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 hydrangeas 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.