Chapter 27
Grace
At the end of my redecorating project, every freshly painted room in my home was pristine and tidy, every surface free of clutter, every corner and counter a pleasure to look at, adorned with a carefully chosen and placed collection of accessories and artwork, like something out of a magazine. It was beautiful.
And after I finished discussing my business proposal with the very groggy Monica, it stayed that way for—let me see—about ten minutes.
Three days later, the place was an absolute wreck. My beautiful blue sofa was invisible under piles of fabric; the fruit bowl and cute counter accessories had been unceremoniously shoved aside to make room for my cutting mat, scissors, pins, and patterns; and the floor was so littered with stray thread that it looked like somebody had thrown a ticker tape parade in the living room.
I’d been sewing pretty much nonstop since getting off the phone with Monica, sleeping and eating only when I had to, not leaving the house except to walk Maisie. I was tired but still energized, thinking about how amazing it would be if I really could make this work. I’d already finished seven dresses and three skirts, each one a little more quickly than the one before, but there was still a lot to do. So I wasn’t exactly thrilled when I heard the doorbell ring—I didn’t have time for interruptions—and even less so after I opened the door.
“Oh. Luke. Hi.”
“Hi. I don’t want to disturb you. Just thought I’d drop by and say hello. I had some errands to run on this side of town,” he said, smiling and gesturing toward his white panel delivery truck, which was parked at the curb.
“Oh, well. That was nice of you.”
I stood there for a second, feeling awkward, wishing I hadn’t answered the door, wishing he’d go away. But then that Midwestern politeness that is woven into my DNA kicked in and I asked if he wanted to come in for a minute.
“Can’t. Thanks anyway,” he said. I tried not to look relieved. “But can you come out to the truck for a second? I’d like your opinion on something.”
I couldn’t imagine what he could possibly have in his truck that would require my approval, but how could I say no? After a moment of hesitation, I followed him to the curb and stood on the street while he rolled up the truck’s metal door.
“Well? What do you think?” he asked, waving his hand toward the compact but handsome farmhouse table standing in the middle of the truck bed, its light-honey finish fresh and gleaming.
“It’s gorgeous,” I said sincerely. “Who’s it for?”
“Well, that kind of depends. I won’t know for sure until I get your opinion.”
He hopped up into the truck, then turned around and reached out his hand to help me up. I grabbed it and climbed inside.
“Is it new?” I asked, walking around the table, admiring the pristine finish, the richly etched grain of the wood that shone through it.
“Yes and no. When I moved into my house, I found it in the garage. It’s good, solid oak, but there were about three different colors of paint on it. I stripped the paint, sanded the top, and refinished it. Do you like the color? I kept it nearly natural. I always think it’s nice to let the grain show through on old pieces like this.”
“Me too,” I said, running my hand over the tabletop. “So smooth. But it’s tall for a dining table, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “I put on new legs to make it counter height and redesigned the drawers underneath, added extra space to hold rulers, scissors, pins. Stuff like that.”
“So . . . it’s a craft table?” I asked, my heart beating a little bit faster.
“Yes, but also a dining table. See?” He pointed to some backless counter stools at the back of the truck. “When you’re done with your crafts or sewing or whatever, you just pull the stools out and you’ve got seating for six.”
He grabbed one of the stools and pushed it under the table. “They’re just the right size to fit underneath so they won’t get in the way when you’re working or take up extra floor space. I wish they swiveled,” he said. “But I knocked them together in kind of a hurry. Still, they’ll do the job.”
Yes. Yes, they would. But the table—that was what really intrigued me. My kitchen was teeny. Under normal circumstances, considering how little I cooked, that wasn’t a problem. But now trying to use that two foot by three foot counter as a place to cut out patterns was really slowing me down. A craft table like this one was exactly what I needed. In fact, it was almost exactly what I’d imagined having—someday, when I could find it and afford it.
But now, here it was in front of me, the very table I’d imagined, but much, much prettier. I’d have been satisfied with something assembled together with particleboard and elbow grease, an Ikea special, as long as it did the job. But this table was more than serviceable; it was an heirloom, something anyone would be proud to have in their home.
“How big is it?” I asked, my eyes glued to that beautiful piece of furniture.
“Forty-four by sixty inches,” he said. “Wider than the average dining table, so there’s plenty of room for crafts and cutting, but shorter, so it’ll fit in a small space. Say, an apartment or condo. Well? What do you think?”
“I think it’s fantastic,” I said, my voice almost a whisper. I looked up at him. “Luke, I don’t have enough money right now, but later . . . Do you think you could make another one of these? This table is perfect.”
“Sorry. Can’t do it,” he said, and my shoulders drooped with disappointment. “It’s a one-of-a-kind piece,” he explained, “custom-made for a very specific person—you.”
My head popped up. I stared at him doubtfully. I must have heard him wrong.
“Really. It’s for you.” When I didn’t respond, he said, “No kidding, Grace. And no cost. It’s a gift.”
“A gift? No,” I said. “You have to let me pay you, Luke. I’m kind of short right now, but maybe I can . . .”
