Heart Land Read online

  The responsible thing to do would have to wait one more day.

  I shook my head but smiled the answer to his invitation. “You make it tough for a girl to say no.”

  He laughed. “That was the plan, anyway. Shall we?”

  James’s penthouse apartment was a thing of beauty. I heard my breath stutter when I entered the spacious foyer that opened into a perfectly appointed living room and a wall of French doors that led to the balcony. I set my bag carefully on an inlaid wood table in the front hall, unable to toss it down roughly as James had done with his car keys, a quick, careless shedding onto a table so elegant and refined, it would have made my mother swoon. I followed James through the pristine living room, barely letting my full weight settle into the plush carpet as I stepped. We reached the kitchen and he directed me to a stool alongside a sprawling marble island. I perched gingerly and took in the soaring windows, the backsplash made of a glazed tile that screamed “imported and rare,” appliances that looked untouched and prohibitively expensive. The thought came unbidden that I was a long way from the kitchen of my youth, with its Formica and lemon dish soap and copious amounts of tater tots and hotdish.

  “I wish my mom and dad could have had soup in a penthouse apartment in the Upper West Side,” I said, and immediately regretted it. My guard must have dropped and I scrambled to pull it back up over my face and my feelings, but James looked at me with curiosity in his eyes.

  “Are they fond of New York?”

  “Something like that,” I said, busying my hands with the linen napkin James had folded and set before me. I pushed away the image of my mom as she talked about her dream to travel, her hope to visit all the most fascinating cities, New York at the top of that long list, and to take me and even my begrudging homebody dad along. I swallowed hard, not wanting to think about plans cut short and words cut short, midconversation. I cleared my throat, too loudly in the quiet room, and I did what I’d long ago become a master at doing: I switched the subject.

  “Can I help?”

  He shook his head, a smile playing at his lips. “No, but thank you for offering.”

  I watched as James turned down the burner under a bright blue Le Creuset, and stifled a grin at how awkwardly he held a wooden spoon. This was a man who had been raised with nannies and personal chefs and all the perks old, independent wealth could offer. A wooden spoon, I was sure, was not a familiar weapon.

  I smiled as he stirred, feeling a sudden tenderness toward a man who usually projected the confidence that came with all the framed diplomas and signed celebrity photos hanging on his office walls, a silent, powerful witness to stories he could tell.

  “Thanks for asking me over,” I said, inhaling deeply the intoxicating smell of garlic and tomatoes. “You were right. I needed to eat and to take a break.”

  James shook his head. “Tell me about it. This week has been crazy. I’ve clocked in far more hours in the office than out.”

  “The fall campaign has to be sapping you as much as it is us underlings.” I winked.

  “Ah, but you’re an underling on her way up, right?” James left the stove to dim the overhead chandelier and reached to light three candles on a hammered bronze tray sitting on the island between us. Dishing up two bowls of soup, he set them on plates and tucked generous slices of bread next to the steaming bowls. He placed my dinner in front of me before lowering onto the bar stool next to mine. We ate in silence for a bit, the warm soup filling my mouth with heat and comfort and a riot of flavor. I murmured my approval and James nodded. I looked at him. The candlelight flickered, casting soft light on his face.

  James shook his head and sighed. “This brings me back,” he said, pointing to the soup with the end of his spoon. “Growing up, I had this phenomenal nanny, Amelia. She was with our family from the time I was a toddler to when she left to go back home to Italy when I was twelve. She made a soup just like this, and she would let me sit at the kitchen counter while she cooked.” He took another slurp, and I had to bite back a smile at seeing him so lost in a good memory that he forgot his normally particular manners. “I’ve been trying to get Amelia’s food back in my kitchen since the day she left. This is pretty close.” He smiled at me, suddenly bashful. “Sorry. Little detour down memory lane there.”

  I shook my head. “Not at all. It sounds like Amelia was beloved.”

  “Absolutely,” he said after draining his bowl. “She was like a second mom to me. First mom, maybe. My own mother is very, how should I put it?” He tilted his head in thought. “Efficient? Professional?”

  I winced. “Sounds like the perfect administrative assistant.”

