A Lowcountry Bride Read online

  “So you’ll feature your designs here too?” Derek asked. “It’ll be an added bonus to showcasing the store’s history. Are you in?”

  An unsettledness overcame Maya. Was it worth putting it out there? If Maya didn’t feature her gowns in the trunk show, she’d never get the chance to see if her work had merit on its own. She’d never get a chance to leave that legacy she so desperately wanted.

  Laura had torn down her work before. If Maya took that risk and showed her dresses in a big event like a trunk show, it could get torn down by the public. That would be even worse than Laura’s criticisms. Laura was a gatekeeper in this industry. If Laura didn’t think her creativity had merit, who would?

  Make us proud. Those words in the letter settled into Maya’s spirit.

  Maya had to try. She would try. Like Derek had said, if Maya didn’t believe in herself, who would?

  A seed of confidence took root in Maya. Confidence—and hope.

  Later that day, Maya pulled up the phone number for Cat Clyne on her cell phone. Time to call in her favor.

  Maya dialed the number and the phone rang and rang. The last time she’d spoken to Cat was when she did those emergency alterations for her.

  “This is Cat.”

  OMG. “Hello, Cat, it’s Maya from Laura Whitcomb’s office.”

  “I was just editing the interview with Laura. I may have some follow-up questions for her. Could you forward them to Laura?”

  “I sure can.” Maya twisted a stray curl around her finger. “I wasn’t calling for Laura, however. Remember when you said that if I ever needed a favor to call you?”

  A pause. “Yes.”

  “Well, I need a favor.”

  A longer pause. Maya’s stomach churned. Was Cat having second thoughts?

  “If you don’t—”

  “Go ahead,” Cat said.

  Maya spoke about the Charleston-based trunk show and how they were holding it in a historically significant boutique that was in danger of going out of business, a boutique whose story held weight in the community, and how Maya’s ethnically inspired gowns would be featured in the trunk show.

  She blurted out that last part very quickly.

  “Sounds interesting,” Cat said. “When is Laura going down to Charleston for the trunk show?”

  O-kay. This was inconvenient. “Laura won’t be here for the trunk show. She’s not involved in it.”

  “Oh really?”

  There was a note of gossipy curiosity in Cat’s tone. Cat was the type to spread industry rumors. She prided herself on always having the “inside dish,” as she called it.

  Cat could spin this trunk show any way she wanted, just to get more followers and buzz on her blog. Lordy. Maya did not want to be part of Cat’s inside dish. “Nope. Laura’s not involved.” Maya definitely wouldn’t go into the reasons why.

  The sound of rustling crackled through the other end of the line. “When’s the trunk show?”

  “In about three and a half weeks.” Maya crossed her fingers, hoping she’d say yes and not ask any more probing questions.

  More rustling on the other end. “You said these are Afro-Asian dresses?”

  More probing questions. Cat said the phrase “Afro-Asian” like she was trying to pronounce a foreign word. “Yes.”

  “So Laura Whitcomb’s looking to add some new styles to her fall line, I see.”

  How was Maya going to explain this one? If she told Cat the truth, that this was Maya’s own thing, then Cat the Gossip could go back to Laura and hint (or even say!) that Maya was trying to break rank and branch out on her own. That could put Maya at risk of losing her job with Laura. She definitely wouldn’t get the promotion then.

  Bad. Bad. Bad.

  Why did Maya think calling Cat was a good idea anyway? Cat’s opinion on fashion was the most coveted—and the most critical—in the industry. She rarely handed out compliments. If Maya got a thumbs-down from Cat, that would be a disaster.

  Yet Maya couldn’t live in fear forever. Maya didn’t have that much time to live. “Take a risk,” she whispered. “Just do it.”

  “Excuse me? What did you say?”

  “Oh, nothing. I was just . . .” Maya remembered that letter to Vivian. “Laura hasn’t made any plans for these designs. This is my own thing.”

