Grace Anne - By Kathi S. Barton Page 0,5

problem. Gracie has quite a following, I’m told. I’ve been doing her layouts for more than five years. She uses me for promo shots and sometimes, like with Mr. C here, for remakes. When something isn’t quite what she had in mind, or if the shot is simply just too off.” Arnold handed them another file, this one with photos as well as descriptions, as he continued. “This is the catalogue that goes out in a few months. She is always two seasons ahead so that it can be finished and in the homes or shops before the real season starts. Even though it is only May she is doing her Christmas catalogue now. And in November we’ll shoot the spring one.”

Michael looked at Matt. “Miss Waite owns the building that I want. She refuses to sell or even talk to me about prices. I went there yesterday to see if I could talk some sense into her. I ended up in those pictures instead.”

Matt looked at the catalogue and then up at Michael. “Are you telling me that Gracie Anne Designs owns the Washington building?”

Michael nodded and knew that he was going to regret his next words.

“Holy fuck, man, no wonder she won’t sell. She doesn’t just own the building, but from all accounts, she lives there too.”

~~~

Grace was sitting at her desk going over colors for the new line when she heard the stairs creak. She smiled. In a few minutes her friend would be stumbling into her room and demanding coffee. She was glad that Carol had come over, she just wasn’t so happy about dealing with the morning after hang over she always had. Grace didn’t drink and Carol thought it was her duty as her friend to drink enough for both of them.

“Sleep well? Or do I need to ask?” She smiled when she glared at her. “Okay, I’m thinking that was a no. There’s coffee brewing for you in the kitchen and there’s a croissant in the box on the counter. By the way, it’s nearly noon. Don’t you have some sort of meeting today to be at?”

“No. I canceled when you called. What, if anything, are you going to do about that yummy man that you bitched about last night? I’ve heard of him. Michael Cunningham is not a man to fuck with. Maybe fuck, but certainly not fuck with.” Carol stretched out on the lounger in her office. “Of course, if you did fuck him, maybe you’d feel a hell of a lot better.”

“I’m just fine, thank you very much. And I’m not going to let him fuck me in either sense of the word. Now,” Grace said as she tossed a pencil at Carol, “go eat and drink and leave me to this. I have to figure out which one of these fucked up pictures to use, come up with a skimpy bathing suit for this princess to wear on her honeymoon, and also figure out what sort of designs I can come up with for the spring catalogue that comes on in fourteen months.”

Gracie had moved to New York right after graduation. She’d been trying to go to California, about as far away as she could from her parents, but she’d gotten on the wrong bus. And without the funds to get her back she’d ended up on the streets.

She’d worked her way from the kid who swept up after the cuttings, saving all the scraps she could, to what she was now. In those early days she’d made her designs in miniatures, sewing together the small pieces of trash to make what she liked. Years later, and yards of fabric too, she was not only making more money than she’d ever dreamed possible, but she owned the building she lived and worked in and she had people working for her.

“Grace, I can’t find my shoes. Do you know where they are?”

She turned to look at her as she set a plate of pancakes on the table.

“I thought I took them off in the living room. Now they seem to have taken off on their own. And do you have anything for a flipping headache?”

She reached into her desk drawer and threw her the bottle of aspirin. She’d worked late every night to get the catalogue finished so that today was supposed to be her day. She was going to get herself a big bed and all the trimmings, curtains, comforter, and also those silk sheets she’d been eyeing for