Chapter 7 - The Currency of Salt
The reception in the private library off the main ballroom was quiet, smelling of old calfskin bindings, beeswax polish, and forty-year-old Scotch.
Only twelve people were permitted inside: the club trustees, the representatives from the Boston media, Julian Harrington’s personal entourage, and myself.
Richard had tried to enter three times.
Each time, a six-foot-four private security officer wearing an earpiece and a tailored charcoal suit had stepped into his path, placed a broad, flat hand against Richard’s chest, and said, "Credentials, please."
"I'm her father," Richard had sputtered, his face the color of a fresh beet, his tie pulled crooked. "I'm Richard Ward—well, Richard Sterling, her stepfather. Her mother is right here. We have a right to be with our daughter."
"Miss Ward’s guest list was finalized this morning, sir," the officer replied, his voice deadpan and unyielding. "Your names do not appear. Please return to the public area."
Through the frosted glass doors, I could see them pacing.
Brielle was sitting on a velvet settee near the coat check, wrapped in Tyler’s oversized tuxedo jacket, her face buried in her hands while her mother frantically applied concealer to her tear-streaked cheeks. Tyler was nowhere to be seen; he had slipped out the side exit twenty minutes ago with three guys from the golf team to drink warm beer in the parking lot.
Inside the library, Julian Harrington handed me a thin crystal glass containing two fingers of sparkling water with lime.
"You have very sharp teeth, Leah," Harrington observed, settling into an oxblood leather wingback chair. "I watched your sister at the steps. Most young women would have wept. Or apologized. Or shouted."
"Shouting wastes breath," I said, taking a sip of the cold water. "And crying ruins the silk."
Harrington chuckled—a low, dry sound that rattled in his broad chest. "Old Mrs. Mercer told me you were made of cold-rolled steel. She wasn't exaggerating. She called me three months ago, you know. Before you even submitted your portfolio."
I paused, the glass halfway to my lips. "Mrs. Mercer?"
"She said she had a girl working thirty hours a week in her remnant bin who could draft a sleeve cap better than anyone she’d seen since Balenciaga died," Harrington said, his eyes softening with real affection. "She told me if I didn't give you a fellowship, she was going to burn my summer house down. The old bat still terrifies me."
A small, genuine smile finally touched the corners of my mouth. A debt to pay there. A large one. I made a mental note to buy her the heavy industrial blind-stitcher she had been eyeing in the German catalog.
The double doors opened, and a young woman with an iPad and a camera crew from the Boston Herald stepped in.
"Mr. Harrington? Miss Ward? We have the live wire ready for the regional arts feature. Five minutes?"
"Whenever Miss Ward is ready," Harrington said, looking at me. "This is your press conference, Leah. Not mine."
I set my glass on the mahogany table.
"I'm ready," I said.
For the next twenty minutes, the flashbulbs strobed like summer lightning against the book-lined walls. They asked about the materials. They asked about the techniques. They asked how an eighteen-year-old from a regional high school had managed to source eight-ply silk faille and vintage French bugle beads on a student budget.
"I didn't buy a car," I told the reporter, looking straight into the lens of the primary camera. "I didn't buy coffee. I didn't attend parties. When you have no safety net, you learn to weave your own."
"And your family?" the reporter asked, leaning forward, scenting the human-interest hook. "Your parents must be extraordinarily proud. Are they here tonight?"
The room went very quiet. The PR assistant with the iPad paused her typing.
I looked at the frosted glass doors.
Outside, my mother’s face was pressed against the glass, pale, desperate, her eyes pleading through the textured pane like a beggar outside a banquet hall. Beside her, Richard was adjusting his lapels, puffing out his chest, ready to barge through the moment I gave the signal.
"My family," I said slowly, clearly, into the microphone pinned to my lapel, "is comprised of the people who taught me how to hold the shears. Mrs. Martha Mercer. Mr. Henderson. And the women who came before me and left their work in the salvage bins."
I paused, letting the silence stretch until it was taut enough to hum.
"As for the people I live with," I added, "they provided the opposition necessary to test the strength of the seams. Every good design requires tension, or it collapses under its own weight."
May you like
The reporter’s eyebrows rose. A photographer clicked off four rapid frames, capturing the ice in my eyes and the complete, absolute absence of sentimentality on my face.
"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," I said, stepping back from the lights. "I have a flight to pack for."
