If the Shoe Fits (13 page)

“I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but you might have called to check with me a little bit sooner.”

“You made it sound like you were going to be holed up in your
store
all week getting ready for the board meeting, so I didn’t think I needed to
check
with you. Oh, this is all so unpleasant. I try to do something nice and it always turns into something… else.”

“Please. Don’t let it turn into anything else. I am really glad you went to the trouble, but it just cannot be helped. I have a friend who called me just this morning and will be in town unexpectedly. We are meeting tonight at seven thirty.”

“All right, then. Fair enough. Perhaps it would have seemed a bit
grasping
if you were available on such short notice in any case. I will reschedule for tomorrow night. Do you want to go to Charlie Trotter’s or Spiaggia? We were thinking the later seating, say nine o’clock. Meet for drinks at eight. Does that work for you?”

“Wait. Are you and Dad coming?”

“Well, we had planned on it. Eliot’s parents are business friends of your father’s and I’ve never met them, and we thought it might be fun if we all got together. That way it wouldn’t feel so forced.”

Right. Not forced. “Um, Jane. I don’t know if I’ll be free tomorrow night either. My friend is probably going to be here for the weekend and I’d really like to clear my schedule just in case.”

“Who is this friend, anyway?!”

Sarah started to answer, trying to figure how much longer she could refer to said friend without having to refer to said friend’s gender.

“No! Forget I asked. I don’t want to pry.”

Of
course
you
do
, Sarah thought.

Jane pressed on. “Look, this clearly has not turned out the way I’d intended. Casual, fun, family friends. You have turned it into something more akin to an annoyance and I think I will just let the Cranbrooks know it is not going to work out.”

“Eliot Cranbrook?” Sarah had started to glance down at some drawings she’d tossed on her desk and her attention flew back to the phone.

“Why? Do you know him?”

“Yes. Not really. I mean, I have
heard
of him.”

“Really, Sarah. You are usually so levelheaded, but lately you seem a bit distracted.”

“You are the second person in as many days to point that out.” Sarah tried to contain a sigh—was she really so transparent? But Eliot Cranbrook was not to be dismissed lightly. He was a powerful, transformative leader at one of the top luxury conglomerates in Europe. Devon had to understand if she didn’t have
every
minute of the whole weekend spread out before her like the Gobi Desert. Maybe a preexisting lunch or dinner date with someone else might even spice things up a bit with a British rake.

“Oh, well. Now you’ll just think I am being mercenary, Jane, but I would really love to meet Eliot Cranbrook. I have admired what Danieli-Fauchard has done with Moratelli, the Italian leather company they acquired last year—”

“Sarah! This is not a business dinner! If you have any inclination
whatsoever
to grill the poor man about mergers and that sort of thing, I will
definitely
retract the invitation. He is here visiting his parents unexpectedly. You will not—”

“Fine.” Sarah laughed at herself. She hated to admit that Jane was right. “Okay, you win. I was sort of thinking along those lines, but I would still really like to meet him. Do you think you can finagle the kitchen table at Charlie Trotter’s for tomorrow night? I know you are a magician with things like that.” A compliment that also happened to be true. Sarah could picture Jane preening on the other end of the line.

“Well, I’ll see what I can do, but you are going to have to be flexible. You have to
promise
me that you will be available for either the six o’clock
or
the nine o’clock seating.”

“Of course.”

“Don’t say ‘of course’ just like that. I mean it: no last-minute business emergencies, no friends in town. I don’t know the Cranbrooks yet and I am not going to stick my neck out—”

“Jane!” Sarah laughed again. “I promise! I will be utterly and completely at your disposal for dinner tomorrow night.”

“Okay, then. Sorry to have been churlish before.” Jane prattled on about a few more details and Sarah thought how her stepmother was good about things like that. She didn’t allow little grudges to fester, and she always tried to clear things up right away. It was a relief that she was able to recover her dignity (and allow others to recover theirs), but Sarah wondered about why the woman always seemed to be in need of mending fences in the first place.

