Marjorie’s face fell. “Tonight? That’s going to be tough if alterations are needed.”

  “Money is no object,” Bree said.

  “Oh,” Marjorie said, grinning now. “Then we can make this happen.”

  “Excellent,” Bree said and followed her to the rack where the gorgeous black ball gown with the exquisite brocade work on the bodice hung.

  Marjorie pulled it off the rack and held it up against Bree. “So dramatic. I think it’ll fit, and if not, we’ll make it fit.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty-five hundred,” Marjorie said.

  Bree hesitated, then said, “That works.”

  “Let’s see what we’re dealing with,” Marjorie said, taking charge. “The fitting rooms are this way.”

  Marjorie was standing in front of several mirrors and holding open the fitting-room door for her when Bree’s personal cell phone rang. She dug it out of her purse and saw Alex was trying to FaceTime her.

  “I’m going to need a minute, Marjorie,” Bree said. “I have to watch my stepdaughter’s big track race.”

  “I used to run track,” Marjorie said brightly. “The eight-hundred.”

  “Jannie’s in the four-hundred,” Bree said, answering the video call.

  Chapter

  24

  I called Bree as I was standing in the bleachers by the track at Howard University between Nana Mama and my son Damon, who had just regaled us with the story of his ride in the private jet. Ali was sitting behind us, absorbed in a book.

  Bree’s face appeared on my phone.

  “Still want to watch?” I said, seeing that she was in a store of some kind.

  “Definitely,” Bree said. “Is she getting ready?”

  I glanced at the track. Jannie was doing a few loose practice starts out of her blocks, which were in lane three on a stagger of six.

  “She is ready,” I said.

  Damon leaned over. “She was in the zone when we got here.”

  “Hi, Damon!” Bree called.

  “Good to see you! Wish you were here!”

  “Next best thing.”

  Ali set his book aside, grabbed my wrist, and pulled the phone down so Bree could see his face. “I think she’s going to blow people’s doors in, Bree,” Ali said. “Where are you?”

  “A store in New York,” she said. “Let me talk to your dad again.”

  I raised the phone to my face. “Shopping?”

  She grinned a little naughtily. “I am. On an expense account. For a black-tie affair.”

  “Well, la-di-da,” I said, and laughed. “You and Damon!”

  “I know, right? Do you want to see the dress?”

  “Sure.”

  Bree looked away. “Marjorie, can you bring the dress over so my husband can take a look?”

  She turned the camera and I saw a slight, pretty blonde come toward the lens carrying one of the most beautiful dresses I had ever seen.

  “Wowzah,” I said.

  “Wowzah if I can fit into it,” Bree said.

  “You absolutely will,” Marjorie said, sounding insistent.

  Nana Mama pulled on my left sleeve. “Jannie’s getting ready to go.”

  “C’mon, sis,” Damon said. “Show ’em how.”

  Out on the track, the official was calling the girls to race. This was an invitation-only event, which meant the competition would be fierce. Indeed, four girls in the field were already committed on scholarship to Division 1 NCAA programs. Only Jannie and a young woman from Richmond had not yet completed their dance cards.

  “What’s happening?” Bree asked.

  “Sorry,” I said and I aimed the phone camera at the track. “Can you see?”

  “Now I can,” Bree said. “And Marjorie says turn your phone sideways so we can see in full screen.”

  I complied. Looking around at the people getting to their feet, I saw eight or nine coaches I recognized from past recruiting visits. Shortly after we’d arrived today, several of them had come up to me, including the coaches from the Universities of Oregon and Texas. I had to tell them that I honestly had no idea where Jannie would decide to go to school.

  “On your marks,” the official called out.

  The athletes went to their blocks, some appearing confident and some who struck me as tense. Several of them glanced at Jannie, who settled into her blocks, loose, ignoring them and everything else but the lane before her.

  “Set.”

  My daughter coiled like a big cat about to spring.

  The starting gun cracked.