  His laugh was wry. “She certainly employed a slew of those over the years, and most of them left before she could commit their first names to memory.” He sounded more amused than embittered. “But my mom did do an exceptional job vetting nannies, and Amelia was a total gem. In fact, she’s the one who inspired my interest in fashion and design.” He sliced two more pieces of focaccia and set them on our plates. “Amelia loved well-made clothes, beautiful things, rich color. We would make things together on her sewing machine: costumes, forts, you name it. She helped me realize I wanted to work in the fashion world and that I would need to be the black sheep of the Campbell family.” He grinned and lifted his slice of bread to toast Amelia’s wisdom. “My mom wasn’t quite as big a fan of Amelia after that.”

  I laughed. “Well, one can hardly blame her. We didn’t exactly choose the stablest of professions.”

  He leaned toward me, dabbing his napkin on the corner of his mouth, excitement in his eyes. “Speaking of our dubious career choice, tell me about tomorrow. I’m assuming this is your last night as an underling?”

  I inhaled a deep breath and let it escape, feeling the butterflies revisit my stomach when I thought about the next day’s event. Each year Nancy held an open call for junior designers to present their work and ideas to her for upcoming lines. I’d presented in previous years, and I’d received positive feedback, but I knew this year was different. This year would change everything. I could feel it in a way I hadn’t before. And after six years working a job I could do with my eyes closed, the emotional stakes felt weightier than ever. “Yes,” I said. “I hope. I mean, I’m sure.” I sat up straighter in my chair. “I’m totally ready. I’ve been prepping for months. Years, really. I’m going to walk in there and show Nancy what I’ve got.”

  “Tell me. Spare no detail,” James said, his focused attention pushing a shot of adrenaline through my veins. James knew about The Dream because he nurtured a similar one. He was much further along in his pursuit than I. In fact, considering his pedigree, he was probably further along than I when he was still in diapers and jiggling to the Wiggles with his nanny. He’d attended Harvard Business School as a nod to the three generations of Campbell alumni before him, but James knew from the start, despite rumblings of concern from his father and grandfather, that he wanted to work in the fashion industry. Even with his cushy legacy, James was a hard worker, having made head of department at Milano just one year out of HBS. And he wasn’t stingy with his success. He was very encouraging to me and to the other employees under him. Isa had been quick to train a wary eye on James, certain a man with his background could never understand the plight of an average girl working her way up. She’d certainly told me so on multiple occasions. But I’d found him to be generous with his success, the boss who was eager to share the glory with his team, the type who cheered others on instead of tripping them on their way up.

  I took stock of his face, his interested gaze, and I settled into my chair. The soup, the warm bread, the coziness of the candlelight were making me feel relaxed and perfectly at home, within a shelter from my rough day and from the gathering chill of an early spring evening outside. A slow smile forming, I started in with a description of the line I was going to present the following day. I was midway through explaining an evening gown for our Met Gala line, ridiculously perfect in emerald satin with han
d beading along the waist, when I realized James wasn’t listening anymore. He was staring at my mouth but I knew it wasn’t in an effort to understand my reasoning for dropping the neckline on the gown.

  “You look stunning,” he said into my ear, his lips brushing my cheek.

  A shiver made slow and steady progress from my neck downward.

  “I should go,” I said quietly. “I need to be up early tomorrow.”

  “I do too,” James said, moving slowly toward me as he closed his eyes.

  I pulled away. “James,” I said, one hand on his chest. I marveled at how sure I sounded when I was having to make a Herculean effort to stop looking at James’s lips. Your boss, I reminded my head and my heart and my lips. This man is handsome and charming and he fed you homemade focaccia, but he is also your boss. “This could get complicated.”

  He looked at me, long enough for me to feel studied. “We have feelings for each other,” he finally said. “That feels pretty uncomplicated to me.”

  I swallowed hard. “Thank you,” I said, my hand pulling back from his chest. “For dinner. It was everything I wanted my first personal chef experience to be.” My smile was sincere. “I’ve wondered about this.” I pointed to him, to me. “About us. Believe me, I have.” I shook my head slowly, my eyes on his. “But I think we’d better hit the pause button. Tomorrow might be just another day for you but it isn’t for this girl.”

