Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The process had been slow, and she’d been meticulous about getting every stitch just right.
She’d had to redo one of the cream cuffs, and she had to watch a few online videos to master the stitch technique for the back zipper.
But the interior lining had been the hardest part, taking most of the hours.
Now, the finished, ironed dress hung on her closet door. She’d been too nervous to try it on.
So instead, she’d gotten a shower, lotioned her skin, painted her nails, dried and curled her hair, and applied makeup. She had to spend extra time on the dark areas under her eyes from not sleeping.
Just looking at it on the hanger, the dress was fantastic.
She’d surprised herself. Even if for some reason it didn’t fit, Emmy was quite proud of what she’d been able to accomplish on her first try.
She’d paired it with tall brown boots that she’d splurged on a few years ago and the cream-colored trench coat that she’d worn whenever Vivienne entertained top clients.
With her ivory scarf and mittens, she was sure she had a winning outfit—better than anything she could’ve bought at the store. But now, she just had to fit it.
Moment of truth.
Emmy slipped off her bathrobe and then took the dress off the hanger.
Her heart pounding, she unzipped the back and stepped into it, shimmying the fabric up her body.
She slid her arms into the sleeves with surprising ease.
Then, she reached around and zipped it up.
Still unwilling to believe she’d pulled off such a feat, she went over to her full-length mirror and took in her reflection.
Complete astonishment ballooned inside her.
Her creation fit like a glove.
Standing opposite her twenty-seven-year-old self, the image blurred in front of her as a childhood memory took hold.
Five-year-old Emmy gave a spin, the ruffles of her newly made dress puffing out around her as her patent-leather shoes tapped on the kitchen floor. She’d sat on her mom’s lap or beside her during most of the sewing for the dress.
“You look so beautiful in your handiwork,” her mother said with a smile.
“My handiwork?” Emmy giggled. “I didn’t do anything!”
“Yes, you did. You gave me the motivation to keep going. I do everything for you.” Her mother scooped her up in her arms and tickled her while Emmy threw her head back in a fit of giggles.
Her adult-self came back into focus on the whisper of her mother’s words: You look so beautiful in your handiwork.
Her cab honked outside.
Feeling unstoppable, Emmy snatched the folder with her mother’s drawings and shoved it into her handbag. Then she grabbed her coat and wrapped her scarf around her neck. With a swipe of her mittens from the counter, she was out the door to meet Mitchell Augustine.
Emmy arrived at Cadeau a little early. She entered through the coupled columns that drew the eye to the lavishly painted domed ceilings, her boots clicking on the shiny marble floors.
She’d only ever seen this kind of grand Beaux-Arts architecture in public locations like train stations and courthouses.
The place was full of New York’s finest clientele: groups of women from wealthy or aristocratic backgrounds, daintily sipping their low-sugar lattes, a pile of high-end shopping bags at their feet; men in business suits, tapping on laptops.
Cadeau was clearly a fashionable social gathering place, a who’s who of New York’s elite.
Emmy considered whether to email Mitchell Augustine with her description.
Would he get her message? She wandered through the busy café, the buzz of conversation echoing in the airy space.
She found an empty spot to stand near the back, but she couldn’t see the doors from there, so she finessed her way through a group of stylish young professionals until she made it back to the entrance.
Wanting something to expel her nervous energy, she went over to the wall and took a menu.
The choices were presented in embroidered fabric and stretched across a highly lacquered thin sheet of wood.
There were no prices. She’d heard someone at The Big Cup, where she worked, once claim that a latte was twenty bucks.
With nothing noted on the menu, they could charge whatever they wanted, and given the people in this room, she doubted any of them would even pay attention to the cost. These people would probably pay anything to be seen here.
“Excuse me.”
Emmy turned around to see an older gentleman, dressed in a tailored pair of trousers and a thick navy wool coat. He was strikingly handsome and distinguished.
“Are you, by chance, Emmy Brewer?”
“Yes.”
He stepped back as if to get a good look at her, taking her in, an indescribable curiosity dancing in his deep-green eyes. “Mitchell Augustine.” He held out a hand in greeting.
She shook it. “How did you know it was me?”
“You have your mother’s smile and her sense of style.”
His commanding presence made her nervous.
“And you’ve been wandering around, looking a bit lost.” He gestured toward a small table and pulled out a chair for her.
She took off her coat and handbag, draped them on the back of the chair, and sat down.
“Forgive me, but that dress you’re wearing is fantastic. Who’s the designer? I’m in dire need of an addition to my team.”
Her cheeks flamed. “No one you’d know, I’m certain.”
“Good thing. If I couldn’t hire them, I’d hate to have that level of competition. Is it someone from out of the country?”
She’d only wanted to look nice. She hadn’t considered that he might ask about her outfit.
But she should’ve known because he was a designer, after all.
She’d been compared to her mother her whole life.
She didn’t want to be compared now. Especially by a top designer.
“No, someone made it out of their home. They’re not a professional. ”
“Oh, really? Wow.”
She cleared her throat and focused on her breath to keep her heart from beating out of her chest. While she didn’t want to be held to the high standard her mother had set, she did get a rush of excitement at the compliment.
“What would you like to drink?” Mitchell asked.
