The Brooklyn Way

Chapter 1

1

B rooklyn

I woke up the morning of March fifteenth with a smile on my face for the first time in… I couldn’t remember when. I handled my hygiene and dressed, while happily half-humming, half-singing “Free Yourself” by Fantasia. I was feeling so good that I ventured out of my sanctuary, making my way to the living room. Once there, I perched myself in the bay window with my gaze focused on the street so that I could see the truck pull up.

I ignored Vince, as he moved around the common areas, doing whatever he did in the mornings. I was usually locked in my bedroom, so I never knew what he was doing. Vince was in the kitchen. The tinny sound of a metal pan colliding with the man-made countertops rang through the air. That was followed by a sound that I knew was water sloshing from an over-filled pan onto the stove.

His sloppy ass , I thought to myself. Kelly can have him.

That thought had barely cleared my mind when I felt the tingling of goosebumps break out over my skin. Seconds later, I saw both a large black Chevy and a large U-Haul truck pull to a stop in front of the building. A wide grin broke out on my face because I knew that both vehicles were here for me. I was especially excited because the Chevy truck was carrying precious cargo in its passenger seat. It was carrying my paternal grandmother, Ruth Waverly.

I scurried across the living room to the front door, swinging it open and bounding down the stairs before my grandmother had even exited the vehicle.

“Big Red!” The excitement in my voice caused my grandmother to give me not only a huge smile, but a saucy wink, as she climbed from the SUV. “Big Red.” The second time, my voice was much softer, but the reverence I felt for the lady standing in front of me was still evident.

Ruth Waverly was a slight woman with fair skin, large hazel eyes, a semi up-turned nose, sandy brown hair that was both thick and curly and a full bottom lip. She was strikingly beautiful, remarkably outspoken, impressively unapologetic, and extremely unbothered. I wished that I had inherited more from her than just her full bottom lip, her curly auburn hair, and her large hazel eyes.

Everybody called her Big Red, including her children and her grandchildren. The “red” was because her skin was so fair that she was known as a “redbone” in her hometown of Fenwick, Kentucky. The “big” was due to her lack of height, but it was also a testimony to her personality, which had always been larger than life.

There were three of my cousins with her—one in the driver’s seat of the Chevy, and two in the U-Haul truck. They stayed put, waiting for my grandmother to give them the word to start loading my belongings in the truck.

Big Red took me in with an appreciative gaze in her eyes. That was one of her things. She believed in greeting her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren with a look of love in her eyes. She believed that at the end of the day—no matter the age, status, or circumstance—every child on the face of the earth wanted their parents to look at them with love.

“Come spread some love.” She beckoned me to her.

“It’s the Brooklyn way.” I giggled my response.

Since birth, my Uncle Jeff liked to associate the lyrics of Biggie’s song “Juicy” to me and my name. Whenever he greeted me, he would tell me to come spread love because it was the Brooklyn way. My family had adopted that little habit, even Big Red.

I walked into my grandmother’s open arms. I squeezed her tightly while inhaling the familiar scent of mandarin, honeysuckle, and ruby red grapefruit. Clinique’s Happy was Big Red’s signature scent. She didn’t care that the fragrance was no longer en vogue or that there were thousands of scents that cost more and were more prestigious. She said that when she sprayed herself with her Happy perfume, it made her feel… happy. And as long as it lived up to its name, she would continue to wear it. I loved her perfume. It smelled like home, acceptance, and love to me. I was glad that every time I hugged her, she smelled exactly like herself.

“Is Vince planning to help your cousins get your things loaded into the truck?” Big Red questioned, piercing me with her light brown eyes.

She was like that. I figured it came from her being so petite. She just didn’t believe in doing anything that she could get a man to do for her. Maybe it was a sign of her generation. Maybe back then, men did stuff like that because… manners. Maybe it came from her being so pretty. Maybe men were always falling all over themselves to help her and gain her attention. Regardless of where it came from, I didn’t have the same confidence in men that she did. I didn’t see men falling all over themselves to help women out in sticky situations. The man I interacted with the most (Vince) had trained me not to ask him for stuff that I could do for myself. And I was a quick study. I rarely asked him for anything.

