A Lowcountry Bride by Preslaysa Williams

Maya opened the store early the following Tuesday, arriving there before Derek. She needed to get her head in the right place for today, and that meant owning up to the fact that yes, she’d made a fool of herself at the cookout. She should’ve never taken the liberty of asking Derek to dance.

First, he’d already mentioned his priority was Jamila—which meant his priority wasn’t bridal gown designers based in New York. Second, the fact that he was returning to a church-related event after his wife died so tragically at a church, well—Maya should not get too friendly with him. Derek couldn’t handle knowing about Maya’s predicament after living through what he’d experienced. Third, hadn’t she already told herself that work was first? Mixing up work with a man would only hurt her in the end. The sting at the cookout served as a potent reminder.

Soon as Derek arrived today, she would apologize. The last thing she needed was for there to be any tense moments between them. An apology would get rid of that right away. She was only working at the boutique to make money and take care of her father before returning to New York.

Maya flipped on the lights in the rear of the store and immediately started on painting the back walls. She’d spent the next hour painting when Derek entered the store. Their eyes met and he waved. “Morning, you’re here early.”

“I figured I’d get a head start on the remodel,” she said.

“Head starts are good.” He smiled. “I wish Jamila would’ve gotten a longer head start on her school project. She’s still stressing about it, and I can’t help her with it at all.”

“The sewing one?”

“That’s the one,” Derek said.

Maya didn’t say anything, seeing that she was on shaky ground with Jamila. No need for her to impose. She’d help if she could, but Jamila most likely didn’t want her help. “I wanted to apologize to you.”

His eyebrows raised. “Apologize for what?”

O-kay. Maybe he wasn’t thinking about that uncomfortable moment at the cookout as much as she was. If that was the case, then this was going to be completely embarrassing. “About asking you to dance and all. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot or anything.”

He bit his lower lip. “When I declined, I didn’t mean for that to be a slight on you. I just have a lot going on. I also wanted to focus on Jamila’s game. She was pretty nervous about it and really wanted me to watch her play. That’s all.”

Maya nodded. She completely embarrassed herself all right. “Makes total sense. Guess we won’t dwell on it then. I’ll focus on painting.” She returned to the work at hand, putting the finishing touches on the white trim on the baseboard. At least she’d gotten the apology out of her system; now they could return to being their normal selves—whatever that was.

The sound of Derek’s footsteps made her heart skip. He was drawing near.

“I love the paint color, by the way. It looks great.” He surveyed the place. “You’re a godsend.”

A godsend, but not cool enough to dance with. Stop it, Maya. “Thank you. Nice to hear a compliment every once in a while.”

His eyes flashed for a quick second. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No. I wasn’t referring to you. I was thinking about my boss back in New York. She’s opinionated about my work. I mean, I know she thinks I’m a good designer and all since she hasn’t fired me yet, but she rarely hands out a compliment. Her criticisms are harsh.” Something squeezed inside of Maya. She would have to work on that redesign for Laura. Hopefully she wouldn’t rip it to shreds this time.

“You like her to give compliments?” he asked.

Did she? She did. She cared about Laura’s opinion way too much, and that bothered her. “I do. She’s a talented woman who has made a big splash in the industry. Now that I’ve worked for her, I see how she does it. How she’s so successful. Laura works long hours. She’s competitive and a perfectionist. If that’s what it takes to succeed, that’s what I’ll do.”

“So you like the fast-paced, competitive nature of your job?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Derek clasped his hands behind his head and seemed to consider her statement. “It was like that for me in the military, especially in the early years. I sacrificed a lot to get promoted. With each promotion came greater sacrifices. Cost me a lot of time with my family. Time that I now can’t get back.”

“I’ve always wanted to work for Laura Whitcomb. It’s been a dream of mine since . . .” She stopped talking. Last thing she wanted to do was get into all her reasons for working for Laura.

“Since what?”

“Since Mama passed away nine years ago.” The words came out of her mouth slowly and deliberately. “She always thought that Laura Whitcomb was the business. When I was my mother’s fashion design apprentice, she always hoped that I’d work for Laura Whitcomb one day.”

Derek tapped his fingers on the counter. “What are your hopes?”

She did a double take. “What do you mean?”

“You mentioned what your mother hoped for you. What do you hope for yourself?”

Discomfort flitted through her. What did she hope for herself? “I don’t know.”

