twenty-seven
I clutched my bag to my chest and pushed past the elevator doors as soon as they opened wide enough to let me through to the lobby. I must have looked wild-eyed because James’s doorman snapped his head in my direction, worry knitting the brow of his otherwise smooth, clean-shaven head.
“Madam, are you all right?” he asked, taking a step toward me.
I looked at him blankly, trying to locate an appropriate response but only able to blink, stuck on his question.
“Shall I call Mr. Campbell?”
“No,” I snarled, finding my voice. Then, more carefully, “No, thank you.” My eyes darted to the door and I started to walk.
I stepped onto the sidewalk and headed south on Central Park West, my teeth grinding and my legs shaking as I walked. I would not sit, I would not stop, I would not be still, not until I’d put as much distance as possible between myself and that man.
A cab passed, slowing down like a visual question mark. Did I want a ride? I shook my head and waved the driver on. I walked faster, feeling like someone was chasing me but knowing it was only my desire to escape the conversation I’d just endured. After I’d ruined James’s rug, not without a little stab of delight, I remembered taking the napkin offered to me by Jean-Luc and then backing up slowly until I bumped into the front door. I fumbled for the knob and I must have found it and opened it, made my way to the elevator. All I could picture now as I hurried along the sidewalk was the look of disgust on James’s face. I’d felt the same revulsion, of course, though not because of any spill to clean up. Unless you counted my entire life, I thought bitterly.
Anger bloomed in my chest as I walked, passing the elegant buildings that faced the west side of Central Park. Burgeoning flowerpots, doormen in smart uniforms, tasteful lighting illuminating pristine, monogrammed awnings over spotless entryways—I wondered if all the beauty, all the perfection hid the same emotional bankruptcy I’d just witnessed in James’s penthouse.
How could he do that to me? I fumed as I walked. What kind of a person was able to fleece someone he supposedly cared about and then calmly shove bites of raspberry tart into his face as if we were merely talking about the weather or the Yankees’ hope for a pennant this year? He didn’t even see me, I thought, adrenaline shooting through my veins as a ferocious additive to the anger already there. He’d never had any real commitment to business partnership, much less to helping Silver Creek or the sewing ladies or to the idea of infusing life back into struggling economies in small towns. He wanted my ideas, my story, just to get the ball rolling with Hedda and her cronies, and then he was done with me. I’d served my purpose, the momentum was sufficiently built, and it didn’t matter to him whether I stayed on board or not.
I thought of James’s excitement over the new sketches he’d seen in the office just that evening, of the photographs of those sketches that were on his phone right that second. I had to pause, gripping a stately spear on a wrought-iron fence.
James had taken it all.
I was breathing hard, still clutching the fence, as I felt the full weight of my failure start to descend.
James had taken it all. But I was the fool who had let him do it.
I slowly loosened my grip on the fence and resumed my walk, the urgency gone from my step. I don’t know when the tears started to fall, but by the time I noticed, my cheeks were wet and my palms hurt from the fingernails I was gouging into their tender skin. I’d let this happen. James was a selfish, manipulative, ego-stroking, elitist piece of work, but I had played right into what he wanted. I’d been so eager to prove myself, so eager to be at the top, so eager to let the fashion world know I was someone to watch, I’d pushed everything else out of the way. I’d ignored common sense, signing those papers and assuming the greater business world operated with the same honesty and integrity as Gigi and her Silver Creek neighbors. I swallowed hard, thinking of how foolish I’d been. I’d dug into my work here, eyes on the prize of recognition and respect and, yes, hoping to help along the folks back home, but always finding an excuse to not actually call those folks, reach out to them, thank them for the work they were doing on my behalf.
And then there was Tucker. A sob escaped my throat, and a man passing took a deep drag on his cigarette and quickened his pace, not looking up to make eye contact with the crazy woman who was stumbling past Central Park after midnight, whimpering like a hurt animal. Tucker, the one who had risked feeling for me again, who had dropped what he was doing to help me build the first foundational steps of this business, who had driven to Omaha on a whim, transformed an old barn into a beautiful work space—that Tucker had been discarded when things got a little complicated. I shuddered as I cried, wondering if I’d made Tucker feel as easily dismissed as James had made me feel tonight.