I tried not to roll my eyes. “Big Red, I don’t mess with Vince like that. We’re not friends… We’re reluctant roommates.”

“I wouldn’t care if you two are strangers, Brookie. You’re a woman. He needs to help you.”

“I don’t want his help. I…” Before I could even complete my sentence, she had beckoned to my cousins and started off toward my building.

I walked into the apartment while a conversation was already taking place between Vince and my grandmother. My cousins weren’t visible, so I presumed they were in my bedroom, making a game plan.

“Nah, Mrs. Waverly,” Vince was saying with a smile on his clean-shaven face, “I don’t have time to enjoy much of anything. My life is lectures, surgical observations, and surgical rotations. I barely have time for anything else.” He chuckled and looked up at the ceiling. “I have to pencil in time to spend with my girl so she won’t have an attitude with me.”

The temperature of the room turned icy at the mention of “his girl.” The three of us just stood there in awkward silence.

“I didn’t even know you were coming into town.” He finally spoke into the silence.

“I know. I know you and my Brookie don’t talk to each other ever since you took up with her former client.”

His face fell, like he was both shocked and embarrassed that my grandmother knew about the dirt he had done to me. Before he could recover, two of my cousins came from my bedroom, carrying my dresser.

“What’s happening?”

My grandmother’s expression held a frown when her gaze turned to me. “You didn’t tell this boy that you’re moving?”

I frowned back at her. “No, I did not. Where I’m from, the right hand doesn’t have to let the left hand know what it’s doing.”

His arms went up in what looked like a sign of surrender. “Wow, Brooklyn. That’s wild. You decided to move, and you didn’t even bother to let me know?”

I ignored him and his fake indignation. Pulling my grandmother away from him, I led us off to the side and out of his earshot. “I don’t know that man, Big Red. That man comes and goes like the wind, doesn’t talk to me, and never tells me his agenda. Why should I tell him anything?”

She nodded slowly. “You have a point.”

“I know I do. That man could have decided to… disappear me, unalive me, or anything. I wasn’t about to give him any hints that anything was different with our situation. He didn’t give me any heads-up when he decided that he wasn’t moving out, even though his word should have been his bond. He made a unilateral decision to keep staying here… so, I made a unilateral decision, too.

“I let the management company know that I was moving. Made sure they took my name off the lease. They did the walk-through of the apartment yesterday—told me that I’ll be getting a check for half of the security deposit in the mail… at my new address. I let the light company know, as well as the internet people. Oh yeah, I also filled out one of those little cards at the post office.” I led Big Red back over to Vince, finally speaking to him. “I’m moving today. I’ve already had my name taken off the lease. I put in a request to have my name removed from both the light and internet bills. You’re gonna need to call them to establish service in your own name.” I paused for a beat. “Now, you have the particulars. Please do with them what you will.”

Vince mugged the hell out of me before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

Big Red watched him go. “You did the right thing, Brookie. I can see why you didn’t tell him. That boy ain’t right in the head.”

I didn’t respond.

My grandmother watched Vince’s back until he disappeared into his bedroom.

She glanced at me. “You ready?”

“I’m ready.”

It took my cousins a few hours to get my things loaded into the U-Haul. At one point, Vince had come out of his room looking and behaving like he was about to leave for work. Once he saw me pointing out which furniture pieces should be placed on the truck, his eyes bugged.

My eyes rolled. I knew this dude didn’t think I was about to leave behind the furniture that I paid for so he and his girl could have someplace to frolic. He really wasn’t right in the head if he thought that.

He pulled out his phone, whispered into it, then made his way into the kitchen. He stood there like some type of overseer, watching every move my cousins made presumably making sure they didn’t take anything that belonged to him. He did not have to worry. His taste was basic and ugly as fuck. He could keep those whack ass brown wooden lamps that matched the brown threadbare ass floor rug. He could also keep the hideous, raggedy dark brown recliner.

