My entrance was announced by the traditional sound of a bell when I opened the door, and I wasn’t surprised to find Frankie waiting for me inside.
Unfolding his tall frame from a white Bauhaus sofa, he swept his fingers through his thick black plume of hair, offering me a disarming smile. “Miss Jaworski, you’re here. Excellent.” He gave a brief, gallant bow in my direction. “So, how’d you like the Charleston International Airport? What a fuggin’ joke. M’I right?”
“How do you know it’s me?”
“Well, let’s see.” Squinting at me, he rubbed his hands together. “You’re right on time, just like a northerner. Unlike folks around here who run on southern time. They got no respect, I tell ya. Apart from that, I can always pinpoint a New Yorker with accuracy from a mile away.”
Frankie had me flabbergasted instantly. Not a good look for a hopeful high fashion journalist. I didn’t know what to say as he motioned me toward the other end of the sofa. He sat adjacent, his delicately designed silver cane resting against his knee.
“You got fifteen minutes,” Frankie said. “Remember, I’m only doin’ this interview because our mothers attend the same church. La famiglia and all that Catholic shit,” he mentioned mysteriously. ”Think of this as a privilege, not your First Amendment right.”
I knew our families attended All Saints, but that was as far as the connection went. Flustered, I forgot my carefully worded questions and blurted out, “Why did you leave New York? Why move to a backwater town like Charleston?”
OMG! I just insulted him! Trying my best not to cringe, I started apologizing while maintaining eye contact. His steady gaze narrowed as it shifted to my iPhone.
He motioned for me to hand it over, and I acquiesced.
“House rules. No taping and no photographs.” He fiddled with the phone to make sure it was turned off before placing it on a side table. “You’ll get it back before you leave, so long as you play your cards right.”
“Oh, you’re pulling a Martin Margiela,” I said as haughtily as I could, trying to hide my nervousness.
I forced myself to remember that, though Frankie was a Burelli, he was very unlike his Ivy League-educated brothers and sister. Eyeing the silver cane still casually resting against his knee, I instinctively knew it wasn’t just for show or affectation.
“Margiela? Hell, I like the man.” Frankie sat forward. “He’s one of the greatest designers of his generation, not counting me, of course. But . . . interview by fax? So last century. M’I right?”
We started laughing. And just like that, the uneasiness between us dissolved.
Looking at Frankie now as he chuckled, I saw the sensitive, artistic boy Mrs. Burelli had described to me. “Always with his sketchbook, stealing my copy of Vogue instead of his father’s Playboy. Yves Saint Laurent was his hero. No Joe Montana for him. He announced early on his intentions of becoming a fashion designer, that he’d take Manhattan, followed by London, Milan, and Paris.”
“So, how’d you find me, Miss Jaworski?” Frankie asked, seriousness back in his steel-toned voice.
“Instagram. Nicky Love’s wedding went viral on Instagram. Everyone agreed he married a very beautiful woman—”
“The Vegas wedding, huh?” Frankie slaked his hands through the crest of his black hair. “Nicky’s one of my best clients, ya know? I got all his hardbacks, signed, natch.”
“The Vegas wedding,” I agreed. “Catarina was stunning, but as a best-selling novelist Nick had all the social media cachet. When the nuptials hit the headlines, everyone was all over his tuxedo.” I glanced at Frankie, noting his black olive-colored eyes gleaming. “But no one knew who designed it.”
“Until now.” Frankie inclined his head. “That don’t tell me how you found me.”
“Oh, I found you through your mother.”
He waved for me to continue. “And . . . ”
“I was picking her up from your nephew’s party,” I began.
Frankie raised his eyebrows as if asking what that had to do with the price of gasoline.
“Oh, my mom’s a pastry chef. She made the cake for your nephew’s seventh birthday.”
Frankie’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Ah, so the Jaworskis are still in business, the Piekarnia bakery?”
Nodding, I continued. “Waiting for my mom to finish up, I was going through my social media feeds when the photo of Nicky Love’s wedding came up. Both our mothers arrived at the same time and saw the photograph.”
“How’d my mother react?” Frankie asked. And for the first time, there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
“She took my iPad, stared at Nicky Love for all of half a minute and said, ‘My boy, my beautiful boy. Still doing what he loves best.’ First, I thought she was referring to Nick, but then she said, ‘Look at that slant in the pocket. So sharp, so different from the others. Francesco calls it a cut above the rest.’ That was when I realized she was talking about you.”
Frankie smiled then rolled to his feet with a loud belly laugh.
Linking his hands behind his back, he raised damp eyes to the ceiling above. “Oh, Mama Mia, you do know me,” Frankie sighed almost in a whisper.
His head snapped toward me. “That was when you asked to interview me?”
“Not exactly. And this isn’t an interview actually.” I winced, truly nervous for the first time since I came in.