  There. She said it. And it felt . . . freeing. Maya was stepping out on faith.

  “Oh.”

  That was it? Just “oh”?

  “I can make a quick turnaround trip for the trunk show. Just to return the favor,” Cat continued. “I’m not promising a glowing review. I’m simply promising a review and some publicity. You understand that.”

  Maya’s nervousness amped up two notches. It could be bad publicity. Cat was a biting fashion reviewer. “Yes. I completely understand.”

  “I can post an article online and promote it on social media, not in our print magazine since those articles are planned a few months in advance. But consider it done.”

  They exchanged logistical details and then hung up.

  A sense of bravery took over. Bravery and exhilaration and nervousness all at once.

  Maya was getting national coverage for the store and her dresses. She didn’t know what type of coverage she’d get. This whole effort could tank and be a complete failure—but Maya did something new.

  She believed in herself.

  Later that evening, Derek and Jamila sat at the dinner table and ate in silence. His talk about the store’s legacy had sparked curiosity in him, especially when it came to Jamila. He wanted her to hold that same sense of appreciation for their family history. Perhaps it would help her mend some of the pain she’d been feeling surrounding her grandmother’s and mother’s deaths. “I was talking today about the store’s history, and a conversation came up about your great-grandmother. She’d taught your grandma basket weaving. Is that something you learned too?”

  Jamila pushed her Hoppin’ John with her spoon. “What of it?” Her voice carried a note of suspicion.

  “That’s great that you know basket weaving. The skills you learned there could help you figure out your school sewing project.”

  Jamila laughed. “You don’t weave a dress, Dad. You weave a basket. It’s not the same as sewing.”

  He smiled. Nice to see her happy for once. “It could be. I mean, the skills are similar. I wouldn’t knock those similarities.”

  Jamila played around with her food, apparently deep in thought.

  “You don’t agree?”

  “No, I don’t. It’ll actually be kind of hard to do that school project since I don’t have much help for it. I haven’t made any headway whatsoever. I think I’ll just take a failing grade.”

  “A failing grade? No way will you fail that project. Maya’s offer to help still stands.”

  Jamila twisted her mouth and glanced away. “You know what I think of that.”

  “You don’t have to like Maya in order for her to help you,” Derek said. “She has a lot of experience, and it could help you ace that project.”

  “Nah.” Jamila shrugged. “I don’t really want to mess with her.”

  Derek sighed. “If you don’t want to consider her, then I think that basket weaving, in the way your grandmother taught you, may help you some.”

  “Not interested in that either.”

  “Why not?” Derek asked. “It’s an honored tradition.”

  “Not to me. It’s not that important. We could just go to the department store and buy a basket if we really wanted one.”

  “It wouldn’t be the same, Jamila. It’s been passed down through the ages. Something that should be preserved and remembered.”

  “Something from slavery. Who wants to remember that?” Jamila said, her voice a low mumble.

  The mocking in her voice pricked at Derek. He must’ve really failed as a father if Jamila didn’t think her history was important. Should he just let it go and leave Jamila to her opinions on her history? Or should he push the issue
and say more?

  Letting it go would mean that the legacy that his grandmother had written about in the letter would be lost, but pushing the issue would probably annoy Jamila. Their relationship was already tenuous. Still, he’d have to push the issue. It was too important for Derek to ignore.

  “Not true, Jamila. This particular way of basket weaving came all the way from West Africa. It transcends slavery. We may not have much of our history left, but we have those traditions that have been preserved from generation to generation. Each basket was made by the hands of a person who struggled and triumphed. Each one tells a story.”

  Jamila shoved a spoonful of peas and rice in her mouth. Still silent.

  “How about you and I go downtown to where the women sell them in the marketplace? That’ll get you interested in it again.”

  “You want me to go to those slave auction blocks and that Black history museum near the boutique? No thank you.”

  Okay. Guess that was a no-go. “Then how do you intend to complete that project?”