  Jannie burst out of the blocks low and charging, her hands open and slicing upward like blades. Twenty yards out, she began to lift her torso inch by inch with each stride. Her legs and arms were chopping as she ran the first curve. But by the time Jannie exited the turn, her shoulders and head were nearly upright, and her stride and arm pumps had become longer, easier.

  As the athletes came down the backstretch, battling the stagger, the two women to Jannie’s inside were falling off the pace. But a young woman committed to Syracuse University was way out to Jannie’s right in lane six and looking strong.

  In lane five, and also running well, was a girl pledged to the University of Florida. The uncommitted athlete from Richmond was in lane four.

  “Why’s Jannie so far behind?” my grandmother asked.

  Damon said, “They’re fighting the stagger, Nana. We won’t see where she really is in the race until they come out of the second turn.”

  Ali said, “That’s when she’ll kick in the afterburners.”

  As the four athletes still in contention entered the far turn, I made sure the camera was still on them. Then I noticed that the coaches below us were all on their feet, watching the race and taking quick glances at their stopwatches.

  I could see now that Jannie was gaining on the girl from Richmond, who was running hard herself. So were the athletes committed to Florida and Syracuse. Then my daughter did something I’d seen her do multiple times but that was still breathtaking to witness. Midway through the final turn, Jannie tapped into some God-given reservoir of energy and athleticism deep within herself.

  She hit another gear.

  Her stride lengthened, causing her to bound more than run as she finished the curve and blew past the girl committed to Syracuse. In the far outside lane, the young lady set to attend Florida was flying. So was the girl from Richmond. They were all neck and neck entering the homestretch.

  The crowd in the stands roared louder when Jannie hit yet another gear and swiftly opened up a ten- and then twenty-yard margin before blazing through the finish leaning forward. The high-schooler from Richmond finished second and the Florida-bound recruit a winded third.

  Jannie took her foot off the gas, slowed to a jog, and turned.

  The Florida athlete appeared astonished. The Richmond girl had her arms overhead. The coaches were going wild.

  But my focus was on Jannie. One of the track officials had run out and was saying something to her. My daughter looked at the man incredulously before she fell to the track, sobbing.

  Chapter

  25

  “What in God’s name just happened?” Nana Mama demanded.

  “Did they disqualify her, Dad?” Damon said.

  Ali cried, “No, she was in her lane!”

  “I thought so too. I’ll go see,” I said, my stomach souring as I tried to get down through the crowd in the stands and onto the track.

  Disqualified? She’s going to be heartbroken.

  I passed the women’s coach from the University of Texas, who slapped me on the back and said, “How does that one feel, Dr. Cross?”

  I thought that was an odd thing to say, and I turned to look at her. “That Jannie was disqualified?”

  “Disqualified?” the coach said, and she threw her head back and laughed. “She wasn’t disqualified! Jannie just ran fifty point seventy-four!”

  “That’s good, I think,” I said, relieved.

  “Good? Your daughter just tied the national high-school record in the four-hundred, Dr. Cross!”

  My jaw dropped. “What? No.”

  The coach had tears in her eyes before I did. “Yes! And I know I told you she should be a heptathlete, but I would be absolutely honored if she came to Texas to run the four-hundred for the Longhorns.”

  “Not if she comes northwest to the land of Nike,” said the coach from the University of Oregon, a long, lanky guy who was now standing beside the Texas coach.

  Several other coaches I recognized were all looking at me for hope.

  I wiped away my tears, threw up my hands. “Your guess is as good as mine!”

  After yelling the news up to Ali and Nana Mama, I got down on the track and ran to Jannie, who was back on her feet and surrounded by athletes, coaches, officials, and spectators, all clapping and congratulating her. She saw me, burst into tears again, and ran into my arms.

  “Tell me,” she said, trembling against me. “Fifty point seventy-four seconds. Tell me I just did that, Dad.”

  “You did. I saw it. We all saw it.”

  “I just ran my race,” she said, weeping. “I just stuck with the plan and believed.”