Derek paused. “Laura Whitcomb is a pretty prestigious brand. The customers typically mention her dresses as ones they’re considering, but I can’t afford to put her merchandise in our inventory. Her wholesale prices are way too expensive. Still, she seems to be the design standard in the bridal gown world.”

“That she is.” The memory of Laura’s last email came to life and stung.

“You don’t sound too happy. What’s on your mind?” Derek asked.

Maya took a deep breath. “The prestige of working for Laura Whitcomb comes at a cost, that cost being my creative freedom. I’ve tried to incorporate my signature Afro-Asian style into the Laura Whitcomb line. I’ve suggested a West African design pattern or a Filipino method of stitching. As soon as Laura saw it, she shot it down quick. Said that there wouldn’t be a market for it anywhere. Sometimes working for Laura is like being tied in a straitjacket.”

“Straitjacket.” Maya let that word settle into her. It stabbed at something she’d never paid attention to before, something she held dear and close to her heart. It stabbed at her mother’s advice.

Her mother’s maxim to always stay true to herself rose in Maya’s conscience, but on the other hand, her mother wanted her to work for Laura Whitcomb. Strange. The dichotomy was unnerving.

“A straitjacket? That’s not good. Do you really want to work in a place where you’re stifled?”

Did she really want to have this conversation right now? Gah! Why’d she say all of that aloud? Maya had never come close to this hard-hitting realization, yet standing in this tiny boutique made her do so, for some reason.

If she really let the idea stick, if she delved too deep into it, then she may find something even more unsettling underneath, something she didn’t want to face. Perhaps she’d ignore the idea of her New York job being a straitjacket—yet ignoring this truth had led her to a quiet misery up north.

“Maya? Do you think working for Laura is worth compromising your creative freedom?”

She snapped out of her musings. “Yes?”

“So you really want to work in a place where you’re not appreciated?”

It was best to bury the realization. Burying it was best. “I never considered it seriously until now. It’s not that important really. Just some jibber-jabber. I really like my job.”

Saying those last words sounded fake coming out of her mouth.

“I see . . . but maybe you should consider the limitations on your creative license. I wouldn’t want to be in a place where my uniqueness was devalued.” He nodded. “Working in the military, there’s not much room for creativity. It’s all about obeying orders and listening to your superiors. You’re a designer. You should guard your creative freedom. Uniformity and following orders are a matter of life and death in the military, but it’s not a matter of life and death in your industry.”

Her heart revved. If only Derek knew. For Maya, dress design was life and death. If she was honest with herself, that was her one true hope: that she’d leave a legacy of beautiful Afro-Asian gowns behind for future brides to wear on their special day, especially since Maya would never ever become a bride herself. Not while living with sickle cell anemia.

She had to make something of the work she had created, the unique work she had created. Maya had to get it out and circulating in the world. Laura’s micromanagement had stifled Maya in so many ways.

Thinking about Laura was unsettling. Better to push it aside.

“I’m very excited about this remodel.” Derek walked around the store and inspected it more closely. “I’ve done some preliminary advertising for the trunk show. The next thing we need to do is get clear on a marketing plan. Can’t have a pretty place without anyone to fill it. I have to bring in sales. The bank is waiting for their mortgage money.”

“True. We need to bring in a good crowd. We can start with promoting and advertising the trunk show.”

“I’d love to hear your ideas on that, Maya. Feel free to take creative liberties in how you promote the event, within budget of course. I don’t think you’ll go over budget. You have an eye for style and finances.”

Exercising creative leeway was something she loved about working at Always a Bride. In addition to the remodel, Maya worked on new dress designs whenever the store wasn’t busy. Creativity was Maya’s oxygen. It gave her life. “There are a lot of ways that we can promote this event.”

She tapped her chin, thinking. Cat Clyne was the biggest fashion reviewer and blogger in the industry. She ran a high-end website and started a print magazine two years ago that recently received national circulation. Maya did some emergency alterations for Cat’s wedding gown last year. Cat had offered to return the favor one day. Perhaps this was that “one day.”

“I know some media folks. They could possibly help out with publicity.”

“Media contacts are great, especially if they’re national ones.”

Despite owing Maya a favor, Maya would have to make this little shop in Charleston appealing to Cat—appealing enough for Cat to travel down to cover the story. “We’ll have to put a spin on the pitch. Something that’ll pique the interest of readers. Something that’ll grab their attention. We need a story.”