When my cousins were done loading the truck, the apartment looked noticeably different. I took one last lap around the place, nodding at Big Red once I was certain that everything I wanted to take had been removed.

“We’re headed out now, Vince,” Big Red called to him, causing a guttural groan to escape from my closed lips. My plan was to leave without uttering one word to him.

“Okay.” He made his way from the kitchen toward us. When he was close, he actually wrapped my grandmother up in a hug.

“It’s always a pleasure, Mrs. Waverly,” he told her.

She gave a single nod. “I don’t think we’ll ever lay eyes on one another again on this side of glory, Vince.”

His eyes grew large at the bluntness of her words.

“But,” she continued, “let me pray for you before I go.”

I moved to step away so that she could hold his hand or his shoulder or whatever part of him she planned to touch while she prayed. All I knew was that I didn’t want to join in any prayer circle that would require me to hold his hand.

I had mixed feelings about Vince. There was a part of me that truly resented him and his recent treatment of me. But there was also a part of me that remembered how he had been there for me during a time I really needed someone to lean on. He had been solid and reliable. I didn’t hate him, but I definitely didn’t like him.

“Aww, Mrs. Waverly, I don’t want to be disrespectful to you, but you know I don’t really believe in all of that… Jesus, the Devil, Heaven, and Hell stuff.”

“You don’t have to believe in it, Vince. I do. And besides that, even if it is all make-believe and folklore, what’s the harm in it?”

I lingered behind them, pretending to adjust something inside my purse. I wanted to hear what she would pray over him, but I didn’t really want to be involved.

Instruction came from Big Red. “Get over here, Brooklyn, and let’s join hands.”

Suppressing an audible or even visual sigh, I walked over and linked a hand with Vince’s and the other with Big Red’s.

“Heavenly Father,” Big Red began, “we come to You in the mighty and matchless name of your son, our Lord, Jesus Christ. We come thanking You for all that You are, and all that You have done. Thank You for being an all-knowing God. Thank You, Lord, that even when humans are blinded by charm and… moyen looks, You recognize a rapscallion when You see one.”

I had to stop myself from giggling once I realized that it was going to be one of those prayers. My grandmother specialized in telling you truthfully about yourself, under the guise of speaking a blessing over your life. When she was really disgusted with you, she would throw in a little bit of her favorite language, French. Her using the word moyen let me know what type of time she was on. And I was there for it. She was about to roast Vince, and he wouldn’t even know it.

Translation of the opening words of her prayer: Thank You, Lord, for being all knowing, even though my granddaughter was an absolute fool for falling for somebody who was moderately charming, but not handsome, with his medium looks. You knew from the get-go that he was a motherfucker.

The word rapscallion didn’t literally translate to motherfucker. It actually translated to something like… mischievous person . But I had been Ruth Waverly’s granddaughter all my life, so I knew what she meant when she used the word. She used that word to fill in for one of two phrases that she would never dare utter: motherfucker and no-good nigga.

She continued. “Lord, You know. You know the hearts of those that belong to You and even those who don’t. You know where they’re delicate and where they’re wicked. Your word says that little foxes will see tender grapes, come in and will destroy the vine. Don’t let that happen, Lord. When the enemy comes in like a flood, fulfill your word, Lord, and raise up a standard against it. Remind us to be as Matthew chapter seven, verse six instructs. Let us not give what is holy to dogs, or cast our pearls to swine, lest they trample them, then turn and do the same to us.”

Translation for the second stanza of the prayer: Lord, when You find a fool, You should bump their head. Brooklyn was a fool, so Vince bumped her head. Let her have learned her lesson, Lord. When he (or the next man) tries this again, let her see that thing for what it is. Don’t let her be the same fool twice. Lord, remind Brooklyn not to give away what she considers valuable to those who are unworthy. First of all, they won’t appreciate the importance of what she’s given them. Then, once they squander and destroy her gift, they’ll turn around and try to destroy her spiritually, mentally, and maybe even physically.

She went on.

“Lord, I ask that You lay your hands on both my Brookie and Vince right now. Search their hearts and minds. Make every crooked place straight. Rebuke anything that is not like You. Come in like a mighty rushing river against anything that is not like You.”

