nineteen
I clutched my coffee and hoped the warmth from the cup would trigger some sort of relaxation response for my wired nerves. Earlier that morning, I’d arrived at the address James had texted after declining his offer to send a car and saying I would walk the five blocks instead. Hiring a car to drive five blocks? I could hear the sewing ladies cackle at such ridiculousness, and all of them were septuagenarians. Plus, a walk afforded me some time to take a few deep breaths and reorient myself to the city and its rhythm, the symphony of sound already in full voice before eight in the morning. I’d reached the address early and had walked right on by, not quite ready to face the moment without a little caffeine. I ducked into a café on the next block and had taken a few overzealous gulps of coffee on my way to the elevator. I sipped the last of my single-origin pour-over, relishing every drop, and waited to ascend to the fifth floor, one floor below the Saffron headquarters and the space James had allocated to Flyover.
The bell above the elevator door chimed, and the doors slid open to a light-filled loft. I stepped over the threshold and froze, taking it in. Soaring windows on three sides made the room feel like it was a sheer heartbeat away from the energy of the streets outside. Through one break in the buildings, I glimpsed a view of the triangular Flatiron Building, a mark that I was in the heart of the Garment District. I took one step into the room, and James looked up from a worktable to grin at me. He covered the space between us, and I could feel the room go quiet. James took my hands and kissed me on the cheek.
“Welcome to the international headquarters of Flyover, fashion’s newest coup and hottest place to work.”
A group of people behind James laughed appreciatively at his hype and I smiled at them. “Quite the vote of confidence,” I said to James. “But I do like the way you’re thinking.”
James gestured to the space. “What do you think? Will it do?”
I turned my head slowly, taking in the tall ceilings, the crisp, clean light, the long wall of exposed brick that displayed an outsize framed photo of the Manhattan skyline. “It’s fantastic,” I said.
“A far cry from the barn,” James said, met again with laughter. My smile remained, though the thought of Tucker and how hard he’d worked to get the barn ready for my work made the smile uneasy.
“The barn has its merits,” I offered weakly, but James had walked away from me and toward the group. They parted with knowing looks. Behind them stood a mannequin, the center focal point of the room, wearing a Flyover maxi dress. I felt a slow smile spread across my face as I crossed the room. I reached out to touch the fabric, let it fall between my fingers, seeing the perfectly even stitching along the bodice by Myrna, the beading along the waist the handiwork of one of the twins. I looked up at James, my eyes shining.
“It fits here,” I said, and he turned me around by the shoulders to greet the group of people standing in a loose semicircle around us.
“Grace Kleren, meet your team.”
I shook hands with Moira, my new assistant, who was so excited to meet me, I feared she would curtsy. Chase and Eleanor were next, my assistant designers hired, in Chase’s words, “to further the promise and vision” of my designs. Eleanor nodded in agreement, her pixie cut bobbing up and down above impressively wide shoulder pads.
“And these are the people behind the ledgers,” James said, gesturing with a flourish to the remaining three people in the room. “Max Grundwald, Suzanne Billings, and Michelle Epstein, I present Grace Kleren. You all should just group hug, because you’re about to make each other all sorts of money.”
Suzanne’s laugh was higher in pitch than her tall, willowy frame would have suggested. “To borrow a phrase, James, dear, you might be counting chickens before they hatch.”
All three investors looked at me with expectant faces, as if I must have felt most comfortable when farming metaphors were used. My smile was forced. “Yes, James, let’s talk chickens.”
He shrugged. “Oh, this crew is always the worry contingency. Don’t pay any attention to them.”
Max Grundwald crossed his arms on his chest and looked like he was weighing his words before he spoke. “I’m sure you’re a very capable designer, Miss Kleren. In fact, I’m positive of this because I showed your Etsy site to my wife, and she went hysterical. Hysterical, Miss Kleren. As in, she has worn one of your dresses to every one of our social events this spring.”
Michelle put a manicured hand on my arm and said confidentially, “The Grundwalds are the social event of every spring. So your dresses have been seen by everyone who is anyone in this city, Grace.”
Max mopped his brow with a polka-dot pocket square, though the room was cool. “So I know you can make pretty clothes and I see some huge growth potential with Saffron. However—”
“Max, honestly,” Suzanne interrupted with a roll of her eyes. “You’re going to scare the girl. Grace.” She looked at me squarely. “We are thrilled to partner with you. And we know you can do this. You’ve worked at Milano, which can be a veritable pressure cooker. I went to school with Nancy Strang. The woman is a beast.”
I was starting to get concerned. What was with all the concern, the preamble, the way Max couldn’t stop mopping his receding hairline?
“James?” I said by way of asking all my questions with one word. I searched his face.
“We need an entire line. Fast.”
I narrowed my eyes. “How fast?”
He winced. “We present to buyers two weeks from today?”
I inhaled sharply, one step away from shrieking. Two weeks?! I’d worked on my line for Milano for four months, and that had felt lightning fast. Two weeks was insane.
I could feel the eyes of the investors on me. From where they stood around the mannequin, Chase and Eleanor stopped and stared. Moira looked up from a spacious white desk near a window. I could feel my heart beating in my temples.
Two weeks. A full line. Insane.
“No problem,” I heard myself say with a confidence I was only beginning to feel. “This is our chance to go big fast, and we can’t afford to wait. We can do it.”
James was beaming at me as if I’d just gotten a gold star. “You see?” he said to all onlookers as he crushed me in a side hug. “Did I not tell you? This woman is fearless!”
I smiled as another round of handshaking commenced. Max produced a short document for me to sign in order to get on the payroll, and I barely registered his explanations of each paragraph, his overview of the non-compete clause, his assurances that a more complete (and lucrative, he added) contract would follow. I handed the form and his engraved pen back to Max, noting that my signature looked a bit wobbly. Fearlessness, I couldn’t help but notice, felt a very close cousin to wild-eyed panic.
As it turned out, Max Grundwald’s wife, Julia, was hysterical about my dresses.
“You. Have. A. Gift,” she was saying, her eyebrows wagging with meaning. “I’m telling you, Grace. You understand a woman’s body. And I’m talking women of all ages, not just the young chippies who can wear anything. Am I right?” Her laugh was nasal, and she turned to the two women completing our little conversation circle. The jazz combo was nearby, so I couldn’t catch the murmurs of agreement by Sophie and Joyce. Or was it Sophia and Joy? Or were those the last two people Julia had introduced and these two were Maria and Janice? I just kept smiling and hoped I wouldn’t be quizzed later on.
“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.