I walked block after block, not registering where I was, just following the well-lit path in front me, letting it take me past grand apartment buildings on my right, the long expanse of the park on my left. At some point, the apartments gave way to other buildings, businesses closed at the late hour, restaurants still alight with candles and conversation, a club with strains of a jazz standard making it past the darkened door and into the street. My thoughts were muddled, as I thought of Tucker, Gigi, the sewing ladies, the people who were rooting for me back home, and even some who were not. I thought of Natalie, sure that Tucker would have been better off just marrying her straightaway and avoiding the mess I’d created for him and the town he loved. I thought of Hedda and Chase and Eleanor and Moira, of all the people in New York who would wonder about what went wrong with Grace Kleren but who would move on and forget within a week’s time. I thought of Isa and Luca and the friends I needed but never made time for anymore.
It was a mess, all of it, and I kept moving as I let the mess overwhelm me.
When I finally paused, forced to acknowledge the blisters forming on both of my feet, I took stock of where I was and my eyes widened, realizing how far I’d wandered. I was in Midtown, miles away from James’s apartment, standing near the entrance to Rockefeller Center. My eyes landed on the bronze statue of Atlas that guarded the courtyard, and I sighed, making my way to sit on the ledge that surrounded the sculpture. I sat down heavily, fully identifying with the stupidity of the Greek god enshrined and immobile above me. Muscles or not, I thought wryly, it’s not going to end well for you, dude. Holding the world on your shoulders is a fool’s errand. I should know. I’d tried and just tonight been fully demoted to can’t-hold-anything status.
I sat with my head in my hands, spent but dry-eyed. I felt an exhaustion I’d never felt before, one that dove deep, past my bones and into my heart. I was so, so tired. Tired of running after approval, tired of running after praise, tired of running after a way to prove myself to my colleagues, my employers, my hometown. Tired of messing up all the things that should be held most precious and dear, like my relationships with Gigi and the sewing girls. Tucker. Tired of missing my mom and dad, I realized with a jolt, and tired of pretending I didn’t. I needed help. Life and all its layers and complexities and questions and heartache were too hard.
I shivered as the tears fell, hot and slow-motion this time. All the initial rage of the evening had diminished, leaving only sadness and loss. So much running, so much movement, and none of it had gotten me anywhere I really wanted to stay.
I looked up, letting the tears fall into my lap, and took in a sharp breath. St. Patrick’s Cathedral faced me, illuminated and still, its spires reaching up into the dark night. I took in its grandeur, its steadfast beauty, witness to so many years, so many weddings, funerals, joys, sorrows. I suddenly realized what I had to do and who was waiting for me.
I stood and started to walk, not feeling the blisters I’d been stopped by only minutes before. I walked, my eyes on the cathedral, my heart full and aching as I made my way across the street. I startled when a car swerved around me. The driver honked and some remote part of my brain reminded me to be careful, but I only walked more quickly, stepping up the curb and crossing the distance between the sidewalk and the front steps of the church. I stopped at the bottom step and breathed. Tilting my head back, I could just glimpse the top of the building. I felt tears stream down the sides of my face, into my hair, and I closed my eyes. I’d been running so long and it was time to stop.
I took the steps carefully, deliberately, and I kept going until I was standing directly in front of the massive doors. I leaned forward, my forehead resting on the cool bronze surface. I opened my arms, spreading my fingers and gripping the doors, willing them to hold me up, stay where they were, because I was finally here and I didn’t want to move. It had taken me ten years to reach this place, this moment, and all I wanted was to step into a love that was ferocious and strong. A love that would forgive and bind up the broken pieces. Not a brokenness, I realized with a hitch in my sobs, that God created but one that He was waiting and able to heal.
Tears dropped onto the pavement below. Leaning into the doors, desperate for the sweet sound of grace, forgiveness, and tender mercy, I closed my eyes and tried what Tucker had defined as prayer. I started the conversation.
“God,” I whispered, my words catching on tears. “I’m here.”