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Bree grabbed her purse and her phone, put on her shoes, went downstairs, and asked the doorman to hail her a cab.
“Destination, ma’am?”
“Frances Duchaine’s store on Fifth Avenue,” she said and was soon on her way.
It was raining lightly, which kept the crowds and traffic away. Ten minutes later, she was climbing out of the taxi in heavier rainfall.
Inside the store, Bree saw many more customers browsing than she had the day before.Maybe the lack of customers yesterday was a onetime thing?
But then Bree noticed that the flowers in the vase by the staircase looked a little droopy. So did the other flower arrangements positioned artfully throughout the store.Someone’s definitely cutting back,she thought, climbing past the second floor to the third and wishing she could find an analyst to talk to about Duchaine’s finances on a rainy Saturday morning in New York City.
Bree had taken no more than three steps onto the floor where the fashion designer displayed her wedding dresses, ball gowns, and big-ticket limited-run creations when she heard a squeal of delight.
“I knew you loved that dress with the brocade!” Marjorie cried, almost skipping to her side. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
Bree smiled at the eager young woman. “You’re almost right. I have a sudden need for a gown immediately. As in tonight.”
Marjorie’s face fell. “Tonight? That’s going to be tough if alterations are needed.”
“Money is no object,” Bree said.
“Oh,” Marjorie said, grinning now. “Then we can make this happen.”
“Excellent,” Bree said and followed her to the rack where the gorgeous black ball gown with the exquisite brocade work on the bodice hung.
Marjorie pulled it off the rack and held it up against Bree. “So dramatic. I think it’ll fit, and if not, we’ll make it fit.”
“How much?”
“Fifty-five hundred,” Marjorie said.
Bree hesitated, then said, “That works.”
“Let’s see what we’re dealing with,” Marjorie said, taking charge. “The fitting rooms are this way.”
Marjorie was standing in front of several mirrors and holding open the fitting-room door for her when Bree’s personal cell phone rang. She dug it out of her purse and saw Alex was trying to FaceTime her.
“I’m going to need a minute, Marjorie,” Bree said. “I have to watch my stepdaughter’s big track race.”
“I used to run track,” Marjorie said brightly. “The eight-hundred.”
“Jannie’s in the four-hundred,” Bree said, answering the video call.
CHAPTER 24
I CALLED BREE ASI was standing in the bleachers by the track at Howard University between Nana Mama and my son Damon, who had just regaled us with the story of his ride in the private jet. Ali was sitting behind us, absorbed in a book.
Bree’s face appeared on my phone.
“Still want to watch?” I said, seeing that she was in a store of some kind.
“Definitely,” Bree said. “Is she getting ready?”
I glanced at the track. Jannie was doing a few loose practice starts out of her blocks, which were in lane three on a stagger of six.
“She is ready,” I said.
Damon leaned over. “She was in the zone when we got here.”