  I waited while he ran a hand over his face and saw the reluctant smile that was appearing there. I pushed my stool back from the counter. “Let’s plan to celebrate tomorrow. After I knock it out of the park and Nancy begs me to be a lead designer at Milano and gives me a raise that will make me tear up every time I see my paycheck.”

  James took my hand. He kissed it slowly but stood up. “That sounds just about perfect.” He pulled me to him, my hand still at his lips.

  My heart was galloping fast enough to make its pulse heard in my ears.

  “Tomorrow, then,” he said, his voice low.

  I nodded and moved back, taking my first steps toward the door. “Tomorrow.” I smiled and felt his eyes follow me as I walked to the door and into the quiet of the hallway. I was shaking slightly as I turned. I shook my head, laughing at his exaggerated forlorn expression, framed in the doorway where he was still leaning. I could get used to this, I thought as the elevator doors closed on the view of James, his eager attention, a framed view of luxury and marked success. My stomach fluttered as the elevator rushed me down ten floors to the city I knew and, I decided anew as I stepped under the tailored black awning and onto the sidewalk, the city I was finally poised to conquer.

  two

  My phone alarm must have been ringing forever because it was close to six when I forced my eyelids open and realized *NSYNC wasn’t actually singing “Bye Bye Bye” at my thirteenth birthday party, as they had been moments ago in my dream. I fumbled around until Justin and Joey became louder and I located the phone to shut it off. After a few moments of silence, the inky blackness of the room beckoning me back to deep sleep, I sat up with a jolt of recognition and remembered: today was Nancy Day.

  I threw off the covers, my feet hitting the worn wood floors of my studio apartment. I groped in the dark, fingers outstretched, until I found the bedside lamp. The light cast long shadows in the room, and I rubbed my eyes, still swollen and heavy from sleep. My meeting with Nancy was scheduled for eight sharp, and I pushed myself up to a wobbly standing position, mindful that there would be no fuzzy socks or coffee over the Times this morning. Straight to the shower and straight to the rest of my life.

  A half hour later, showered, makeup on, and hair coaxed into long waves, I rounded the corner to my tiny kitchen and tapped my feet impatiently while I waited for the coffee to brew and a bagel to toast. Still munching on the bagel, I tiptoed across the cold floor to my closet, pulling my robe tight around me as I walked. I passed the framed black-and-white photo that stood on the bookshelf near the kitchen, and I stopped, unable to ignore the image. I picked up the photo and felt my heart rise in my throat. My mom and dad, laughing at something the little girl in their laps said or did the moment before the shutter snapped shut. I closed my eyes, wishing for the millionth time I could call them, talk with them, relate to them every detail of what I was about to do and hear them cheer me on. I set down the photo gently, a thought lingering that I could call Gigi, that she would likely have the right words to say or at least make me laugh while she looked for them. No time, I assured myself, and instead I reached for a new dress I’d just finished working up a few days prior. I unwrapped it gently from the hanger and felt the black fabric run through my hands before slipping it on. I tugged up the exposed side zipper and took a step back, narrowing my eyes at my full-length reflection. I nodded, satisfied. It was perfect. Stunning and chic with just the right amount of edge. And it did what great clothes were meant to do: it made me feel beautifully ready for anything.

  Pleased with myself, I threw on a red lip and grabbed my bag, still holding the overdrawn account notice within.

  “Not for long,” I said out loud, squaring my shoulders before letting the heavy door swing shut behind me.

  The waiting atrium for Nancy Strang’s office was roughly eighteen times larger than my entire cubicle five floors below. I sat on the edge of one of the midcentury modern chairs that lined the wall and tried against all odds to relax. I’d been waiting close to a half hour, and all the cool and confident self-talk I’d been spouting in my head all morning (and out loud during the empty elevator ride up) had dissipated into fragmented, nervous thoughts. Did I have all of my notes? I checked again. Yes. Design boards? Yes. USB for the digital part of the presentation? Yes. Index cards in my pocket with bullet points in case I got lost or panicked? Yes, yes, yes, and yes. I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, my eyes on Buckley, Nancy’s admin. He sat at a circular desk in the middle of the large room, his blank gaze trained on a computer screen.

