Khaki

AFTER PICTURES

My favorite part of the design process is the very beginning. I adore putting pen to paper, my desk a mess with pictures and swatches and samples galore. That’s the time I get to dream, to create, to imagine how something could be. But you can’t bottle that feeling and that process, and you can’t show it to anyone. So, instead, we share those “after” pictures with the world like they’re the best part.

That’s why releasing a new book of my work can become all-consuming; it’s how I share my passion. When I was younger and worked harder, I traveled the country cramming in every interview and local TV show and signing I possibly could. Even if three people showed, I considered the day a victory. This time, I didn’t think it was fair to drag Graham and Alex all over the country, so I had scheduled different appearances in different cities over months, not all in one swoop.

Usually, doing press in New York was my favorite part of the process, and I savored every second like a Ladurée macaron. But this time, I was as impatient as a child who sees his dessert right out of the corner of his eye and doesn’t want to wait for dinner to be over. I looked at my watch obsessively, even during interviews, and one time, I even caught myself saying, “Sorry, guys, we have to wrap. I have to get home to feed my little girl.”

Of course, you weren’t mine.

Graham was keeping a close eye on me, sensing how attached I was becoming so quickly. When I burst into the apartment, that bottle inches from your mouth, and yelled, “No, no! I want to feed her,” he just sighed and handed you over.

When I insisted that we take you along in the baby seat when we went to dinner with Stacey and Joe, our best friends in New York, he shot me a warning: “Khaki . . .”

When we got back to the apartment and I said, “Isn’t it amazing how your children can be so different from one another?” he crossed his arms, looked me in the eye, and said, “I will take her back to Kinston tomorrow if you don’t stop this delusional behavior.”

I waved him away with my hand and gave you a kiss. It was amazing how different children could be, though. Alex barely slept more than a twenty-minute stretch his first year of life, and even getting him down for that took an hour. You would drift off anywhere, any time, any place like a narcoleptic old man. And, from the moment you were born, you babbled and chattered like a sorority girl during rush. Alex, on the other hand, didn’t make one noise until he started piling out with full sentences. In fact, I was so worried about his lack of speech that I took him to the doctor to be assessed. He was sitting on top of the brown pleather doctor’s table, wheeling his car across the white, crackly paper sheet. When the doctor burst into the room, it must have startled him because the car went sailing to the ground. He looked down and, much to my embarrassment, exclaimed, “Damn it!”

The doctor and I both laughed because what else is there to do, really? I said, “I don’t know where on earth he got that,” but I’m sure to this day our pediatrician thinks I have a truck driver’s mouth.

He patted my shoulder, grabbed Alex’s chart, and said, “Sounds to me like his vocabulary is developing fine.”

I laughed about that memory as I was walking down Fifth Avenue that chilly afternoon, daydreaming about the off possibility that maybe, just maybe, Jodi was having the same tug on her heart that I was. I knew that the chances were slim, but I was having such a wonderful time that I didn’t let the thought get me down.

Getting to go out for fancy nights with the husband I loved and having two beautiful babies by my side was heaven. Plus, the book was selling out all over the place, and I was feeling swanky, sassy, and invincible sashaying around Bergdorf with my new crisp, leather Saint Laurent bag over my forearm. I was searching for Scott, my longtime personal shopper turned cherished friend, thinking that all these people glancing at me as I passed by must be admiring my innate chicness, when a voice from behind said, “Excuse me, ma’am.”

It was Scott. I squealed like I hadn’t seen him in months and gave him a big kiss, even though we’d had dinner together the night before.

He put his hand on his hip, looking bored, and reached for the bottom of my bag. “Is this one of your new accessories?” he asked sarcastically. “Because I certainly didn’t send it.”

I gasped and put my hand over my mouth. All day long I had been walking around thinking I was the finest thing since Limoges with a dirty diaper hanging off the bottom of my purse. I mean, really, you couldn’t help but laugh.

I hugged Scott and said, “This is God’s way of reminding me that I’m not nearly as fabulous as I think I am.”

Scott took my hand and pulled me toward the nook filled with gorgeous coffee table books. He, no doubt, had been the one to set up a massive display of my new release on top of the stacks in the center island. He ran his finger across the cover and said, “You might not be quite as fabulous as you think you are, but you’re pretty fab all the same.”

It made me feel a little better. He pointed to a book he had opened to a page with a picture of Mother, dressed to the nines in head-to-toe Chanel and dripping with jewels. “Now that,” he said, “is what fabulous is all about.”

I smiled. “Yup. That’s my momma.”

Scott gasped. “You’re pregnant!”

I gave him an annoyed look. “No, I’m not. But thanks for rubbing it in.”

He shook his head. “I swear you are. I knew before you even told me that you were having Alex. Don’t push away my innate psychic wisdom so easily.”

Perhaps it was a scrambled signal. “I’m not pregnant,” I said again. “But you know how Graham and I have Carolina?”

Scott nodded.

“Graham is scolding me because I’m dying to adopt her.”

I told Scott about Jodi, and he said, “Franny, you can’t just take someone’s baby because you think you’d do a better job with her.”

I stood up straighter, trying to win my case, and said, “I didn’t say I would do a better job with her. But you know sometimes how you can feel in your gut when something is right?”

“Speaking of,” he said, putting his fingers up to his lips to hide his smile, “I’ve been trying to wait until we were all together to tell you, but I can’t hold it in one more minute.” He inhaled deeply. “Clive and I are finally doing it. We’re getting married!”

I squealed, and we jumped up and down. Scott and Clive had been dating for years, and I always felt like, though they were a bit on-again, off-again, Clive was the only man who could settle Scott down. “Have you made any plans yet?” I asked, breathlessly. “Have you set a date?”

He nodded. “We didn’t want to do anything crazy over-the-top, so we’re going to get married with just our families and then have a big party at the Waldorf later on.”

I could feel tears coming to my eyes. I thought of your daddy and how happy I was with him. I was glad that Scott had found his other half too. “I’m sorry I won’t get to see the wedding, but I’ll be the first one on the dance floor.”

Scott looked confused. “Won’t see the wedding? Of course you’ll see the wedding.”

“I thought you said it was only family.”

And then he made me feel all over again like I hadn’t spent the day walking around with a diaper stuck to my purse.

“Honey, you are family.”

I hugged him. “You’ll have to find me something fabulous to wear,” I said.

He took my hand and led me to the elevator, saying, “This isn’t for you, but I have to show you the most absurdly adorable thing I’ve ever seen for your new maybe daughter.”

I sighed. “She isn’t going to be my daughter, so I have to get that thought out of my head. I know realistically no one is just going to give me their baby.”

Scott led me over to the display of Gucci bags, and I assumed it was because a new bag is always my celebration purchase for a big career move. But right in the middle was a double G monogrammed pint-sized purse with a pink pig face. I knew it was an absurd purchase. But it wasn’t just a bag; it was my way of digging those trenches, preparing for that manna to fall right from heaven. I had to do it. Scott packaged it up, and that tiny Gucci Zoo bag hid, wrapped and waiting, underneath the bed in our New York apartment, waiting for Graham and me to have a daughter to claim it.