Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
A WEEK LATER
After spending a week with her family, Emmy arrived at her New York apartment from her flight home.
It was late. Her eyes stung with the exhaustion that only travel could create.
The quiet was always the first thing she noticed whenever she came home after being with everyone.
She used to enjoy it, but recently, the silence felt less like a reprieve and more like an emptiness.
She texted her dad and sister to let them know that she’d made it, then sat at her small kitchen dinette. She peered down at the drawing she’d done with Charlie.
As Emmy sat in her empty apartment, she missed his mischievous smile, the way his head tilted just so when he listened to her.
.. Was she romanticizing their time together since they’d shared a childhood?
No, it was more than that. She enjoyed hearing him talk about his life.
She wanted to know more about whether he’d been fishing or done anything outdoors since he was stuck in the office all the time.
She wished she could take another drive with him.
Where would they go? She hadn’t given the market a single thought, but after one visit, it had become a place she couldn’t wait to get back to. .. Because he’d made it memorable.
There weren’t many people in life who had that kind of effect on someone. She had yet to meet anyone who came close to how she felt about Charlie.
She looked down at the drawing again.
He’d made her feel like she was the most talented person in the world.
She’d never felt talented until he’d acknowledged her ability.
Why was that? Was it because she trusted him?
Surely, her aptitude wasn’t as strong as her mom’s.
But the most surprising thing was how drawing had made her feel.
Even though she’d dabbled in a few sketches here and there, she’d shied away from developing her skills for two reasons: One, it was too painful, since she’d shared that activity with her mom, and two, she was terrified to admit how much she enjoyed it because she might not have the success her mother had.
Emmy opened the envelope and retrieved the drawing she’d used as inspiration, to compare.
She pulled a few more designs out and noticed something she hadn’t before.
One that she’d originally thought was a billowing dress, upon further scrutiny of the lightly sketched train, looked more like a wedding gown.
It was such a beautiful design that she wondered why her mother hadn’t made it for her own wedding.
It was very different from the one in her mom and dad’s wedding portrait.
What a shame that it was never brought to life.
Her gaze slid down the sleek lines of the drawing, the tapered waist and flowing sleeves.
Emmy decided then and there that if she ever got married, she was going to have someone make that dress.
She went to tuck it back into the envelope, but as she did, she noticed something on the back.
She squinted and pulled the yellowed paper toward her. Penciled in the corner were the names: Mitchell Augustine and Mrs. Augustine. Oh, perhaps it was a client. Had someone worn this dress? She pulled out the other designs and checked the backs, but there was nothing written on them.
She called Madison.
“Hey, did you ever hear Mom mention anyone with the last name Augustine?” she asked when her sister answered.
“No, why?” Madison replied.
“It’s written on the back of one of Mom’s designs. It says Mitchell Augustine and Mrs. Augustine.”
“No idea,” Madison said.
“I just wondered if she had an actual client or something.”
“Yeah, I don’t know.”
Emmy got off the phone, claiming fatigue.
She set the design on the table and opened her suitcase, making piles of dirty laundry and hanging what she hadn’t worn back in the closet.
Her mother’s dress dangled there, glimmering behind its clear plastic case.
Just under it was the box with her mom’s sewing machine. She’d never opened it.
“I want you to have my sewing machine,” her mother had said. By this time, she was frail, and every minute counted. She’d spent the last week making calls to people, including all her family members, to give them her wishes.
“I don’t want to talk about that right now,” Emmy had said, fighting tears.
“I know you don’t, but it’s important to me, and there’s not a better time to do it.”
Emmy pushed the thought away as she slipped her jeans onto a hanger and hung them on the bar in front of the dress. Then she worked on getting the rest of her things put away.
But after she’d showered and climbed into bed, despite the long day, she lay awake, her mother’s short career on her mind.
When Emmy was growing up, her mom had a busy social life.
She hosted a book club, she was president of the Parent Teacher Association, and she’d attended so many benefits that Emmy lost count.
She had lots of friends in the neighborhood, and she was always chatting with people.
Whenever someone new moved in, she was the first one over with a welcome basket.
Who was Anne Brewer before she was Mrs. Brewer? Emmy wished she’d asked her mother more questions about her younger years. Whenever she did, her mom had never really gone into much detail. She did ask her once, “Why did you leave fashion?”
Her mom replied, “Because I wanted a different life for myself and my future family.”
But with whom had she worked? Who were her friends before she had a family? Maybe Emmy would ask her dad tomorrow.
She rolled over to view the clock. 2:00 a.m. Oof.
She rubbed her eyes and tried unsuccessfully to induce sleep.
Her mind was still curious about the names on the back of her mother’s sketch.
No one by that name had attended the funeral, so her mom hadn’t had contact with Mitchell Augustine or his wife that Emmy was aware of.
But the story behind those names kept eating at her.
Why weren’t they at the funeral? Did they know she’d passed?
Would he care? Did her mother even know them or were they a potential client?
Perhaps she’d designed a dress for them and they’d passed on it. Yes, that was probably it.
Wide awake, she got out of bed and clicked on the light in the kitchen. Maybe she just wanted to be closer to her mother, but she couldn’t help but feel that her mom was sending her a message. Was she going crazy? She opened her laptop and searched for the name Mitchell Augustine.
A handful of people came up. Which one would her mom have known?
A couple of them were too young, and one seemed quite old.
Could the old guy be the one? She checked his profile; he did something with freight lines.
Her mother didn’t have a connection with that line of work.
But then another photo of him below his profile caught her eye.
This man could be her mother’s age. He was the creative director and head designer of Harlow and Ash, a major fashion brand.
She’d seen that line in Bloomingdale’s before.
Could that be the Mitchell Augustine on the back of her mother’s drawing?
The coincidence caught her off guard—finding it seemed too easy, as if she were meant to know.
She needed to wait until the morning, when her mind would be clear.
Otherwise, she’d go down the rabbit hole all night, trying to find a connection.
She left the page up but hit “sleep” on her computer. Sleep. Yes, that was what she needed to do. Tomorrow, she’d ask her dad if he knew the guy. That would be a good place to start. But right now, it was time to get some shut-eye.