  “And a miracle happened,” I said, only then realizing I was still holding my phone. I lifted it off Jannie’s back and peered through my tears at the screen.

  Bree was gaping at me. “Is this for real?”

  I nodded at her. “Can you believe it?”

  Behind my wife, Marjorie, the store clerk, started jumping up and down and pumping her fists, cheering.

  “That was the greatest thing I’ve ever seen on a phone!” Marjorie yelled.

  In my arms, Jannie started to laugh. She turned to look at my phone.

  “Unbelievable,” Bree said, tears flowing. “I’m so proud of you, Jannie.”

  “I am too!” Marjorie yelled.

  “Who is that behind you, Bree?” Jannie asked, still laughing.

  “Oh,” Bree said. “That’s Marjorie, my personal shopper!”

  “Woot!” Marjorie cried. “You’re a rock star, Jannie!”

  My daughter thought it was hilarious when the young lady came closer, waving. She waved back and then left to take a urine drug test because she’d been invited to a national development camp in June and the U.S. Track and Field Association required it.

  “And I have to get fitted for my gown,” Bree said. “Thank you for filming that, Alex. I’ll never forget it.”

  “I don’t think any of us will,” I said. “Have fun with the dress.”

  Her face disappeared from the screen.

  Ali and Nana Mama came down to the field after the eight-hundred-meter race ended. Jannie returned from taking her drug test and there were more hugs and congratulations.

  A photographer and a reporter from the Washington Post appeared and spoke to Jannie and her coach and me. Many of the coaches who had recruited Jannie were watching from the perimeter. Then Gail Andrews, a popular local television sports reporter, and her cameraman came onto the scene, and we had to do it all over again.

  As that interview wound down, Andrews gestured at the pack of coaches still standing off to the side and then looked directly into the camera. “Jannie Cross is one of the most heavily recruited track athletes in the nation,” Andrews said. “Fifteen top Division One schools have offered her full scholarships.”

  She turned back to my daughter. “Jannie, a whole lot of folks are interested in knowing where you are planning to run in college next year. Can you give me an exclusive and put these poor coaches out of their misery?”

  Jannie’s smile faded a little. She glanced over at the coaches, then back at the sports broadcaster, emotion making her cheeks quiver. “I can do that. I know where I want to be next year.”

  “Really?” Andrews said, thrilled and grinning. “Well, okay, where does your future lie? Which one of the fifteen colleges dying to have you will you choose, Jannie Cross? Texas? Oregon? University of Southern California?”

  Jannie glanced at me and Nana and Ali before looking back to the reporter.

  “Here,” she said, beaming. “I want to run here, on this track. This magical track.”

  Andrews looked a little puzzled. “You want to run for Howard University?”

  Jannie nodded and looked over at the pack of coaches, many of whose faces had fallen. “I want to run here if Coach Oliver’s offer is still good, yes.”

  David Oliver, the track coach at Howard, wasn’t even in the front row. He came around ten or twelve other coaches with a stunned and then joyous expression on his face. He pumped his fist at the sky and went over to Jannie. “Of course the offer’s still good,” Coach Oliver said, putting his hand over his heart. “Do you really want to run for me, Jannie? With all these other powerhouse offers?”

  “Yes,” Jannie said firmly. “I want to run for you and for Howard, Coach. You won the world championship from here. You made it to an Olympic podium from Howard. And I want to run as a Bison, right here where my family can watch me.”

  Chapter

  26

  Greenwich, Connecticut

  Bree felt almost sewn into the gorgeous black dress with the brocade bodice. She put some arch in her spine so she could breathe a little better in the back seat of the town car she’d hired to take her to Frances Duchaine’s fundraising soiree.

  At first, Bree thought it would be impossible to fit into the dress. But Marjorie and the tailor she brought in had been insistent, and with the help of an industrial-strength pair of Spanx tights, they finally coaxed and squished Bree into it.