It was almost five. Sarah tried to pretend that it was the same as the approach of every other five o’clock, every other day of the week. No big deal. Apparently, the occasional transatlantic plane touched down at five. Whatever.

Sarah held out until ten after. She left her office and asked Stephanie if there were any items outstanding before the board meeting Monday morning.

“The printouts are already done; I’ve called and emailed all the board members to reconfirm the time and location. I spoke to the Drake and we are all set with the conference room.” Stephanie was standing in front of her desk holding a flip-pad and ticking off her item list with the tip of a pen. She looked up at Sarah and smiled. “Do you want to touch base over the weekend or Monday morning, or shall we meet at the hotel Monday at ten?”

“You are perfectly on top of everything as usual, so let’s meet at the hotel at ten. We can make sure everything is in order before everyone else gets there at eleven. Thanks again, Steph. Have a great weekend.”

“Thanks. You too.” Stephanie smiled again, and Sarah wondered if there was a bit of mischief in it. Stephanie was a no-nonsense workaholic who was getting her MBA in the evening program at DePaul. She rarely cracked a smile, much less a suggestive one.

“See you Monday, then.” Sarah was glad the workweek was over and she didn’t have to worry about her goofy looks undermining her professionalism for another minute.

Sarah poked her head into Carrie’s office to tell her about the dinner with Eliot Cranbrook. Carrie silently waved her in and finished the call she was on.

“Terrific. We will speak about the particulars next week. Bye.” Then to Sarah, “What’s up?”

“I just got a call from my stepmother, and she’s put together a little dinner party tomorrow night.”

“Lucky you.” Carrie smirked.

“Turns out it actually is lucky for once! It’s a table for six with my parents, a business associate of my father’s and his wife, and their son… drumroll please… Eliot Cranbrook.”

Carrie widened her eyes in atypical enthusiasm. “Not
the
Eliot Cranbrook? He’s like the wizard of the luxury goods market. How have you never met him before if he’s a friend of the family and all?”

“You know the drill. My family is not exactly the close-knit variety. I know about as much as the man on the street about the corporate climate at Simpson-James. You know how hard I’ve tried to stay as far away from my father’s business as possible.” Sarah shrugged.

It had been a point of dispute between them ever since they’d started working together. Carrie had argued that Sarah’s connections to the department store world of her father did not need to reek of nepotism. Sarah, despite being totally intimidated by Carrie’s forceful nature, refused to budge on that particular point. She refused to allow even a whiff of the misconception that her father had played some silent partner role in Sarah James Shoes.

Carrie narrowed her gaze and pinned Sarah with that same penetrating look from yesterday. “I must say, and don’t take this the wrong way—”

“I hate that expression because I can’t help but think, okay, here it comes!”

They both laughed, but it felt a little forced.

Carrie continued, “No, it’s a compliment. I was going to say, from a business standpoint, your timing is ideal, because you are looking particularly, I don’t even know how to describe it, but you are somehow more accessible. If Cranbrook has any intention of making overtures to acquire the company, he’s going to act on it when he sees you in your new and improved
receptive
state.”

Sarah tried to stare her down, but Carrie was not having one bit of it.

“You go ahead and stick to your compact little view of yourself, Sar, but something snapped over there in London and it’s all for the better. Just speaking as your business adviser, of course. It’s a nice change. You are just a tiny bit softer around the edges.”

“Just what I need.” Sarah tried to make light of it as she turned for the door. “More soft, round edges! Have a great weekend, Carrie, and we’ll see you Monday morning at the Drake at ten.”

“Bye, Sarah. You too. Have a
great
weekend!”

Sarah heard her colleague’s low chuckle as she made her way toward the stairs that led to her private domain on the upper floors of the town house.

She spent the next two hours primping and panicking. She started by drawing the hottest bath she could bear and looking at her face in the cruelly double-magnified mirror that swung out from the wall over the sink while the tub filled. She plucked a few hairs around her eyebrows and thought everything else looked remarkably fine. She brushed her teeth with the electronic toothbrush for two minutes exactly, then flossed with precision. She slid into the tub with a grateful breath for the intense heat that prevented her from thinking too much about anything but the physical sensation of it. She had a Jo Malone candle burning and the entire effect was completely transporting.