That part was self-explanatory.

She continued.

“Lord, your word will never come back void and will accomplish exactly what You please. Your word says that the prayers of the righteous avail much, so I ask in your holy name that any person who touches even the very hair of your anointed shall face your reprisal to the highest degree. Your word says that one thing You hate is feet that are quick to rush into evil. May every Judas reap what he has sown. May every Delilah stand in triumph holding the very strength of every foolish Samson in her hand, while he looks on love-drunk and dazed. And Lord, if it be your will that those called of You might be present to witness the spectacle to gain encouragement and faith in your ability to deliver recompense in any way you see fit, then we ask that it be so.

“Position every Esther, Lord. Strengthen her. Equip her. When Boaz shows himself, Lord… give her the wisdom to recognize and realize that she has been called for such a time as this. Now Lord, may we leave this place, but never your presence. Amen.”

Translation: Lord, please answer my prayer. May Vince pay heavily for every dirty deed he’s perpetrated against my granddaughter. May he reap what he has sown by having Kelly play in his face, while he stands there still in love with her and not understanding why she is doing him the same way he did Brooklyn. May the floozy he’s messing with take everything from him: his money, his power, his happiness, and maybe even his good name. And if it’s in your will, Lord, let Brooklyn witness this to remind her that she is important to You, and You will come against things and beings that come against her unjustly. Prepare Brooklyn to meet the man You have prepared for her. Amen.

I quickly dropped Vince’s hand and turned my gaze to my grandmother.

“Big Red.” I admonished her with a slight frown. I mean, I didn’t like Vince’s ass, but my grandmother had basically prayed for doom and destruction to fall over his life. Then she asked God to let me bear witness to the man’s demise.

“I said, amen.” Her tone was serious as she finally released Vince’s hand.

“This is why people be suspicious of Christians… and of people praying over them,” I whispered in her ear.

She shrugged me off her. “Like Katt Williams said, if you wanted me to speak more highly of you, then perhaps you should have treated me better.”

“What do you know about Katt Williams?”

She walked away from me, headed toward the front door.

Vince met her there and pulled her into a second hug. “Thank you, Mrs. Waverly.”

I shook my head, as a specific bible verse popped into my head. First Corinthians 1:27 - God has chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise.

This dude was a doctor and book smart as hell. There was no reason he should’ve been thanking her for praying a prayer of devastation over his life.

“Dumb ass.” Only my lips moved, though. I made sure no sound came out.

The drive from my former apartment to my new locale took about eleven hours. We did it in two days, stopping late into the night at a roadside hotel before finishing the trek the next day. Once my cousins had unloaded the U-Haul at Carrington’s former residence and helped me get the furniture placed—after my grandmother had filled my refrigerator with groceries and my wallet with some ‘just-in-case money’—I drove them all to the airport. I bid them safe travels as they headed back to Kentucky, then headed to the guest house that I would call home.

When I arrived back at the guest house, I took the time to look around and really take in the space. The home offered roughly fifteen hundred square feet of living space, situated on one level. It sat on the property belonging to one Cameron Field, the twin brother of my friend and former roommate, Carrington.

While Carrington had inherited her father’s love of eye care, following in his footsteps and pursuing a career as an optometrist, her twin had decided to pursue a career in professional sports. He was the starting shooting guard for The Chicago Bison, the current NBA champions. Cameron was tall, gorgeous, and clearly benevolent. He was letting me live rent-free in his guest house just based on the strength of my relationship with his sister.

Cameron and I weren’t cool. Despite the fact that I had roomed in the dorms with Carrington, going on to share an apartment with her, I hadn’t met him many times. Carrington was funny acting about Cameron. She felt like people changed when they found out her brother was a successful college athlete. She felt like people made a big deal over him and that made both of them uncomfortable. She didn’t invite him to visit Hale-Williams University’s campus very often. She preferred to visit him at Booker University, where people were used to him and were much less prone to acting weird. She would go there often to watch him play or just hang out with him. The few times Cameron had come to Hale-Williams, she introduced us. He’d been amiable and pleasant, but I never really felt like he had… considered me. Really noticed me. As far as I was concerned, I could walk up to Cameron Field anywhere in the world, and he would probably greet me like a complete stranger. I felt almost certain that he never really noticed me enough to recognize me outside of the context of being Carrington’s roommate.

