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 uninterested 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.”
Gigi was holding the phone far too close to her face, but I could still make out the disapproval there.
“I suppose she brought up those G-strings again,” she said with a huff. “The woman is going to careen into her grave without a shred of dignity left.”
I grinned. “It’s so good to see you and hear you. Though I can’t actually see you.” I stifled a giggle, knowing this was thin ice. “Would you maybe pull back a bit on the phone? You’re coming in hot over here.”
“Is this better?” She moved it all right, but to the left, so now all I could see was one eye and one ear and a tuft of hair.
“Much better,” I said, knowing when I was beat. “How’s it going, Gigi? Everyone doing all right there?”
She nodded. “We’re great. Myrna’s a little high-strung about all those orders that keep coming to the Googlemail you set up for us, but we’re doing our best to keep up. I just hope folks don’t mind waiting a bit.” An offscreen Goldie hollered back to Gigi, “You tell Grace that Myrna has no right to be high-strung. She just paid off her house with her new fancy job at Flyover!” Gigi turned away from the phone to tell Goldie to hush and took stock of the group behind her. “I hope it’s all right with you, sweetie, but I’ve taken the liberty to hire some more seamstresses. Irma and Gert are from First Methodist, and I nabbed Shirley from Silver Creek Reformed. They’re all hard workers and are picking things up quick. That will help with the lag time.”
My mind was racing and I felt the skin at the back of my neck shiver with a new, potentially fantastic idea. First Methodist, Silver Creek Reformed. “Gigi,” I said slowly while the puzzle pieces started to fit, “you might very well be a genius.”
“Oh, give me a break,” she said, before adding, “it’s about time you noticed. What’d I do?”
“You might have just solved the problem that I’ve been turning over and over in my head for days.” I stood up, brushed grass hurriedly off my tush and legs, and began to pace the little clearing. “Our orders are actually going to get even more insane within the next few weeks,” I said, head down as I walked, knowing that Gigi wasn’t watching anyway. FaceTime was beyond our capabilities for the moment. “Lots of orders, and by that I mean thousands, Gigi.”
“Thousands? Good gracious,” she said, surprise and pride in her voice. “You must be the toast of the town out there, Grace. I’m so happy for you.”
“Thank you,” I said, mind still reeling. “I’m happy for us, Gigi, and I have been racking my brain, trying to figure out how to keep up with the demand. If we don’t keep up, if we can’t show that we can handle such rapid growth, all our work might be for nothing. Everything can tank just as fast as it rises around here.”
“Well, I do have those three new women,” Gigi said, and I could hear her wheels clicking. “But that won’t be enough to help with such a huge increase.”
“Exactly,” I said, starting to hop a little as I walked. “That’s why you’re a genius. You already did what we need to do again, just on a larger scale.” I stopped talking and looked at the phone. I could see most of her face. “First Methodist is just the beginning, Gigi. What we need is a whole network of First Methodists and Silver Creek Reformeds—a network of ladies across Iowa who know their stuff and are ready to help this thing take off.”
Gigi’s face lit up. “A network of sewing clubs.”
“Yes. And I think we should start with churches.”
She nodded, convinced. “Absolutely. Every small town around here has three or four groups just like ours, women who have been sewing for their families and communities for decades. They’re very experienced and very good.”
“And they will be well paid for their experience,” I said firmly. “I want them to know that from the first. This is not just about Flyover. This is about breathing new life into communities that need a lift. I really believe in this, Gigi.” I found my throat constricting with sudden emotion, surprising me.
“I can see you do,” she said softly.
“No, you can’t,” I said, light laughter filling my chest. “You can’t see me at all when you hold the phone that close.”
“I sure as heck can,” she said, all bristly. “And I’m going to finish saying what I started, even though you’re being difficult.” She paused and pulled the phone back, too far this time, but I could still hear her. “Thank you for thinking this way, Gracie. Your mom and dad would say it if they were here, but since they’re not, I will. I’m awfully proud of who you are.”
I swallowed hard. “Thank you, Gigi.”
She waited and it looked like she was weighing whether or not to say what was on her mind. After a beat, she said, “When’s the last time you spoke to Tucker, honey?”
I took a deep breath and let it out in a rush, not ready to give up the heady victory of a problem solved and exchange it with feelings still bruised and tender. I shook my head. “It’s been a while,” I said, wishing now we were not using FaceTime and that she couldn’t see my expression. It was easier to fake cheeriness when it only involved my voice. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s all right, I suppose,” Gigi said, her voice sounding pinched.
“What’s that face for?”
“He may have been seen skulking around town with that Natalie girl last weekend,” Gigi said, apologetic.
My heart stopped for a moment.
“Oh.”
The screen panned sharply upward and I heard Gigi calling across the room. “I have to go, sweetheart. Bev has a bobbin issue.” She lowered her voice. “Again. The woman attracts calamity, I swear.”
Our good-bye was cut short as Gigi pushed to end the call abruptly. I stood in the clearing, feeling the breeze cool the sweat on my skin and raise a crop of goose bumps on my arms.
I’d wanted to know, I realized with a heavy weight settling in my chest. I’d really wanted to know how he was doing. I walked slowly back to the path and heard a sigh escape my lips as I moved onward, head down, no particular route in mind. I missed him. The sky here was wide enough, I’d stopped long enough, it was quiet enough, and I couldn’t escape what was true. I missed Tucker. And Tucker, I realized anew, my feet hitting the pavement with increased speed as I pushed away the thoughts with a stubbornness I was remembering better with each step, Tucker wasn’t anywhere close to me. In fact, Tucker Van Es was worlds away.