Once the water started to cool, she set about shaving her legs, scrubbing her body, lathering her hair, combing through the conditioner, and then rinsing her whole body from top to bottom with the handheld shower attachment. It was after six thirty by the time she got out.

Sarah started in on her hair, not sure if she wanted to make it formal and straight and silky, or let it go wavy and unruly and… well, that was a no-brainer. She squeezed some mousse into the palm of one hand, set down the dispenser on the white marble vanity counter, and rubbed her hands together, then flipped her head over and squished the creamy white foam throughout her hair. She stayed upside down and blew it dry while grasping large clumps into disorderly curls. After about ten minutes, it was a Botticellian masterpiece. Jane could say what she wanted about that extra twenty pounds, but Sarah’s hair was the stuff of poetry.

She applied a bit of mascara and lip gloss, then moved into her dressing room to survey her choices.

When it came to giving a girl an idea about what to wear on a date, “play it by ear” was tantamount to heresy. She opted for her favorite French blue jeans, slimming, boot cut, comfortable, and paired them with a fitted white cashmere ribbed turtleneck that was sexy in some hard-to-reach way. She topped the simple basics with a glamorous, brocade Favourbrook knee-length jacket. She had purchased it on her recent trip to London, overcome by the sheer, irrational luxury of the entire piece: oversized cuffs and collar of a warm, chocolate mink, attached to a Regency-era men’s jacket that hugged her body to perfection, the pinched waist almost made to measure. The brocade leaf-green silk fabric was hand embroidered with gold thread that shimmered subtly, without being too flashy. She wore a pair of Christian Louboutin corset-lace-up, pointy gray suede-leather mini boots that gave the whole outfit a naughty, Victorian touch.

Sarah transferred a couple of credit cards, her license, some cash, and a mini lip gloss into a slim gray clutch, then took stock of the whole outfit in the full-length, floor-to-ceiling mirrors. She wasn’t vain, necessarily, but she knew her appearance was also a part of her business and she always tried to be as put together as possible when she went out, especially in Chicago, where she felt a bit more recognized than she did in New York. Manhattan, for better or worse, made her feel like she was one of innumerable successful people trying to spin straw into gold.

She turned off all the lights on her bedroom floor, except the overhead on the hall landing, then went down to her living room. She wasn’t sure she wanted to invite Devon up for a drink before dinner—everything seemed so fragile, herself included—so she decided to go with one of her favorite decision-making parameters: if you don’t know, you know: no.

She turned off the lights in the living room and left one light on in the kitchen for when she came home, then locked her front door at the top of the stairs that led to the public floors. Sarah walked down the stairs that went toward her office and the shop, rather than the other set of stairs that led directly out to the street. She passed through the dimly lit office, and the motion-sensor lights sputtered then blinked on with fluorescent authority; she double-checked that everything was locked, then continued down to the shop.

She adored sneaking into her own store at odd hours of the night. She felt like a sexy cat burglar when she prowled through the quiet boutique. The floors were polished every week to best complement the imported parquet flooring. The shoes were displayed in recessed bookcases of a deceptively simple design. Shoes seemed to float on glass shelves that were practically invisible. The lighting was hidden behind tiny inlaid design elements, illuminating each shoe from every direction. Sarah had researched jewelers and other luxury goods display techniques at length before hiring a local art installer to set up the lighting.

While adjusting a satin red stiletto that she knew was going to be sold out before Thanksgiving, Sarah heard a quick, firm double-tap on the plate-glass window next to the front door.

She tried to keep her chest from heaving, but there didn’t seem to be anything for it. The best she could do was finish with the sexy red shoe and then make sure she didn’t trip as she walked across the room to unlock the front door. She didn’t have time to worry about any residual awkwardness from last weekend (had it only been one week? it had been a very long one) because Devon grabbed her in a rush of joy, one of his hands around her waist, pulling her flush up against him, and the other tangled into her wild hair. He used his grip to tilt her head back and sweep in for a pounding kiss.