For my part, I was smitten with Cameron. What was there not to be smitten with? Cameron’s tall frame had been dunked in the most luscious looking caramel coating. The man didn’t miss not one day at the gym, as was evidenced by the buff, lickable-ness of his defined muscles. His piercing dark eyes, rounded nose, full mouth, and perfectly edged-up beard situation made him super desirable to me. And the tatted sleeve on his right arm gave him just the right amount of edge to make me constantly cyber stalk his social media and pour over pictures of him.

I put all thoughts about Cameron behind me and moved through the space. Because the guest house opened out onto the pool, there wasn’t a traditional front door. Instead, there was a wall of glass doors that folded into one another to allow for indoor-outdoor access. The guest house featured an open floorplan, with the living room, dining space, and kitchen being visible from the pool and the pool deck. Around the corner from the living room was a powder room with a stackable washer and dryer. It was convenient for wet towels and dripping swimsuits brought in from the pool area. Just past the powder room was a large bedroom that offered an upscale en suite with a deep soaking tub, an oversized shower, heated floors, and an extra-large towel warmer.

The house was light and bright, with creamy white walls and light oak wood trim. The place came fully furnished, which was a blessing. My furniture would have been completely out of place in the space. Living with a man, I thought I needed to decorate in a way that incorporated his style and taste to create a harmonious home. The only issue was that I didn’t enjoy Vince’s style, which ran the gamut of whatever caught his eye at any given moment. There was no rhyme or reason as to how we’d decorated our apartment. It was just a mishmash of things that when I looked at them with new eyes, were ugly. The plaid sofa I’d insisted on bringing with me looked worn and dated. My dining table’s wood looked orange. The artwork that I picked up from big box stores and smaller stores alike would have seriously cheapened the upscale atmosphere that had been built into the guest house. I was so glad that I left those things at the storage facility. After looking at the style and quality of the guest house’s furniture, I knew the next move for my own furniture would be to the dump.

Six Weeks Later

Carrington promised that if I moved to her hometown, she would make sure I had a community. She told no lies. From the day I relocated to the island, she had included me in all her social activities. This particular morning, I was whisked off to Sunday service with Carrington, her fiancé, her cousin, a family friend, and her parents at Sacred Anointing Covenant Church. After service, the seven of us went to brunch.

“Brooklyn.” Madeline Field spoke my name the second we had given our orders to the friendly waitress.

I looked up from where I had been arranging my silverware on the table. I wasn’t generally a shy person, but like most people, I had the tendency to be quiet when I was around people I didn’t know well. I knew Mr. and Mrs. Field somewhat well, from my time rooming with Carrington. Though we weren’t close, I liked them both. “Yes, ma’am?”

“I want you to meet our niece, Nyrah.” Mrs. Field made the introduction.

“This is my favorite cousin.” Carrington bumped the shoulder of the young lady sitting between us.

I grinned. “Hello.”

She returned the gesture. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said. Her voice was soft and buttery—her southern accent warm and sweet.

“It’s nice to meet you as well.”

“And this,” Mrs. Field rested her hand on the forearm of the woman who sat beside her, wearing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, “is Tiara Smith. Her father and Mr. Field are friends and fraternity brothers.”

“And don’t forget that I was almost your daughter-in-law,” the young lady reminded her in a playful tone.

Mr. Field chuckled. “You’re right, Tiara. There was most definitely a time that we thought you and Cameron would transition from high school sweethearts into newlyweds.”

Mrs. Field choked on a sip of iced water.

“I knew that wasn’t going to happen,” Carrington insisted. “Especially once Cam committed to Booker University and Tiara went to Virginia Colony. The writing was very obviously on the wall.”