“We need your story,” Derek said quickly.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Your story. I think you should not only have your dresses on consignment here, but we should feature them in the trunk show. The Afro-Asian slant on your gowns will be a definite draw, as well as the story behind it. How you apprenticed under your mother and she taught you Filipino stitching techniques.” He rested his chin in his hands and studied her with admiration in his eyes. “Folks will love it.”

Was she that interesting of a person? “I’ve only sold two of my dress designs. That hardly counts as a draw to an entire trunk show. Are you sure you want my dresses to be the main feature?”

“No one can believe in you like you do, Maya. That’s the first thing.”

She twisted her mouth. How did this turn into a pep talk? Did she really believe in her designs? Were they good enough to carry an entire trunk show? Maya wasn’t sure. Also, doing a solo trunk show might jeopardize her career with Laura—and that would include her chances at being head designer. Even though Laura was allowing Maya to sell a few gowns since she was on leave without pay, an entire trunk show was a different story. Laura might think that Maya was trying to undermine her. “The boutique is the main attraction actually. What’s the story behind the boutique? What led your mother to start this business? I recall you saying that she had a tough time with it in the beginning. What encouraged her to persevere?”

Derek was quiet for a moment. “After my grandmother died, she left a whole bunch of money to my mother. About one hundred thousand dollars of cash sitting in a savings account. We were surprised, because all Grandma did was clean houses for the White ladies living in the suburbs and sell her handwoven West African–style baskets to the tourists in downtown Charleston. She sold them pretty close to the Black history museum down the block. Grandma was Gullah Geechee to the core, and the basket weaving craft was passed down through generations. I believe even prior to the Civil War. My mother knew how to make sweetgrass baskets too.”

“Does Jamila know?”

He shook his head. “Maybe. I never asked. Always been so busy on deployment.”

There was a note of sadness in his voice. He probably carried so many regrets. Too many for Maya to know.

“Anyway, Grandma saved the money and Mama got it all when she died. The money came with a note. I framed it right over there.” Derek gestured to a tiny frame hanging near the front door. “You can read it if you’d like.”

Maya headed to the entrance. She hadn’t noticed that frame before until he pointed it out. Then she read the note:

My dearest Vivian,

Our ancestors came here on ships as enslaved people. They arrived on new lands, and with new lands came new struggles. But we retained some of our ways. I sold my baskets right near the docks where our people were enslaved and auctioned off. This is our history. This money is the culmination of their stories. Now it’s for you. Do something good with it. Make us proud.

Love,

Mama

Maya turned teary-eyed. “My goodness. That’s beautiful.”

“It is.” Derek’s voice hoarsened. “My mother opened this bridal shop during the eighties. It was a big deal because so many Black-owned businesses shut down in the sixties and seventies. Hopefully she made them proud.”

“I can see why you struggled with whether or not to sell this place. The story and this boutique are so meaningful to your family.”

“They are. Mama had to take out a second mortgage on this place because of her cancer treatments. Still, I want to keep the boutique. I want to continue to do right by them.”

Maya bit her lip. This was a chance for her to do something good. “If you’re looking for an angle to pitch your story, then the boutique’s history will be it. Heck, it could even rally folks together to want to keep this place in business. The boutique is living history.”

“True. I’m trying to preserve something that is in danger of dying,” Derek said.

Dying. There was that word again. She was dying. Perhaps giving life to Always a Bride was another way that Maya could make an impact—before she died. “I will help you do that.”

“So you’ll feature your designs here too?” Derek asked. “It’ll be an added bonus to showcasing the store’s history. Are you in?”

An unsettledness overcame Maya. Was it worth putting it out there? If Maya didn’t feature her gowns in the trunk show, she’d never get the chance to see if her work had merit on its own. She’d never get a chance to leave that legacy she so desperately wanted.

Laura had torn down her work before. If Maya took that risk and showed her dresses in a big event like a trunk show, it could get torn down by the public. That would be even worse than Laura’s criticisms. Laura was a gatekeeper in this industry. If Laura didn’t think her creativity had merit, who would?

Make us proud.Those words in the letter settled into Maya’s spirit.

Maya had to try. She would try. Like Derek had said, if Maya didn’t believe in herself, who would?

A seed of confidence took root in Maya. Confidence—and hope.

