felt justifiably proud of her efforts, Miss Raines’s biting comment notwithstanding.
The embroidery took the longest. She had to design that, too, and then choose colored threads to stitch it. She was particularly fond of a delicate ivy and wildflower pattern she had seen in an illuminated Book of Hours. It took up most of her spare time after work and she only hoped that she would be able to finish it in time.
Tim watched her nimble fingers work on the embroidery the Saturday before the party, while he played on the bare floor of the shelter with the wooden toy Mr. Johnson had made for him. Ivory had carried the dress with her to work on because she had so little time left to finish it that she couldn’t waste a minute. Right now, she was babysitting Miriam’s children while Miriam looked for a job again.
“That sure is pretty, Ivory,” he remarked. “Takes a lot of time, huh?”
“A lot. But it’s the kind of work I like to do,” she said, smiling.
“I think I’d like to be a doctor when I grow up, Ivory,” Tim confided. “I could help cure people. But I don’t think I’ll get to do that.” He was as cynical as a boy twice his age. As he slid the small wooden truck across the floor, his silence was heavy with despair.
Ivory watched him as she worked, wondering sadly if he’d live long enough—or if she’d live long enough—to see any of his dreams come true.
“Ivory, do you have a mama?” he asked unexpectedly.
She pricked her finger and had to move it quickly, before any blood got on the white satin. She sucked it and then wrapped it in a piece of thin paper she’d used to make the pattern.
“Most everyone has a mama, Tim,” she said after she’d recovered.
“I’m sorry I made you stick yourself,” he replied. He sighed because being stuck had led to his big problem.
His great, dark eyes searched her face. “You don’t like your mama, do you?”
She let her eyelids fall over her eyes to conceal the expression in them. She put down the embroidery and went to get some toilet tissue to stick to the pinprick, because it was still bleeding.
She looked up and saw Miriam coming toward them with a resigned face. She didn’t have to ask if Tim’s mama had found work. “I have to go now. Help your mama with the girls, okay?” she said gently.
He got up, toy and all. “You ain’t mad at me, are you?”
She hugged him. “No, I’m not mad. Come on. Let’s find Dee and you can walk out with me. I think I’ll stop by Mr. Galloway’s to get some adhesive bandages. I don’t want to get bloodstains on this dress.”
At all costs, her dress had to be perfect. She would be on display at the party. With any luck, Mr. Kells would be there and he might see it and remark on it. If he did, she might get her foot in the door. All she needed was a chance, and she’d be on her way to a glorious career. She just knew it.
BELLE HARRIS WAS one of the models for the January fashion shows. She was being fitted with one of Miss Raines’s new designs, a sheath dress, and while that was being done, she looked over the accessories that Ivory had chosen to go with it.
Accustomed to Miss Raines’s constant criticism of her choices, Ivory waited for the gloriously beautiful redhead to make a stinging remark of her own. But she didn’t.
“Why, you have a wonderful eye for color,” Belle remarked, her green eyes glowing as she watched Ivory adjust the patterned green scarf and gold belt that she’d paired with the simple gray silk sheath. She looked around to make sure Miss Raines wasn’t eavesdropping. “Honestly, when I saw the sketch for this dress, I groaned. Virginia Raines has no imagination. None whatsoever. Why Curry keeps her on is beyond me. Perhaps it’s because she’s the age of his mother.”
“Curry?” Ivory ventured, curious.
“Curry Kells, silly,” Belle explained. “He owns a lot of companies around town, and he’s super rich. He takes me out a lot. He’s a real gentleman. No kinky stuff, no fighting him off at the end of the evening—although, just between us, I’d love the chance! He’s good-looking and cultured, and he smells like a male cologne commercial. He always wears one of those sexy scents that make you want to purr.”
“One of the girls said he was...visually challenged.”
“How politically correct!” Belle said with a laugh. “He’s got one eye, Ivory. He lost it in a gang fight in his teens.”
“Oh!”
“Don’t look so dismayed. The other boy lost his freedom. He killed one of Curry’s friends and was arrested for it. But not until after Curry caught up with him.”
“Gangs never seem to go out of style,” Ivory remarked. “I’ve seen them, and they scare me.”
“It seems every neighborhood has one.” Belle looked in the mirror, frowned, then swept her hair up and pinned it. “There, doesn’t that suit the dress better?”
“Yes, it does.”
“I’ll have the hairdresser do it that way for the show. How about shoes?”
“I had these covered...” She produced a pair of pumps covered in gold satin.
“Elegant!”
“Trashy!” Miss Raines harrumphed when she saw them. “Black pumps, Ivory, not those vulgar things. Not with my dress!”
Belle and Ivory exchanged resigned glances and Ivory replaced the pumps. Miss Raines had no tolerance for people who disagreed with her ideas. In her world everything was structured, measured, with no allowance for spontaneity. The sad thing was that everyone around her was expected to comply with her design sense. Ivory despaired of ever using her creative abilities under that stifling control.
Later, when she had a little time to herself, she mulled over what Belle had said to her about Curry Kells. She began to suspect that the man she’d met on the cathedral steps was Kells. His presence at the company that day, only half a block from the cathedral, and the black eye patch clinched it.
If that was the case, how would she approach him about her designs now? He’d probably think she was pursuing him for another handout! On the other hand, the party would be the ideal time to catch his eye, and she wouldn’t have to work too hard if her dress drew the attention she expected. He’d be bound to ask her who the designer was. And she’d tell him. She hoped Miss Raines would be standing right at her side when he asked.
* * *
IN HIS WALL STREET office, Curry Kells was just finishing a complicated financial report for his board of directors. He saved the file and turned off the computer, feeling as if he’d done two days’ work in a quarter of the time.
He stretched and grimaced at the protest from his sore muscles. The leather chair was remarkably uncomfortable for something that was supposed to be both functional and luxurious. He remembered the ramshackle office he’d occupied years ago when he was only a clerk in a manufacturing company, and the tattered but very comfortable chair he’d used.
He looked around his carpeted office with its solid oak furnishings and black leather chairs and sofa. There were five awards in a cabinet against the wall, three of which were for humanitarian efforts in the inner city. The other two were from business associates: one was a Chamber of Commerce Man of the Year award, and the other was a youth club honor for organizing a sports club for underprivileged boys. He hadn’t done the humanitarian work for the awards. To him, his community service was a payback. If it hadn’t been for a successful businessman giving him a boost up the ladder, he’d still be an underpaid clerk. A man much like the man he’d become had made all his advancements possible by funding his education and supplementing his mother’s meager