LITMIR.BIZ

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she’d never be able to expand from the Southeast to spots she’d been eyeing in New York, Los Angeles and Chicago.

      “So how long do think you can continue propping up the cosmetics division?” Max asked.

      Tia pushed out a weary sigh. “This is the last time.”

      Her father’s steadfast refusal to allow major changes at Espresso Cosmetics so it could stay relevant in a changing marketplace was contributing to the brand’s slow death.

      “Whatever you say.” Max reached for the signed form, but Tia held on to it.

      “I mean it, Max. In fact, I’m delivering this one to my father personally, so he’ll know I’m serious.”

      Tia knew very well that Max had heard it all before. Still, he never judged her. Instead, he gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Good luck with that.”

      “Thanks,” Tia said as she rolled her eyes. “I’ll need it.”

      An hour later, Tia rode the glass elevator to the top floor of the eleven-story building her late mother had constructed in 1984 to house what back then was a rapidly expanding makeup empire. While other cosmetics companies had located their headquarters in the fashion capital of New York City, her mother had insisted Espresso remain in Nashville. The decision provided jobs for their hometown as well as allowed them to draw on the brilliant young talent graduating with degrees from Fisk and Tennessee State universities.

      Unfortunately, now nearly half the offices in Espresso Cosmetics corporate headquarters stood empty, victims of the recession, increasing competition and the company’s failure to keep up with the times.

      The elevator pinged and the doors parted at the top floor.

      “He’s got to listen to me this time,” Tia muttered as she stepped off the car.

      Still, there was no finessing the cold, hard facts laid out to her by Malcolm Doyle, Espresso’s head bean counter. Sales from Espresso Cosmetics’s spring collection—Parisian Getaway—had been dismal. Not only had it failed to bring new customers to their department-store counters, they were rapidly losing their loyal ones to other brands.

      Bottom line, women of color had more options, and they were no longer choosing what they considered their grandmothers’ makeup.

      “Morning, Loretta,” Tia greeted the woman who’d been her mother’s secretary ever since she could remember and now worked for her father.

      Like Loretta Walker, hardly anything had changed in the presidential suite since the death of Tia’s mother and company founder, Selina Sinclair Gray, seven years prior. Worn carpeting had been replaced with identical carpets, and walls had been repainted the ivory shade her mother had loved.

      But the decor wasn’t the problem.

      Tia exchanged a few moments of small talk with Loretta revolving around the weather and the woman’s granddaughter, who would start medical school at Meharry Medical College when the fall term began next month.

      “He’s not in there, sweetheart,” Loretta said as Tia headed toward her father’s office. “He’s waiting for you in your mom’s old office.”

      Tia raised a curious brow, but Loretta merely shrugged in response.

      Victor Gray was standing in the middle of what was once her mother’s inner sanctum staring at his wife’s portrait when Tia entered the office. The unseeing portrait smiled down at them. Although it was a wonderful likeness, Tia thought it failed to capture the exquisiteness of the icon who had dedicated her life to beauty for every shade of woman from sand to sable.

      Her father released a heavy sigh, and Tia touched his arm.

      “Are you sure you don’t want to talk in your office?”

      He shook a graying head. “Here’s fine. In fact, I can’t think of a better place to begin making plans to celebrate the thirty-fifth anniversary of Espresso Cosmetics,” he said. “Next year will be on us before you know it.”

      They’d be lucky if the business was still in operation next year. Tia opened her mouth to tell him so, but hesitated at the ever-present sadness on his lined face, making him look older than his sixty years. As a rebellious teenager, she had relished ripping into her parents, but now she reached for softer words.

      Her father continued, “I’ll get input from your sister, of course,” he said. “And see if your brother can be bothered to celebrate his mother’s legacy. However, I wanted to talk to you first and get the ball rolling.”

      “Dad, Malcolm Doyle came to see me last week,” Tia said in an attempt to head him off with some facts before he started talk of celebrations. Expensive celebrations.

      Immediately, a frown joined the grooves on her father’s wrinkled face at the mention of the company’s head accountant. He turned away from his late wife’s portrait and ran his hand along the smooth wood of the desk she used to sit behind.

      Tia pushed on. “Espresso can’t continue like this. The cosmetics division is bleeding red ink. Malcolm says—”

      “I’ve already heard what Doyle had to say,” her father barked. “I’m the CEO of this company. He had no right to worry you.”

      But she was worried.

      The sanctuary day spas, which Tia herself had founded as an offshoot of the makeup brand, were now practically supporting it.

      “Back to the anniversary celebration,” her father continued.

      “Don’t you see?” Tia interrupted. “If we don’t make some hard decisions, Espresso Cosmetics won’t exist next year.”

      He brushed off her concern with the wave of his hand, as if the motion would sweep away their financial problems. “All we need is one hit to get us back on track. The summer campaign will be in stores this week,” he said. “Calypso Moods is going to bring customers back to our counters.”

      No. It wouldn’t, Tia thought.

      Truth was, there was nothing exciting about the Calypso Moods collection. It was simply a rehash of her mother’s favorite hot-pink and orange lipsticks and blushes with new island-inspired names.

      Espresso’s product-research-and-development team had stopped bringing new ideas to her father’s desk knowing they’d be soundly rejected. So they gave him what he wanted, Selina Sinclair Gray–approved products with different names.

      “Even if every item of the collection sells out, it won’t be enough to put the cosmetics division in the black,” Tia said. “The cosmetics division is in survival mode here, Dad, and we have to make some hard decisions, all of us.”

      Her father leaned against her mother’s desk and crossed his arms. “Don’t go there, Tia,” he warned.

      “If we keep siphoning money from the spas to prop up the cosmetics brand, eventually it will drag them down, too.” Tia swallowed hard. She removed the signed authorization form from her tote bag and placed it on her mother’s old desk. “This is the last time, Dad.”

      “Who are you to tell me how the money this company makes is spent?” Victor Gray’s voice trembled with rage. “Your mother put me in place to succeed her as CEO. It’s what she wanted.”

      “I have plenty of say in how the spas’ profits are disbursed.” Tia pressed on, first reminding him of what he already well knew. “The spas didn’t exist when Mom was alive. I launched them with money from my trust fund, so there can be no monetary transfers without both our signatures,” she reiterated. “And I won’t authorize another dime until we all sit down in one room, you, me, Lola and, yes, even Cole, and figure out Espresso’s future.”

      Tia stood strong in the face of her father’s glare. He hadn’t flinched at her words, but he’d heard them all before. So she wasn’t surprised when he dismissed them as a bluff.

      “Like I told

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