Later that day, Maya pulled up the phone number for Cat Clyne on her cell phone. Time to call in her favor.

Maya dialed the number and the phone rang and rang. The last time she’d spoken to Cat was when she did those emergency alterations for her.

“This is Cat.”

OMG. “Hello, Cat, it’s Maya from Laura Whitcomb’s office.”

“I was just editing the interview with Laura. I may have some follow-up questions for her. Could you forward them to Laura?”

“I sure can.” Maya twisted a stray curl around her finger. “I wasn’t calling for Laura, however. Remember when you said that if I ever needed a favor to call you?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“Well, I need a favor.”

A longer pause. Maya’s stomach churned. Was Cat having second thoughts?

“If you don’t—”

“Go ahead,” Cat said.

Maya spoke about the Charleston-based trunk show and how they were holding it in a historically significant boutique that was in danger of going out of business, a boutique whose story held weight in the community, and how Maya’s ethnically inspired gowns would be featured in the trunk show.

She blurted out that last part very quickly.

“Sounds interesting,” Cat said. “When is Laura going down to Charleston for the trunk show?”

O-kay. This was inconvenient. “Laura won’t be here for the trunk show. She’s not involved in it.”

“Oh really?”

There was a note of gossipy curiosity in Cat’s tone. Cat was the type to spread industry rumors. She prided herself on always having the “inside dish,” as she called it.

Cat could spin this trunk show any way she wanted, just to get more followers and buzz on her blog. Lordy. Maya did not want to be part of Cat’s inside dish. “Nope. Laura’s not involved.” Maya definitely wouldn’t go into the reasons why.

The sound of rustling crackled through the other end of the line. “When’s the trunk show?”

“In about three and a half weeks.” Maya crossed her fingers, hoping she’d say yes and not ask any more probing questions.

More rustling on the other end. “You said these are Afro-Asian dresses?”

More probing questions. Cat said the phrase “Afro-Asian” like she was trying to pronounce a foreign word. “Yes.”

“So Laura Whitcomb’s looking to add some new styles to her fall line, I see.”

How was Maya going to explain this one? If she told Cat the truth, that this was Maya’s own thing, then Cat the Gossip could go back to Laura and hint (or even say!) that Maya was trying to break rank and branch out on her own. That could put Maya at risk of losing her job with Laura. She definitely wouldn’t get the promotion then.

Bad. Bad. Bad.

Why did Maya think calling Cat was a good idea anyway? Cat’s opinion on fashion was the most coveted—and the most critical—in the industry. She rarely handed out compliments. If Maya got a thumbs-down from Cat, that would be a disaster.

Yet Maya couldn’t live in fear forever. Maya didn’t have that much time to live. “Take a risk,” she whispered. “Just do it.”

“Excuse me? What did you say?”

“Oh, nothing. I was just . . .” Maya remembered that letter to Vivian. “Laura hasn’t made any plans for these designs. This is my own thing.”

There. She said it. And it felt . . . freeing. Maya was stepping out on faith.

“Oh.”

That was it? Just “oh”?

“I can make a quick turnaround trip for the trunk show. Just to return the favor,” Cat continued. “I’m not promising a glowing review. I’m simply promising a review and some publicity. You understand that.”

Maya’s nervousness amped up two notches. It could be bad publicity. Cat was a biting fashion reviewer. “Yes. I completely understand.”

“I can post an article online and promote it on social media, not in our print magazine since those articles are planned a few months in advance. But consider it done.”

They exchanged logistical details and then hung up.

A sense of bravery took over. Bravery and exhilaration and nervousness all at once.

Maya was getting national coverage for the store and her dresses. She didn’t know what type of coverage she’d get. This whole effort could tank and be a complete failure—but Maya did something new.

She believed in herself.

Later that evening, Derek and Jamila sat at the dinner table and ate in silence. His talk about the store’s legacy had sparked curiosity in him, especially when it came to Jamila. He wanted her to hold that same sense of appreciation for their family history. Perhaps it would help her mend some of the pain she’d been feeling surrounding her grandmother’s and mother’s deaths. “I was talking today about the store’s history, and a conversation came up about your great-grandmother. She’d taught your grandma basket weaving. Is that something you learned too?”

Jamila pushed her Hoppin’ John with her spoon. “What of it?” Her voice carried a note of suspicion.

