twenty-five
I sat at the worktable, bare feet tucked under me, and stared at the spreadsheets littered across the desktop, the only sound the hum of the air-conditioning that cycled on and off, dispelling the muggy heat of outside.
Saturday night meant a quiet office, which was just what I needed. I’d tried figuring out the problem at hand while sitting at the makeshift desk in my pied-à-terre, but to no avail. All I wanted to do in that cozy space was sleep the week away, and that wouldn’t solve the issues I was facing on the papers in front of me.
The day before, I’d been quick to encourage Chase and Eleanor to enjoy their weekend. They’d put in plenty of overtime throughout the last days and weeks, and I was determined not to have Flyover become Milano, Part Two. That I myself was never more than a breath away from the office was a separate issue. This time, the company was mine, the direction was mine, the work was mine. I needed to be there. The other designers, however, needed a break, a long breakfast at a sidewalk café, a walk along the Hudson, a movie or play or show. I would not repeat the way I’d been required to sacrifice my life at Milano. Flyover would be a more humane place to work, even if it killed me.
I chuckled at the irony as I ran my fingers through my unwashed hair and reflected that it just might do that, kill me. I was wrestling with how to pull off this feat of freelancing grannies. I had Gigi’s lists before me. She had outlined names of local congregations and the women who had agreed to help us out. I had figured the cost of monthly payroll, and while it was more than I had anticipated, I was certain it was the right thing to do. People were always the costliest part of any successful business, but they were also what made a business thrive. The women in Iowa were the heart of this thing, and I was determined to make it work for them and for their communities.
I was just struggling with the details of how.
How would I manage payroll in a way that didn’t make me go insane? How would I structure the pay schedules of the original six women, knowing they were the ones who would bear the most responsibility while I was so far away? How would I coordinate the purchase and regular delivery of new equipment and supplies to all these churches, some of them over an hour away from Silver Creek and none of them near a large city? The logistics were overwhelming me, and I ran my hand through my hair again, feeling it stay in an upright position even when my hand dropped back to my side.
It was after eight, so the light coming from the windows had just started to soften with the early dusk of a summer’s night. I loved summer, or at least I usually loved summer, when I was able to be outside more than I had during the last month. The days were so long, I was just now reaching for the lamp on my desk to switch it on for extra light. Hunched over the papers, I glanced up only briefly when I heard the elevator doors open. James walked toward me with a brisk, efficient stride. He arrived at my desk, but I kept my eyes on the papers, feeling close to a breakthrough and not wanting to interrupt my train of thought.
“Here late again?” James said, dropping a neat stack of paper on my desk. “These are the latest orders. I thought you’d want to see where we stand.” He moved around to my side of the desk to see what I was seeing, but recoiled slightly. “Good grief, woman. You smell like a locker room.”
I made a face. “Thanks. You really know how to charm a girl.”
He tugged at some sketches that were peeking out under my spreadsheets. I kept working on numbers, crunching one series over and over, trying to make them work as I tweaked. Maybe we could hire a runner, a high school kid who could drive afternoons and weekends and deliver fabric and embellishments and other supplies to towns outside of Silver Creek. Maybe that would work more efficiently than UPS, and we could add another job or two to the Silver Creek community. I could ask Gigi. Or Gigi could ask Tucker, I thought with a dip in my heart. Tucker would know the right person, but I wasn’t going to be the one to ask. The thought of even pushing his number on my phone caused a sharp pain to ripple through my gut, which was currently empty after hours of neglect.
James let out a low whistle, startling me from my thoughts. I’d nearly forgotten he was still there. I glanced at his face and saw he was shaking his head.
“What?” I asked. I grabbed the sketches, defensive. “These are rough. Don’t judge.”
He shook his head. “If those are rough, I can’t wait to see the finals. Grace, are you even kidding me?” He pointed to the papers in my hand. “These are extraordinary. They’re fresh and beautiful and on trend but also iconic in a way. They remind me of . . .” He paused, searching for the word. “They remind me of all the things I like the most.”
I laughed at the lunacy of that compliment. “Wow,” I said, laying the sketches on top of the numbers sheets and giving them a critical glance. “I feel like that is a gross exaggeration, but I’m tired and hungry, so I’ll let you get away with it.”
James took his phone from his pocket and started photographing the sketches.
“Hey, now, wait a minute,” I said, grabbing for his phone, but he moved too quickly and finished the shot. “I’m not done! You can’t have documentation of a work in progress. That’s just mean.”
“Give me a break,” he said, teasing in his eyes. “It’s not like they’re going on Facebook. I just want to look at them later and remember the level of awe I maintain for you and your design prowess.”
I put both hands on my hips, staring him down.
He shrugged. “Also, I want to show them to my new favorite photographer so she can be thinking of where we will shoot your first catalog.”
“My first catalog.” I said the words in the same voice I had reserved for Justin Timberlake as a tween. “Sounds lovely.”
James took the pencil out of my grip and laid it down on the desk. “Yes, but if I might remind you, you don’t smell lovely. No offense.”
“Offense taken.”
He put an arm around my shoulders and guided me to my feet. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to leave this place because we both need to remember what the world looks like outside these walls. We’re trying to clothe that world, after all, so think of it as market research.”
I mumbled a protest. “But I’m so close to figuring out logistics. I can’t leave now.”
“You can and you will.” He was already walking ahead of me and turning off lights. “Come to my place. I can justify having a personal chef for once since we’ll be there to actually eat what Jean-Luc cooks.”
“Jean-Luc?” I asked, draping my bag across my shoulders and feeling muscles creak as I joined him at the elevator. “What happened to Noemi?”
James sniffed. “Noemi became too fond of borscht and not fond enough of flavor. She went on an anti-salt kick and we had to part ways.” He led the way into the elevator and I had to scurry to get in before the door closed.
“You’re kind of pushy about this,” I said, trying to sound miffed but already wondering what Jean-Luc would cook up for us and if the dining room chairs in James’s apartment were as luxuriously comfortable as they’d looked.
He punched the code to the underground parking garage. “I’m entitled to be pushy. I’m your boss.”
I frowned at him. “Untrue. We’re business partners.”
He shrugged. “Semantics. But fine. Yes, partners. And as your business partner, I’m going to have to insist you eat. And brush your teeth.”
I gasped. “I have deliciously fresh breath. I am compulsive about it, and you know it.”
“Point in your favor,” he said, and his grin was wolfish as I slipped past him and walked toward his polished Mercedes. We ducked into the smooth leather seats and James started the engine, igniting it to a gentle purr and reversing out of his parking spot in one quick motion. I watched out the spotless windshield as we surfaced onto the city street, alive with weekend traffic and lights coming on to illuminate another steamy summer evening. I closed my eyes as James guided us to Upper Manhattan, ready to move forward, onward, upward, past persistent thoughts of a boy in Iowa who, we had agreed, was best to forget.