She takes great joy in living vicariously through the people who hire me, and she has an excellent memory, too.
“It went well,” I tell her after I finish chewing the bread. “The dress was as interesting as you thought it would be. Oh, and the groom’s friends shaved off his eyebrows the night before.”
My mother looks up at me, her dark eyes growing wide as saucers. “Wow. I didn’t see that one coming. But you handled it?”
I give her a do-you-even-know-who-I-am look, my face screwed up playfully. “Of course I handled it.”
She nods, pulling me closer to her side. “I’m proud of you, filha.”
“Thanks, Mãe.” Her words make me stand a little taller. That’s all I’ve ever wanted—to make Mãe and my tias proud. When each of their marriages imploded, the sisters banded together to raise their children, taking turns cooking, babysitting, and driving to and from school and extracurriculars. They spent their remaining time cleaning other people’s homes, until they saved enough to open this store. Because of them, I’m a college graduate; my older brother, Rey, is a physician’s assistant; and Natalia’s in heavy demand as a self-employed makeup artist. Bringing up the rear and no less impressive is Tia Izabel’s daughter, Solange, who’s completing graduate school and preparing to change the world.
“Think you’ll get any more work out of this one?” my mother asks.
“More work? Maybe. It all depends on timing. If someone’s engaged and hasn’t booked a planner, they’ll probably call to feel me out.”
And then there’s Rebecca Cartwright. She mentioned a proposition, and I’m curious to know what it is. I make a mental note to call her first thing Monday morning and set a time for us to meet. At the very least, I can add her to my growing list of contacts in the area. Even a loose connection with the CEO of a hotel as highly regarded as the Cartwright could be useful someday.
An actual paying customer with goods in her hands shuffles to the counter. My mother wanders off to help her, allowing me to return to my love affair with the bread in my hand. I’m happily chomping on said bread when in walks Marcelo, a family friend and the owner of Something Fabulous, the boutique dress shop where I rent space for my business.
“Olá, pessoal,” he says grandly, his voice booming over the crowd’s cheers on the TV screen. “Tudo bem?”
“Tudo,” Tia Viviane says, half of her body hidden behind the reach-in beverage cooler she’s stocking. “E você?”
He gestures with one hand to indicate he’s so-so, then he saunters over to Tia Viviane and drops a kiss on her forehead. They’ve been friends for ages, having met decades ago through the extensive social network that helps Brazilian immigrants in Maryland acclimate to life in America. That same network found all three sisters their husbands, none of whom stuck around after the marriages ended.
As for Marcelo and Viviane, I suspect their friendship comes with benefits, but I’ve never been bold enough to confirm my suspicions. Tia Viviane’s lethal when a pair of Havaianas are within reach.
Marcelo sees me and his eyes dim, causing me to question the truth of his next words. “Carolina, I was hoping I’d see you here. I have news.”
My chewing slows as I place the rest of my bread on a napkin and brush the crumbs off the front of my T-shirt. “What’s up, Marcelo?”
He casually rests his forearms on the counter. “The real estate company gave notice Friday afternoon that they’re increasing the rent for the next leasing period. By seven percent.” Sighing, he steps back and motions as though he’s wiping his hands of the situation. “And as far as I’m concerned, that’s it. I can’t keep up anymore. Not with everyone buying wedding dresses online. Or renting them. So I’m going to join my daughter in Florida and find a little shop there to sell my inventory for a few more years. Eventually, I’ll retire and spend all day fishing. It’s time.” Marcelo reaches over and covers my hand. “I know this affects you, too. And if I could afford it, I’d stay, but I was struggling already, and this will make it worse.”
I force my words past the massive lump of disappointment clogging my throat. “When does the lease end again?” I already know the answer, but hearing the expiration date out loud will force me to confront the reality of my situation rather than bury it.
“Sixty days,” he says on a sigh.
Well, that’s real enough for me, and it’s no small thing. An office in the District is essential to my business. Most of my clients are busy professionals who appreciate the convenience of meeting in a central location where they can also go to other shops and restaurants as part of their evening plans. A home base just off Connecticut Avenue communicates stability, a certain gravitas that doesn’t need to be explained. Any charlatan can whip up some business cards at a local copy shop and call themselves a wedding planner; a registered business address assures a couple their coordinator won’t pack up her portable office and run off with their money.
I don’t require a lot, really—an office and a cubicle are enough—which is why my arrangement with Marcelo met my needs perfectly. Because I didn’t take up much square footage, he could afford not to charge me market price for it. I know from my own abandoned efforts to find office space a few years ago that leasing even a closet in the District will make it almost impossible for me to pay the rent on my own apartment. And even if I can find an affordable alternative, it’ll probably be a step down from my current location, so the optics of the transition won’t do me any favors, either.
Dammit. I can’t screw up. Not again.
Marcelo’s decision has knocked me off-kilter, and I don’t know what to do to right myself. Tears threaten to fall, but a glance between Viviane and my mother, the former of whom is wearing a stern expression, dries my eyes instantly. Right. Having learned my own harsh lessons when I was a wide-eyed innocent, I now know the rules well: We must never let our emotions get the better of us; doing so is either a sign of weakness, one that diminishes our well-earned respect, or a mark of combativeness, which will cause people to say we’re irrational. And as women—women of color, more specifically—we simply can’t afford to be perceived in those terms.
Too bad I’m a softie. Apt to cry or sob the moment anyone manages to draw the slightest bit of emotion out of me. When I was younger, my brother and cousins teased me about it mercilessly. Bebê chorão, they’d chant. Crybaby. It didn’t bother me much then; how much harm could come from that pesky trait, really? As an adult, however, I discovered the answer was plenty—certainly more than I could handle. So I developed a persona over the years, to manage my feelings. I’m no-nonsense. A badass. Made of Teflon and impervious to minor insult or offense. I’ll never again be that woman who made a blubbering fool of herself over a guy. Never again be that person who crumbled in a professional setting and lost the respect of her peers. Strength is a state of mind, and I’m willing it into existence, dammit.
I straighten and give Marcelo a tight smile. “None of this is your fault, Marcelo. You couldn’t have predicted a rent hike this ugly. I’m sure I’ll be able to find something else. So don’t worry about me. Everything will be fine.”