“Somehow I can’t imagine your grandmother going to dances in poodle skirts. Every picture you’ve shown me of her, she’s never smiling.”
“She hates having her picture taken. Plus, she was always working to give my mom the best of everything. One day I’ll show you the ones with my grandpa. They were so cute together.”
We settled in and for the next hour, worked on our projects. This season we were concentrating on coats and jackets, and aside from the shiny, black, vinyl one I had at home, in class I was putting together a wool trench coat with a removable faux-fur lining.
“Ooh. This is so soft.” Vivi came over to run her fingers through the swath of fur. “It could almost be real. Where’d you get that?”
“A little shop on either Thirty-Ninth or Fortieth, I think it was. I’ll find the card, and we can go when you have the time.”
“Ugh.” She made a face. “I’m working double shifts these next few weeks. But hit me up afterward?” Her gaze rested on the fabric. “It’s so pretty. I’d love it as a vest or something.”
“You got it.”
Vivi worked as a waitress in Stitches, a restaurant that allowed the staff to feature the clothing they designed, and they held weekly fashion shows. The second time Vivi’d shown her clothes there, she’d been approached by several young designers who wanted to work with her. She urged me to give up dancing at Man Up and go there to get seen, but I didn’t want to wait tables, even if it did mean my designs would get noticed.
We finished the class, and then I had my business and marketing class. At first I had no clue why I needed a class on finances in design school, yet the more I learned, the more caught up I became in the business end, and I discovered a passion I didn’t know existed.
“Never let anyone control what you’ve created,” my professor said. “You can’t become so caught up in designing that you leave someone else in charge of your money or your designs. The inner working of your company is as important as the outside glamour. You’re smart, Frankie. From what I’ve seen in class and your written homework, you have a knack for the marketing and business end of this industry as well as the fashion sense.”
Those words ran through my head all the way home, and I thought about what he said. For the past six months, I’d helped my parents decide what they should do with their IRAs and CDs. To see their money sitting in the bank, earning almost nothing, not only worried me, it drove me crazy. If my parents simply took a little risk, they could have more money. But they weren’t risk takers.
“You really need to let me help you. How about you give me a part of Dad’s social security check, and I’ll invest it.”
“I don’t like the stock market. It’s like gambling.”
Hopeless. I decided if I scored big enough tips, I’d take what I could of my own money and invest it for them. They’d stood by me and supported everything I’d ever done. It was the least I could do.
A text popped up from Austin. He was tied up with something concerning flooring, but we could meet for dinner if I wanted.
Sorry. Having dinner with Aaron. Later? Come to the club.
I’ll check with Rhoades and get back to you.
Funny how our lives had taken on such different directions. Austin had always made it a point that he’d never be at anyone’s whim, but he needed to check with his lover before he could say if he was coming to the club or not.
And yet here you are, back with Aaron after you swore you wouldn’t be.
I had to agree with that damned inner voice. It knew me best of all.
My phone pinged. It was Austin.
We’ll be there. Can’t wait to see you.
Same.
“You wanna get lunch?” I gathered up my stuff and shoved it into the cute bag I’d made. It was white and furry with strips of black vinyl crisscrossed around it. Vivi had one in red and Austin in black.
“I can’t.” She hesitated. “I have a date.”
“What?” Pretending outrage, I dropped my bag and placed my hands on my hips. “You never told me. Who is he?”
She bit her lip. “Uh, she. It’s another waitress from Stitches.”
Wait, what? A girl? Vivi was dating a girl?
“Hold up. Weren’t you dating that Dominican guy from the Heights last month? What happened?”
“He cheated on me—that’s what happened.” Her eyes flashed. “So I kicked his sorry ass to the curb. Margo and I went out for drinks, and I was telling her the story, and she said I don’t have to put up with shit like that. We sorta connected.” At the pretty blush staining her cheeks, I assumed they did a little more than connecting.Wow.I’d met Margo a few times. She was a tall, stunning Nigerian woman with cheekbones to die for, who wanted to model and had some small successes with local designers.