  “Busy day?” I said aloud. I was dying to ask just how many hopeful designers were presenting to Nancy today, but I didn’t know if Buckley would appreciate such a direct question.

  He didn’t even look away from the screen. “Not any busier than the other three hundred and sixty-four.”

  “Right,” I said. “I’m sure you see plenty of traffic up here. All sorts, probably. The hopeful, the shamed, the stylish, the dowdy looking for inspiration. Maybe a celebrity or two.” I stopped abruptly, Buckley’s disdainful expression making me bite my lower lip to stop the flow of words coming out of my mouth. It was the stress. Stress made me revert to my roots, chatting up the people around me as if I were not in a Manhattan fashion house but instead still in the farmers’ co-op in Silver Creek, Iowa, sharing bad coffee and town gossip over a linoleum-topped table. I tried smiling at Buckley and biting my lip at the same time but was fairly sure the end result was more like a grimace.

  He spoke quietly into his headset and then looked at me. “Ms. Strang will see you.” Turning back to his screen, he added, “She prefers a less-is-more approach when it comes to words. Maybe tuck that little hint into your back pocket.”

  I nodded and stood, gathering my presentation materials and new resolve. I pushed open the towering white door into Nancy’s office and was struck immediately by the expansive windows offering a stunner of a Midtown view. I hadn’t seen this much of New York from an aerial perch since I was a tourist on the top of Rockefeller Center. I cleared my throat and walked toward the view and Nancy, who sat behind a long Lucite desk.

  I offered my hand. “Ms. Strang, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  She offered a small smile. Nancy was a petite woman, seemingly at odds with such vaulted ceilings and expansive views. She did not compete but she sure did fill the space with her direct gaze, not to mention a formidable reputation. This was Nancy’s twenty-fifth year at Milano, and the years before those had been spent resurrecting Gucci from a post-eighties slump. Nancy Strang was a force, and to the out
side world at least, it appeared that everything she touched in the fashion industry turned instantly to retail gold.

  “Grace,” she said. Her close-cropped black hair was a trademark, as were the round, colored frames on her glasses. The color changed with the season, and today the frames were a bold spring green. “Welcome. If you don’t mind, we’ll just skip the chitchat and get right to the business at hand. I’m sure you are well prepared for this meeting.”

  I stood in silence for a beat before realizing she would not be saying any more. I cleared my throat and spread out my design boards on the easels provided. Turning back to Nancy, I began my rehearsed intro.

  “Winter. A blanket of fresh snow, the stark beauty of leafless trees, the long angles of early twilight . . . Winter is a distinct mix of minimalism and indulgence. Clean lines and long hours. The pale winter sky and the raucous palette of the holidays. Milano’s winter line should reflect this unexpected harmony.” I stopped, my heart racing and making my voice shake. I wet my lips with my tongue and began again, willing my voice to be less timid. “I’ve designed these pieces as a nod to our long tradition of exquisite, clean tailoring and luxurious fabrics while also bringing a fresh burst of color and modern lines to the silhouette.”

  The boards were perfectly executed, my digital files loaded without a hitch, and the longer I spoke, the more comfortable I felt. I never even touched the cheat sheet index cards in my pocket, much less consulted them. I knew it all by heart. My designs were on trend, clean, and completely fitting with the long history at Milano. The shapes, colors, textures: everything screamed Milano. I felt my shoulders relax, confident I was hitting the right notes at the right times.

  I finished my presentation and stood in silence, waiting for questions. I felt my smile grow a bit as I waited, so happy with the result of all my effort. Images of late nights doing grunt work flickered through my thoughts, all the times I’d been overworked and underappreciated, all the moments when I’d wondered if it had been worth it to put up with the order forms, the photocopying, the sewing of individual sequins on an accessory that was soon to be discarded by the designer in charge anyway. It had been worth it, just to get to this point, just to finally have the chance to show one of the most powerful women in the fashion industry, face-to-face, what I could do.