I paused, thinking about my shaky finances and the giant project I was about to undertake, a project that might not see fruition for years, or ever. Oh, man. This really wasn’t the time for me to be buying anything new, especially a custom-made piece that probably ran into the thousands. But that table would really help speed up my production time. Plus—it was gorgeous.
I had to have it.
“How about . . . a hundred a month?” I asked hopefully, certain it wouldn’t be enough but knowing that was the most I could spare right now. “And more later, once my finances are a little more settled? Luke, I really, really love this table. It’s just what I need. See, I’m about to start a little—”
“No payments,” he said, cutting me off. “It’s a gift. And I already know why you need it now. That’s why I made it. Monica told me all about your new business and I think it’s great. I want to support what you’re doing.”
“Monica!” I exclaimed, instantly irritated. Of course. When she and Nan had come over for support group, I told her exactly the kind of table I wanted someday. And Monica, in turn, had told Luke. The snitch.
“Why is it whenever you pop into my life uninvited, Monica is always involved somehow?”
Luke frowned and scratched his ear. He looked like he was trying to keep himself from saying something he’d regret.
“Look, do you want the table or not?”
“Yes,” I said. “But only if—”
“No buts. And no payments,” he said, his eyes as serious as his voice sounded. “It’s a gift. I don’t want anything from you, Grace. No dancing, no coffee dates, no quid pro quo. Nothing. But either accept this as a gift or don’t accept it at all.”
I bit my lip, thinking things over. How could I accept something so expensive? He must have spent hours and hours on it? On the other hand, how could I say no? This was exactly what I wanted. And needed. It would make my work so much easier.
“Well? Do you want to help me haul this thing inside? Or do I drive back to my workshop and chop it up for firewood? Up to you, Grace.”
* * *
It’s a good thing I’m stronger than I look because that table, though compact in size, was really heavy. Luke said it was because good oak is a strong, dense wood.
While I carried the stools in from the truck, Luke reinstalled the drawers, finishing up just as I brought in the last two. I pushed them into place underneath the table.
“It’s perfect, Luke. Just perfect. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You don’t need to,” he said, putting his screwdriver back into the toolbox he’d brought with him, then closing the lid. “Well, I should get going.”
“Oh. Do you have to?” I asked, feeling awkward but also a little guilty. Just because he said I didn’t need to repay him didn’t mean I didn’t want to. It seemed rude to just take his table and close the door behind him. “You must be thirsty. Can I get you a glass of water? Coffee? Wouldn’t take me a minute to make some.”
“I’m good. Thanks anyway. I should get back to the shop. And out of your hair.”
“Oh,” I said. “Sure. I understand.”
“Unless,” he said, sounding a little bit hesitant, “is there something else you need, Grace? Something I can do for you?”
Was he serious? After everything he’d already done? And yet, the moment he said it, I realized there was something more I wanted Luke to do for me. In fact, the day before, even prior to him knocking on my door, I’d briefly considered calling to ask for his help but immediately rejected the idea. It would have been too awkward, especially after the way I’d brushed him off that last day in the coffee shop. Also, I wouldn’t have wanted him to get the wrong idea about why I was calling. But now, here he was, standing in my living room....
“Are you sure you don’t mind? Monica said it sounded good to her, but I’d like a second opinion. Since you’ve owned two businesses now—”
He grinned, “Yeah, but remember, that first one failed.”
“I know,” I said. “But I consider that a plus; you already know what doesn’t work. And you were a lawyer. I don’t want to keep you from your work, but . . .” I grabbed a stack of papers from the seat of the wicker-back chair. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Not a problem,” he said. “What are friends for?”
* * *
Thirty minutes, a bowl of ice cream, and two cups of French roast later, I sat down on one of my new stools, looking at Luke across the table, waiting to hear his verdict.
“Well? What do you think? Can it work?”
“Well, before we get into details,” he said, putting down his coffee cup, “I want to say how impressive this is. It’s hard to believe you’ve never written a business plan before.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Wow. You really sounded like a lawyer right there. Why do I feel a ‘but’ coming on?”
“Because you’re smart,” he laughed. “But honestly, Grace. I really am impressed. Before we get to the ‘buts,’ let’s discuss what’s good in your plan.”
“Okay.”
“To begin with, let’s talk about your mission statement—‘Twirl and Whirl Clothing Company merges fashion and philanthropy. When customers make a purchase from Twirl and Whirl, they will receive not only a fun, flirty, fashionable item of clothing, but also the satisfaction that comes from knowing a similar item will be donated to a needy woman in the local community.’ That’s really good,” he said, lowering the paper and looking me in the eye.
“I don’t know,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “Now that I’m hearing it out loud, it sounds kind of long. And there are too many words that start with F.”
“You can edit later if you want to,” he said, “but this is really just a roadmap, a way for you to figure out where you want to go and how to get there. The basic concept, connecting fashion with philanthropy, is genius. That feel-good angle will separate you from the competition.”
I nodded. “Plus, it’s a good thing to do. That’s the part that really has me excited.”
“And that comes through in your plan. This is something you feel really passionate about. And I can tell you from experience, that’s the only reason to start your own business.”