I watched Tiara shoot Carrington a glare that I didn’t understand, which Carrington returned with an expression that said she dared Tiara to tell her she was lying.

“So, yes,” Mrs. Fields broke the silence, “Cameron and Tiara did date in high school, but Tiara has since moved on. You’re with… Ethan Washington, right?”

Tiara looked properly chastised, then responded with, “Yes, ma’am. I am.”

Mrs. Field gave another smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I hope good things come from that union.”

An awkward silence fell over the table, which Nyrah broke. “I love your dress, Brooklyn. Is that Lilly Pulitzer?”

I wasn’t surprised that she had asked, because the dress that I was wearing featured a print that the iconic designer definitely would’ve loved. The A-line dress was made of a drapey, silky cotton modal and featured a baby pink background with grass green vertical stripes placed about every inch and a half or so.

I smiled, pleased that my dress was giving what it needed to give in order to be confused with a Lilly Pulitzer. “It’s not. Actually, it’s by Spread Love —”

“A Brooklyn Way original,” both Carrington and I said at the same time before falling into giggles. Even Mrs. Field joined in.

Both Nyrah and Tiara looked confused.

“It’s my dress. I’m Brooklyn Waverly. I’m a designer. I have a line called Spread Love . This dress is an original that I made for myself. Thank you for liking it.”

Since I’d been living in the guest house with access to a pool, I’d taken to swimming almost every day. I didn’t realize what great exercise swimming was until the weight started falling off me. I’d lost almost twenty pounds in six weeks, but it was the inches that I lost that put the icing on the cake. They were the reason that the dress I was wearing floated over my curves instead of getting hung up on rolls, bulges, and pudges. Swimming had smoothed me out, tightening my muscles and giving them definition.

Nyrah reached over and lightly fingered the fabric. “Cotton modal.” She made indecipherable but impressed sounds with her mouth. “What made you choose cotton modal?”

My eyes bugged. “Oh, you’re familiar, familiar with fabrics.”

“I’m into textiles.”

Carrington explained what her cousin meant. “Nyrah is a buyer for Freedom Journey .”

My eyes bugged for a second time, but the first time was in jest; this time… was not. “The black owned luxury store whose flagship is in Charleston?” For some strange reason, tears sprang to my eyes. “I have an appointment with the owner, Journey, on Friday morning. She’s giving me a tour of the store.”

Nyrah shrugged her slim shoulders. “Maybe if I’m free, I’ll swing through. Does she have you bringing by any samples?”

I shook my head sadly. “I’ve…” I wasn’t sure exactly how to describe what had been going on with me, “…slowed down.” Admitting that out loud tried to steal the air from my lungs, so I took slow breaths until I felt the wave of nausea pass. “My personal life got the best of me for a minute. I lost the desire to create.”

Nyrah’s head was nodding and so was Mrs. Field’s.

“But sewing is my passion. I’ve been slowly getting back into it by making pieces for myself. Maybe one day I’ll get back to making pieces for others.”

That was when Mrs. Field jumped in. “I’m so glad to hear you say that, Brooklyn. When Carrington told me that you hadn’t been sewing, I was heartbroken. I know how much it meant to you. I used to watch your YouTube videos. The joy on your face when you would present clients with their finished pieces… it was obvious how much you loved what you did.”

“You have a YouTube channel?” Nyrah questioned.

I nodded reluctantly. “Yes, but it hasn’t been updated in ages. A client of mine, a fellow YouTuber, hired me to make a dress for her thirtieth birthday party. What I didn’t know was that while I was working on her dress, she was working on my boyfriend.”

A loud bark of laughter came from the other side of the table. “That was you?”

“Tiara, please lower your volume.” Mrs. Field’s chiding was coupled with a displeased glare.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Field. It’s just that I heard about that. So, to put a face with that situation is… wild. That’s crazy.” Her mirth-filled eyes found mine. “Wow. A client hired you, then stole your man. Wow.”

“Tiara—” Mrs. Field began.

