was still spinning at the pace of growth.
The heat of New York in July was stifling as I crossed Fifty-ninth Street and entered the park, and I felt it bear down as I passed a playground bursting with children and their parents. A hot breeze tugged on the leaves of the trees overhead, and I could feel sweat already trickling between my shoulder blades. I gathered my hair up off my neck and pulled it into a ponytail, instantly grateful for the cooler air on my skin. I passed a gaggle of teenagers, jostling one another as they walked, none of them willing to miss any of the conversation going on in the center of the group. I smiled when I passed a family sitting on a bench, all five of them serious as the grave, tongues out and trying to keep up with the ice cream that was melting and running down cones and wrists.
I breathed in deeply, feeling my shoulders relax to be in a large expanse of space again. It was odd how claustrophobic I’d felt during these last few weeks in the city. I used to love how small New York made me feel, like the city was physically limitless and I was delightfully tiny in such a huge, pulsing machine of humanity and ideas and creativity and motion. This time around, I’d caught myself trying to see more sky, looking down streets and craning my neck to see glimpses of the park or the river or a wide view of anything. I needed to spend more time here, I thought as I rounded a corner and came upon a little clearing, the lake and boathouse just beyond. The park was a sure cure for work-induced restlessness.
A crowd had gathered at a spacious spot in the path to watch a street performer. The woman had to be in her late sixties, early seventies, but she had the lithe and muscular body of a woman much younger. She wore a gold lamé scrunchie to fasten a neat bun of white hair, and the hair tie was a perfect match to her gold-and-black sequined leotard. Black-and-gold-striped leg warmers covered the tops of her roller skates. She twirled and spun as she moved to the disco music coming from a portable CD player she’d set on the ground nearby. I stopped and watched, transfixed by her movement, marveling that a woman in her age group was flexible enough to do the splits on skates (or solid ground, for that matter) and reveling in this very New York moment. A circle of strangers, some sipping lemonade, some old and in bemused awe, some young and trying unsuccessfully to act unimpressed, all gathered and watched this woman, who was utterly lost in her performance and appeared to be uninteres
ted in her audience.
“I hope I’m that sassy when I’m old,” a young man to my left muttered, and I nodded as he turned and walked away.
I unzipped the pocket at the back of my shorts and retrieved my phone. I took about thirty seconds of video, particularly pleased when the woman held up one leg in side splits, all while spinning. I sent the video to Goldie with a text: Found your soul sister in New York.
I was only fifteen steps away, still tucking my phone back into the small pocket, when it rang. I smiled when I saw the name. I accepted the FaceTime.
Goldie looked peeved. I laughed.
“Miss Goldie, it’s so good to see you! You look beautiful.” And she did, of course. Face perfectly made up, hair highlighted and lightly teased, eyes bright.
“Well, of course, that’s the point, Grace Kleren. What are you thinking comparing me to that woman in that horrible leotard and no lipstick?”
I laughed as I found an empty patch of grass to collapse onto while we chatted. “Oh, Miss Goldie, I meant it as a huge compliment. I was thinking of how spry and young you were. I didn’t even notice the lack of lipstick, I promise.”
Goldie’s frown remained but softened a little. “Well, I should say not. That woman looks ridiculous. You must be getting a little too city for us if you think showing one’s groceries to all passersby is a good idea.” She sniffed, but I saw a twinkle in her eye.
“Now, wait just a minute,” I said. “This coming from the woman who first introduced me to the idea of thongs to hide panty lines?”
“Shhh,” she said, turning and scanning the room behind her. “I’m at the barn with the girls. Your grandmother is still highly irritated with me for that conversation, even though it happened when you were seventeen and definitely of age to be learning about alternative undergarments.”
I heard Gigi calling in the background. Goldie answered, her voice all honey and sweetness. I laughed again, knowing Gigi was on to her. Within seconds, Gigi had taken the phone from Goldie, who was hollering a cheerful good-bye. “Bye, Gracie honey! Hurry and visit soon. Your grandma is getting crankier by the day.”
Heart Land Page 18
