“How could there possibly be any records on the entire planet you don’t already have stored in the dining room?”
“There’s maybe a few left. Want to help me look?”
“I could. Or I could stay here and wait for the contractor.”
He shrugged. “Okay. The bathroom in question is the first door on the left at the top of the stairs if you want to show him where to go. I’ll be back in a minute.”
I strolled through the first floor of the house, looking for any signs of Dani, but everything personal must have been packed up and put away. Made sense with vacationers in and out so frequently, but I still felt a twinge of disappointment. Not one I would admit to out loud. But it was there, nonetheless.
The sound of boots on the front porch pulled me back to the front door where I let the contractor in and pointed him in the direction of the upstairs bathroom and the leaking roof. After, I went searching for Isaac. The garage was just off the kitchen, so he was easy to find.
“Did you find anything?”
He looked up and grinned, holding up an old fruit crate. “Springsteen, The Eagles, Steely Dan.” Isaac pulled an album out of the crate with both hands. “What?! It’s here! I thought I lost this thing in the move.” He turned the album to face me. “It’s an original release of Red Renegade’s first album. I can’t believe it’s been here all this time.”
I paused at an open box pushed up against the wall, my eye caught by a shiny gold tag I would recognize anywhere. I pulled a navy handbag out of the box, the LeFranc label clear on the left corner of the bag. In the box, there were others, all different sizes and colors. And all LeFranc. “Did Dani ever tell you she’s got a good friend who’s the nephew of Red Renegade’s lead singer?”
Isaac paused. “What?”
“Darius. She works with his husband at LeFranc.”
Isaac hefted the crate and crossed to where I stood. “Ohhh, you found Dani’s stash.” He looked over my shoulder. “I swear she took more than this with her when she went to New York. I’m surprised she had so many to leave behind.”
“Are they all LeFranc?” It was an impressive collection.
“The girl had a homing beacon to help her find them. Every thrift store, pawnshop, garage sale, whatever. If there was a LeFranc bag on the premises, she’d find it. But seriously. He’s legit related to Reggie Fletcher? The Reggie Fletcher?”
“By marriage, I think? On his mother’s side? But yes. I remember we were at Chase and Darius’s apartment watching a movie once and he stopped by on his way to London to give Darius the keys to his car. Did she only collect LeFranc?” I repeated. “No other designers?”
Isaac’s eyes were wide. “Don’t change the subject. You were actually in the same room with Reggie Fletcher? Did you talk to him?”
I dropped the handbag back into the box and pushed my hands into my pockets, suddenly surprised that Dani had never mentioned the encounter to Isaac. She had to know how much Isaac idolized him. “Just introductions. Nothing monumental.”
He shook his head, leading me out of the garage. “Anything would be monumental. Dani was there, too? I can’t believe she didn’t tell me. Or take a selfie with him. Or get his autograph.” He turned around, excitement in his eyes. “Do you think she could still get me his autograph? Seriously. I’m going to kill her for not mentioning this. I could send her my albums, except, no, I’d never risk putting them in the mail. Maybe we could drive them up there. Are you up for a road trip?”
Huh. Maybe I did understand why Dani hadn’t mentioned it. Fortunately, the contractor showed up in the kitchen to go over his estimates with Isaac, so I never had to actually commit to a road trip. I knew Isaac well enough to know he wouldn’t forget about the possibility of the plan, but his mind was busy enough he likely wouldn’t get around to bringing it up again for at least a week or more. That was plenty of time for me to text Dani and warn her.
I could also text Darius, but we hadn’t chatted in a while. In the breakup, Dani had kept our closest friends.
I thought back on the collection of LeFranc bags sitting out in the garage. Dani had always spoken highly of LeFranc and had been open with me about her desire to design for the company, but clearly, the dream had roots.
Deep ones.
Chapter Seventeen
Dani
$14.23. That’s all I had left over after a one-way flight from La Guardia to Charleston, twenty-five dollars to check my baggage, and a bagel—the only food I’d eaten in thirty-six hours—on my way out of the airport. Which was tricky. Because the cab ride to my brother’s front door totaled $23.50.
I dug through my purse, banking on the fifty-dollar bill I kept tucked away in the side zipper pocket. I hated to spend it. The bill was symbolic for me in a lot of ways, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
The cash wasn’t there. I checked the opposite pocket, the one without a zipper where my sunglasses lived, then every other pocket in my purse. It didn’t make any sense. I had hoped the cab ride would come in under fourteen dollars, but I’d climbed into the cab knowing that if it didn’t, I’d still be covered. Because my fifty-dollar-bill was always in my purse, an ever-stalwart symbol of my survival, a talisman I’d grown to equate with my success in the city. My father had given it to me the morning I’d left for New York to attend design school. In case there’s an emergency, he’d told me.
I still didn’t know what kind of an emergency could ever be solved with fifty dollars alone, though I guessed the mess I was sitting in probably qualified. Only, the cash wasn’t there. For years I’d hung onto it with a certain religious zeal. I lived paycheck to paycheck. I budgeted. I paid my bills and scraped together the extra to buy fabric or lace-covered buttons or a new pair of Gingher knife-edged sewing shears. But I always took comfort in knowing that I had that fifty dollars socked away. Ready to feed me or buy off a criminal or pay cab fare if I ever wound up in a not-so-safe part of town and didn’t want to walk to the subway.
I sank back onto the faded upholstery of the cab’s back seat. Fitting that now, in the middle of my abject humiliation, the very moment most defined by my failure as a New York designer, my talisman was gone.
“I’m sure I’ve got something,” I said to the driver.
“You got a credit card? I take them all. VISA, Mastercard, American Express . . .”
Of course I had a credit card. But living in the city wasn’t cheap. Especially when all your friends made more money than you did and constantly invited you to go to this restaurant or that club. My credit limit wasn’t that high—intentional self-preservation—but I still managed to keep the balance hovering right around the maxed-out mark. When I’d tried to use it at the airport to buy something better than a bagel, it had been declined.
Verifying one last time that my purse wasn’t hiding anything but a coupon for a free manicure and a receipt for Chinese take-out, I resigned myself to my inevitable fate, willing myself to accept how much pride I would have to swallow in the next five minutes.
“Give me a minute, okay? I can get the cash inside.”
The driver shot me a look over his shoulder, then pulled out his cell phone. “Fine, but I’m leaving the meter running.”