  “Dunno.” Jamila shrugged. “Like I said. It won’t be the first time in my life that I flunked something.”

  Derek rubbed his temples, frustrated. How would he get through to her? He searched for the possibilities, but nothing good came to mind. Then an idea: “Hey, Jamila, have you ever read your grandmother’s prayer journals?”

  “I didn’t even know she had them.”

  This was what he could use to connect with Jamila. Derek stood up and walked to the tiny wooden desk in the living room and opened the desk drawer. He took out his mother’s journal and set it before Jamila. “Turn to the front page.”

  Jamila did, and as soon as she saw her own name written in the first line, she leaned forward, intent on reading more.

  Derek exhaled. Hopefully, this would work.

  “Grandma prayed for all of these good things for me? She wanted me to thrive and stuff?”

  “Of course she did.”

  “She had a lot to say about me.” Her eyes squinted at Grandma’s ornate script, and she flipped the page and read further. “She really thought I was something special, huh?”

  “She definitely did,” Derek said.

  Jamila bit her bottom lip, still studying the pages.

  “She knew the truth,” Derek added, hoping this would help. “I think she would love it if you went down to the marketplace and watched them weave baskets. We can go there right after the trunk show in a few weeks.”

  Jamila looked up. “So, you want me to go to the trunk show . . . that Maya will be at.”

  “It would make the most logistical sense for you to accompany me to the trunk show. When it’s over, we can head on over to the marketplace. Like I said, it’ll be your call with Maya, but you don’t have to like her to get her help.”

  Jamila looked at the journal again and her fingertips traced the edges of the pages. “If Grandma thought all of this good stuff about me, then maybe I can try to work on the school project.”

  Derek’s mouth lifted in a tiny smile.

  “That don’t mean I’m working with Maya or nothing. I’ll just go with you to the trunk show and check out the basket stuff afterward.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  Their broken relationship was beginning to mend itself together. It wasn’t a perfect mending, but it was a semblance of reconnection that made him believe in the possibility of healing.

  Chapter Nine

  Maya hated being late. Especially today, the day of the trunk show. Tardiness would shorten her set-up time, and Maya wanted to have all the preparation that she could get.

  She sped down the interstate to the boutique. Maya had stayed up till four a.m. to finish stitching the hems of the gowns for the event, then crashed, planning to nap only an hour—or four. When Pops had tapped on her bedroom door, she’d panicked, dressed, and left the house.

  Kicking herself for not managing her time better, she rehearsed her apology to Derek on the way. When she hung a right into an empty parking space in front of the tiny shop, it was closed. Did something happen to Derek?

  She opened her handbag and pulled out her phone to see if he’d left a message. He’d texted her.

  Maya, we’re on our way.

  “We’re”? Did that mean Derek and Jamila? She’d soon find out. Maya set her phone down. If Jamila came along, then perhaps this would be the perfect time to try to connect with her, to help Jamila see that Maya wasn’t the bad guy.

  If Jamila wasn’t coming along, then Maya wouldn’t sweat it. She had enough on her plate as it was with the trunk show. This was her chance to show off her work. That was a lot in itself. Nerves rattled, she took a deep breath and rested her head against the steering wheel.

  Cat’s media influence would help spread the word, but Maya would have to bring the talent. Four hours of sleep didn’t make for being too energetic. Derek would help out too. Despite their clumsy moments, he was proving to be a godsend overall.

  Derek’s generosity was almost too much. Although the boutique had been financially challenging for him, he still agreed to give her designs a chance. He was open to her creative ideas too, anything to keep the store’s legacy intact.

  If his mother were still alive, she would be proud.

  Yet his openness took her off guard at times. She had never cultivated solid friendships with people, people who could help her whenever she was in a fix and who believed in her so much. Derek’s constant kindness tugged on her emotions. It made her consider another possibility for her career. It didn’t help that she liked Derek. She liked him. A lot.