He paused and took another drink from his coffee cup.
“This is where the ‘but’ comes in, right?”
“This is where,” he said, putting down the cup. “Grace, it’s never a mistake to follow your heart, but be sure to bring your brain along.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning your projections are overly optimistic.”
I frowned and he lifted up his hand.
“Hang on,” he said. “Don’t get discouraged. It’s a workable plan—with some adjustments. Starting a business with zero capital means you have to watch every penny.”
“But it’ll hardly cost me anything to start,” I protested. “I already own the fabric, enough to make twenty-five dresses and thirty-five skirts. With the money I make from them, I can afford to buy more fabric and keep going.”
“But you have other costs,” he explained. “Getting a booth at the Saturday Market is a smart idea. The booth fee is fairly reasonable and you’ll be surrounded by shoppers who want handmade goods. But if you found somebody to share the space, you could cut that cost in half.”
“Oh. Good idea,” I said, wondering why I hadn’t thought of that myself. I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen from off the table and started scribbling notes. “What else?”
“Well, in general . . . I just think it’s going to take longer to turn a profit than you think it is. You’ll need outside income—”
“But that’s why I’m going to work two jobs,” I said, interrupting him. “I’ll sew during the day, wait tables at Café Allegro at night, and sell clothes on the weekend.”
“Right,” he said. “But living on tips is dicey. Until you know how much you’re really bringing in, I’d plan on picking up more hours.”
I thought about that for a second. Remembering my past waitressing experiences, I saw he had a point.
“Okay. I’ll ask Monica if I can work Saturday nights too. Tips should be better and I know she’s short on staff.”
“But that’s a lot of hours. Are you sure it won’t be too much for you?”
“Are you kidding?” I laughed. “When I was working for Gavin, seventy hours was a short week. One thing I’ll say for that job, it built up my stamina. And this time, I’ll be working for something I care about. I got this,” I assured him, adding another note to my list. “What else?”
“Right,” he said, and the way he said it made me know that he was preparing to tell me something I didn’t want to hear. “The thing is, Grace—donating a dress for every dress you sell? It’s a big-hearted idea. But it won’t work. If you’re serious about making this a viable business over the long haul, there’s just no way you can do it. At least not yet.”
This wasn’t something I wanted to hear. Being able to donate dresses was the whole idea behind the business, the thing that would set it apart from other companies, and the reason I wanted to do it in the first place.
Seeing the look on Sunny’s face when I gave her a pretty dress, made just for her, had somehow opened up my world, made me think that I really did have something to offer, something that mattered. I knew my company had to make a profit to make the idea viable, but donating a dress to a woman in need for every dress we sold, that was my dream.
“Yeah, and I get that,” he said when I finally took enough of a breath. “But you keep talking about what you want to do, and I’m telling you what you can do. If you’re serious about making that dream a reality—getting to the point where you can actually afford to donate thousands of dresses in a given year—then you need to plow your profits right back into the business. This can’t be a hobby, Grace. If you’re serious, you’re going to need to buy equipment, hire employees, rent warehouse space, build a website. . . .”
When I started arguing with him again, he raised his hand to cut me off and said, “Grace. Follow your heart, but bring your brain. That’s the only way this works. First make your company profitable, then make it philanthropic.”
I didn’t like hearing that. At. All.
But the look on Luke’s face told me he didn’t like saying it either. He wasn’t trying to squash my dream. He was just trying, honestly and at the risk of ticking me off, to give me his very best advice, based on his experience. I didn’t like it, but I’d be stupid not to listen.
“Okay,” I said at last, “thinking with my head and my heart—you said that the philanthropic part of the mission was what would help me stand out from the competition. So doesn’t eliminating that element also mean I’m eliminating a potential advantage in the market?”
“Well, yes. Potentially.”
“Then what about starting smaller? Donating one garment for every two sold.” He shook his head. “Four? Five? Ten?”
“How about every hundred.”
I grinned. “Okay, now you’re just being cheap. But, seriously, what if I use a percentage of each sale to make donated clothes? That could work, couldn’t it?”
He admitted that it could, but said the difference between success and a pipe dream would lay in figuring out the right percentages. After some discussion that sometimes verged on argument, we came up with a system of graduated donation levels that Luke thought could work—two percent of the first thousand, three percent for up to five thousand, five percent up to ten thousand, and so on, until the company was strong enough to support the one-to-one donation goal.
“But it’ll probably take five or six years,” he said. “Plus every ounce of energy you’ve got. And even then, it might not work. Are you sure you’re ready for that?”
Was I?
Five or six years was a long time. But, one way or another, those years were going to pass. Why not spend them doing something that mattered? Something I believed in? And sure, it was a long shot, I knew that. Even if I worked as hard as I knew how, the chances of my success were pretty slim. But, if I failed, at least I’d have failed trying to do something I believed in, right?
But it was a risk. The biggest risk I’d ever considered taking in my life. Was I ready? If Jamie had been there, sitting next to me, what would he say?
“Yes,” I said. “One hundred percent. All-in.”
I picked up my pen and looked at Luke.
“Now, what else?”