“Diabolical people do diabolical things, Brooklyn,” Mr. Field told me. “Regardless of how people try to spin it, their behavior is a reflection of them, not you.”

“Thank you.”

“Anyway,” Mrs. Field reached across her husband and patted my folded hands lightly, “I’m glad to hear that you’re ready to get back to your passion because I have a passion project for you.”

“Mom, do not try to push a long, drawn-out project on her before she has time to work on my dress.” Carrington’s tone was whiny.

“Brooklyn is a professional seamstress; she can get both things done.”

Carrington folded her arms across her chest before demanding, “But my dress should be the priority.”

“We’ll see.”

I laughed at the fact that Mrs. Field wouldn’t give in to Carrington.

“This is for the girls, Carrington.”

“Everything is for the girls, Mom. What about your girl? Me?” Carrington questioned.

It was Mr. Field’s turn to laugh. “She’s got you there, Madeline.”

“Honestly, Mom, you have this ball every single year. I’m only getting married once.” Carrington wrapped her arm around Bryce’s arm, while he kissed her atop her head.

Mrs. Field let out a defeated sigh. “Okay. Okay. Let’s share the scope of both projects with Brooklyn, and she can prioritize how she sees fit.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m already aware that Carrington needs some alterations done to her wedding gown.” I faced Carrington. “I’ll need to see the dress, boo. What exactly do you need, Mrs. Field?”

“You know I own a boutique etiquette and finishing business—”

“ In Polite Company ,” Carrington and Nyrah sing-songed in unison.

Mrs. Field smirked at them before saying sarcastically, “Two of my satisfied customers.”

“I loved etiquette classes.” Nyrah blew her aunt a kiss across the table.

“I hated them,” Carrington groused.

“Me, too,” Tiara seconded, which drew the ire of Mrs. Field.

“You missed eighty-five percent of the classes, Tiara,” she reminded her. “You were only there for the first few lessons. I don’t think you made it past how to do a proper introduction. What was there to hate? Saying hello to people?”

Tiara was saved from responding by several servers arriving at our table with our food. Once we were settled with our selections, Mrs. Field tried again.

“Because I do a great deal of charity and community work, there is an arm of my business that offers free etiquette training to students ages eleven to fourteen who have a membership at The Dorothy Jackson Community Center. It’s the center that my son created. Anyway, I have eighteen girls participating in cotillion this season—”

Carrington interrupted her mother. “You need eighteen dresses made?”

“Carrington,” her mother began, “we’re sitting here talking about me owning and operating an etiquette business while you have the worst manners at the table. Now, please!”

Carrington looked properly chastised, placing her eyes on her plate for a brief moment, before looking up again. “I apologize. I was caught off guard by the number.”

“Had you allowed me to finish my thought, you would’ve known that I do not need eighteen dresses made. I have some girls whose parents are taking care of their dresses. My team and I were also able to find some dresses off-the-rack for some of the girls. However, we have a few… about five or six, who are either hard-to-fit or picky or something. I’m hoping you’ll agree to come up with something for those young ladies.”

“Hard to fit?” Tiara repeated the phrase. “That’s right up your alley, since at your size, you must be really familiar with being hard to fit.”

I stared at her for a few seconds. It was obvious that she was a classic mean girl. I wasn’t one to mess with people. Unfortunately, that trait sometimes made me the target of people who didn’t like themselves. Usually, I would let shade roll off of me, but that behavior had encouraged Vince to take liberties with me that he shouldn’t have. I wasn’t about to be the same fool twice. I didn’t know how many interactions I would have to have with this chick in my dealings with Carrington and her family. It was best that I set her straight early.

“Same for you, right? A grown woman wearing what? A child’s size twelve? You must shop in the tween section.” I gave her a bright, but super fake smile. “I see you in your little jewel-toned dress… Justice , right?”

Carrington looked over at her mother. “Oooh, I used to love their clothes in middle school. Back then, I think it was called J ustice for Girls . Remember, Ma?”

Nyrah choked on her water, while Tiara scowled at me.

I shot her an innocent look. What did she expect? To shit on me and me just let it happen? Not anymore.