  She groaned. Liking didn’t mean anything. She liked a lot of things—five-hundred-thread-count sheets, designer handbags—but she couldn’t afford any of it. Falling for him wasn’t prudent. The notion of getting involved with anyone made her cheeks flare. She glanced at herself in the rearview mirror. Yup, good thing she had a brown hue. Otherwise, she’d be red right about now.

  Maya decided to wait until Derek arrived. She needed to take a breather after rushing out of the house this morning. She was fatigued and didn’t want to risk having a pain episode during the trunk show. Maya rolled down the window, but southern humidity exacerbated the frizz in her natural hair. When she first arrived in South Carolina, she tried to fight the curl. She straight-ironed her hair every chance she got. But the more Maya grew accustomed to the Lowcountry, the more she let her hair go back to its natural state. It was freeing.

  She turned on her car and blasted the air, hoping this would calm her nerves. It didn’t. Maya reached in her purse and spritzed a curl refresher spray in her hair, twisting the strands so they’d be bouncy again. When in hair-doubt, tie the curls up into a loose knot.

  She needed to ignore her blooming feelings for Derek and focus on this trunk show. It was all business. Nothing more.

  Maya slid her seat back a few notches and stared at the car roof. From here on out, she’d make a concentrated effort to focus on her business.

  Do not get distracted with Derek.

  Derek’s truck pulled into an empty parking space next to her. Jamila was in the front passenger seat. She’d accompanied him after all. Jamila had been on an anti-Maya campaign since they’d first met. Did she have a change of heart?

  Jamila glanced out her window and gave Maya the side-eye.

  Nope. Didn’t have a change of heart. Guess Maya would navigate all of that today too. Operation Win Over Jamila was now in effect.

  Brown shopping bags, a trunk, and some boxes filled Derek’s pickup. He turned off the ignition and walked around the front of his truck to meet Maya on the sidewalk.

  Maya smoothed the front of her paisley skirt. “How are you doing?”

  Derek grinned. “Doing good. I brought supplies.” He motioned to the back of the truck. “I figured you’d need help prepping for the show, so I brought some extra things.”

  Maya glanced at Jamila. Her arms were crossed over her chest and she had a permanent frown on her face. “I
see.”

  A knowing look flitted across Derek’s face. “I wanted to take Jamila with me to Gadsden’s Wharf after the trunk show today. So I brought her along.”

  “Jamila complied?” Maya whispered.

  “I wouldn’t say all of that. But she’s here,” Derek whispered, and then he gestured to his daughter. “Come on, Jamila. We’re going to need your help today.”

  Jamila hopped out of the truck, her mouth pursed into a thin line. Maya still wanted to figure out a way to reach out to Jamila. She hadn’t lost hope of that occurring.

  Derek unlocked the tailgate at the back of the truck, and Maya followed him. She reached in and lifted a black trunk from the pickup bed.

  “I’ll carry the heavy items,” Derek said.

  “I can carry them.” Maya worked her arms around the trunk’s gold handles and lifted it with a grunt. Did someone pack this thing with bricks?

  He suppressed a grin. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” Maya said, her voice certain. She’d carried heavy things before. Why should this be different?

  The trunk dropped to the cement pavement.

  Embarrassed, Maya stepped back. “All right, all right. You can help.”

  Together, they lifted it and walked it up to the curb. A cool breeze rustled through her hair, and her ponytail holder slipped loose. She finger-combed her curls away from her cheeks, only to have them whip over to the other side of her face. Lordy.

  Derek stopped and stared at her. His gaze made her zing. Should she be thrilled or embarrassed about the feeling? The more he stared, the more embarrassment took over.

  “What?” Maya asked.

  “Nothing.” He cleared his throat. “We better get set up.”

  Don’t put your feelings out there, Maya. Derek has enough to deal with. Plus, Jamila was staring at them. Best to stay away.

  They stepped inside the boutique, setting the trunk on the floor. Jamila opened her Spotify app and connected her smartphone to the speaker. A hip-hop song blasted through the store.