  Marjorie said she looked incredible. And with the stiletto heels, earrings, and necklace Marjorie picked out, Bree admitted she looked beyond stunning in the dress.

  Beyond stunning or not, Bree thought, shifting again to get air, if I’m not careful, I could pass out or break a rib before this night’s over.

  They pulled up to a gate behind two limousines. A guard checked Bree’s invitation against the guest list.

  “Okay, Ms. Carlisle,” the guard said, handing it back to her. “Enjoy the evening.”

  “Thank you,” she said brightly.

  The town car wound up a serpentine drive through well-tended grounds to a two-story white brick mansion built in the 1920s. It had a beautifully lit fountain in the turnaround courtyard; a valet came to Bree’s door and opened it.

  She blew out all the air in her lungs, smiled, squirmed out, and straightened, which made the dress looser and her next breath easier to take. Soft jazz came through the open front door to Duchaine’s home. It was a warm evening.

  Bree followed several other couples spilling from the limos up the stairs and into a grand foyer with dual spiral staircases rising at the back to a landing where a quartet played. She showed her invitation to a woman, who checked Bree off under the name Evelyn Carlisle, gave her a bidding paddle for the live auction, and directed her to the rear terrace for drinks and hors d’oeuvres.

  “That’s a beautiful dress, by the way,” the woman said.

  “I can barely breathe in it, but thank you,” Bree said.

  Moving with the equally well-dressed crowd, Bree went down a hall to the left of one staircase, passing a library and a dining room and seeing art nearly everywhere, which reminded her of an article on Duchaine in Vanity Fair. The writer had noted that the fashion designer was no bleak modernist. Duchaine lived with as many textures and beautiful things around her as possible.

  Bree entered a huge ballroom decorated for a party, with tables set with white linen, fine china, and crystal. The French doors on the far end were flung open, revealing a large blue-slate terrace decorated with bare white branches and webs of tiny lights that blinked every so often, like fireflies.

  Perhaps a hundred of the seriously well-heeled were already on the terrace, sipping champagne and munching beluga caviar on toast. Bree joined them.

  Most of the people near the doors were deep in conversation with friends and acquaintances. As she passed them, she heard yacht chat and golf chat and reviews of Caribbean hot spots.

  The rich are different than you and I, Bree thought, snagging a flute of champagne as a waiter passed with a tray.

  She moved toward the perimeter of the terrace and a table that featured sushi, cooked shrimp on ice, and a slab of smoked Scottish salmon. Filling his plate high was a rail-thin man in his fifties with stretched-looking skin. He wore black pants, a black T-shirt, a black jacket, and red high-top sneakers.

  He looked up at her. “I’m on a diet, but I can’t resist.”

  “Neither can I,” Bree said and picked up a plate.

  “My, my, that’s a dress to die for,” he said, eyeing her up and down. “It’s one of Frances’s pieces, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I picked it up today at the store on Fifth.”

  “Lucky you,” he said and held out his hand. “Phillip Henry Luster.”

  Bree took it. “Nice to meet you, Phillip Henry Luster. I’m Evelyn Carlisle. Do you work for Frances?”

  “I have, twice, briefly both times,” Luster said. “Two brazen egos always clashing. It was never functional.”

  “But you remain friends?”

  “Of a sort. Frances still invites me when it’s time to raise money for one of her causes. I like this cause, so I’m here.”

  “Scholarships for minorities and LGBTQ students in fashion,” Bree said, putting shrimp on her plate. “I like the cause too.”

  “So does my boss,” Luster said. “Tess Jackson.”

  “Lucky you,” Bree said. “What do you do for Tess?”

  “I draw and…well, here’s our hostess, the woman of the hour.”

  Chapter

  27

  Following Luster’s line of sight, Bree saw Frances Duchaine coming through the French doors and greeting several people on the terrace as dear friends. Bree had to admit that the fashion designer was a presence—tall, Pilates-slim, and devastatingly chic, with short auburn hair that set off the turquoise of her flowing gown.