“That’s great that you know basket weaving. The skills you learned there could help you figure out your school sewing project.”

Jamila laughed. “You don’t weave a dress, Dad. You weave a basket. It’s not the same as sewing.”

He smiled. Nice to see her happy for once. “It could be. I mean, the skills are similar. I wouldn’t knock those similarities.”

Jamila played around with her food, apparently deep in thought.

“You don’t agree?”

“No, I don’t. It’ll actually be kind of hard to do that school project since I don’t have much help for it. I haven’t made any headway whatsoever. I think I’ll just take a failing grade.”

“A failing grade? No way will you fail that project. Maya’s offer to help still stands.”

Jamila twisted her mouth and glanced away. “You know what I think of that.”

“You don’t have to like Maya in order for her to help you,” Derek said. “She has a lot of experience, and it could help you ace that project.”

“Nah.” Jamila shrugged. “I don’t really want to mess with her.”

Derek sighed. “If you don’t want to consider her, then I think that basket weaving, in the way your grandmother taught you, may help you some.”

“Not interested in that either.”

“Why not?” Derek asked. “It’s an honored tradition.”

“Not to me. It’s not that important. We could just go to the department store and buy a basket if we really wanted one.”

“It wouldn’t be the same, Jamila. It’s been passed down through the ages. Something that should be preserved and remembered.”

“Something from slavery. Who wants to remember that?” Jamila said, her voice a low mumble.

The mocking in her voice pricked at Derek. He must’ve really failed as a father if Jamila didn’t think her history was important. Should he just let it go and leave Jamila to her opinions on her history? Or should he push the issue and say more?

Letting it go would mean that the legacy that his grandmother had written about in the letter would be lost, but pushing the issue would probably annoy Jamila. Their relationship was already tenuous. Still, he’d have to push the issue. It was too important for Derek to ignore.

“Not true, Jamila. This particular way of basket weaving came all the way from West Africa. It transcends slavery. We may not have much of our history left, but we have those traditions that have been preserved from generation to generation. Each basket was made by the hands of a person who struggled and triumphed. Each one tells a story.”

Jamila shoved a spoonful of peas and rice in her mouth. Still silent.

“How about you and I go downtown to where the women sell them in the marketplace? That’ll get you interested in it again.”

“You want me to go to those slave auction blocks and that Black history museum near the boutique? No thank you.”

Okay. Guess that was a no-go. “Then how do you intend to complete that project?”

“Dunno.” Jamila shrugged. “Like I said. It won’t be the first time in my life that I flunked something.”

Derek rubbed his temples, frustrated. How would he get through to her? He searched for the possibilities, but nothing good came to mind. Then an idea: “Hey, Jamila, have you ever read your grandmother’s prayer journals?”

“I didn’t even know she had them.”

This was what he could use to connect with Jamila. Derek stood up and walked to the tiny wooden desk in the living room and opened the desk drawer. He took out his mother’s journal and set it before Jamila. “Turn to the front page.”

Jamila did, and as soon as she saw her own name written in the first line, she leaned forward, intent on reading more.

Derek exhaled. Hopefully, this would work.

“Grandma prayed for all of these good things for me? She wanted me to thrive and stuff?”

“Of course she did.”

“She had a lot to say about me.” Her eyes squinted at Grandma’s ornate script, and she flipped the page and read further. “She really thought I was something special, huh?”

“She definitely did,” Derek said.

Jamila bit her bottom lip, still studying the pages.

“She knew the truth,” Derek added, hoping this would help. “I think she would love it if you went down to the marketplace and watched them weave baskets. We can go there right after the trunk show in a few weeks.”

Jamila looked up. “So, you want me to go to the trunk show . . . that Maya will be at.”

“It would make the most logistical sense for you to accompany me to the trunk show. When it’s over, we can head on over to the marketplace. Like I said, it’ll be your call with Maya, but you don’t have to like her to get her help.”

Jamila looked at the journal again and her fingertips traced the edges of the pages. “If Grandma thought all of this good stuff about me, then maybe I can try to work on the school project.”

Derek’s mouth lifted in a tiny smile.

“That don’t mean I’m working with Maya or nothing. I’ll just go with you to the trunk show and check out the basket stuff afterward.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

Their broken relationship was beginning to mend itself together. It wasn’t a perfect mending, but it was a semblance of reconnection that made him believe in the possibility of healing.