Another wave of anxiety crashed over her. What was she supposed to get? Was there a protocol or anything? Should she ask for sparkling water or get a coffee? She stared at his expectant face. “Surprise me.”
“All right.”
He left her and went up to the counter. His movements were assertive. Was that because he was confident or arrogant? He responded to the attendant, who moved swiftly to fulfill his order.
Emmy ran her hands over her dress to smooth it out and sat up straight, feeling very much out of place.
But since this would probably be the only time she came into Cadeau, she put her fears aside and soaked in the atmosphere.
There was a noticeable air of success in the place.
People were less manically rushed and more uncompromisingly focused than they were in The Big Cup.
In the mornings, patrons were frazzled, usually late, and hurrying off to their jobs, but here, people were either having direct conversation in what looked to be scheduled meet-ups, or they were meticulously working, their fingers tapping away at their laptops and cell phones at their ears.
The difference made her wonder if there was an indefinable thing that set the uber-successful apart from the regular person.
Did some people just have it and others didn’t?
Was that how her mother had made life look so easy and why Emmy struggled?
Mr. Augustine returned with two ceramic cups. He set one down in front of her. “I got you a prewarmed pour-over of Hacienda La Esmeralda Geisha.” He handed her a small card. At the top, the café’s logo sat in the center of a tiny Christmas wreath.
“What’s this?” She peered down at the list typed on it.
He frowned. “It’s a tasting notes card.” He sat down.
She worked at a coffee shop and had no idea what he was talking about. “What is that?”
He lifted his own card and read the type. “The origin of the coffee is Boquete, Panama. The variety is Geisha. It was grown at an elevation of 5,250–5,900 feet. And here’s the list of its tasting notes.” He tapped the card, showing where to follow along on hers.
She read the text: Aroma: Jasmine, bergamot; Flavor: Bright citrus (tangerine, lime), delicate florals, honey-like sweetness; Body: Refined, tea-like, with a light and elegant feel; Acidity: Vibrant and crisp, with a champagne-like effervescence; Finish: Long, clean, and lingering, with a hint of peach.
Emmy was out of her element. In her world, she served a candy cane with the coffee during the holidays, and the fact that they unwrapped it from the cellophane and set it on the saucer had been an extravagant touch, in her opinion.
Here, she got a card with the history and entire life account of the beans that had become her beverage.
“It’s an award-winning coffee from Panama—world-famous.”
She set the card down. “You know a lot about it.”
He smiled softly. “It’s my favorite. They fly it in monthly from the highlands of Boquete, where it’s grown.” He tapped the card again to remind her of the fact. “But enough about the coffee.” Mitchell scooted the mug away as if it were a regular glass of cola. “You contacted me. Why?”
She went into her handbag and retrieved the envelope with her mother’s drawings. She opened the flap and took out the one with the wedding dress.
He immediately stiffened.
Had she caught him red-handed? Had he already guessed she might confront him about his design for Fashion Week? The mix of emotion in his eyes made her wonder.
“This was a drawing of my mother’s.” She flipped it over. “And this is your name, along with the name Mrs. Augustine.”
He visibly flinched. Clearing his throat, he picked up his cup and took a long, slow sip of coffee.
“Was this drawing for your wife?”
He methodically set his cup onto the table, his focus remaining on the black liquid. “Yes.” His gaze returned to Emmy.
“Did Mom actually make you the dress?”
He nodded.
Well, that was a relief. It must have been a drawing for him and his wife then. That mystery was solved. “Did you recreate it, then, for Fashion Week?”
His expression was heavy. He was just beginning to fathom what she’d dealt with for over a decade: Her wonderful mother was no more.
“I only ask because I read that the fabric for it was rushed for the event, so I assumed the dress was a new design and not her original.”
“I didn’t expect to redesign it. But after you told me your mother died, I wanted to honor her. I knew her well.”
Emmy hadn’t thought of that. There they were, thinking he was a terrible person who might have stolen her mother’s design, when, in actuality, he’d taken a dress he’d probably bought for his wife, and redesigned it in her mother’s memory.
While that answer made sense, it only served to create more questions.
Her mother definitely acquired friends easily, but what kind of impression had she made on him if he was willing to pay tribute to the young designer so many years later?
“That’s really kind of you to acknowledge her in that way.”
He offered a despondent smile.
“So do you still have the original dress?”
“I do.”
“Would your wife mind if you showed it to me one day?”
“What?”
“The dress. Would your wife mind if I saw it?”
Something flashed across his face, and he drew back as if he’d changed his mind about this meeting entirely.
Did he not want her to speak to his wife for some reason?
Why? Out of nowhere, he seemed rushed and uncomfortable, a departure from the self-assured demeanor he’d had earlier. He took a shifty sip from his mug.
Had he been lying about the dress in some way? His reaction wasn’t making any sense, but the awkwardness was palpable. Her original skepticism about his motives slid back into place.
Emmy took a drink of her coffee as well, to fill the silence.
The flavor was so smooth that it didn’t need a bit of sugar or cream to cover it up.
She could make out the peach notes. As she savored the taste, she considered what could have caused this about-face from him.
There was definitely something he wasn’t telling her.
“I never ended up getting married,” he finally added, but he avoided eye contact. Was he lying? Why didn’t he want her to meet his wife? What did his wife know that he didn’t want her to say? “I’d have to find the dress... I don’t know where it is.”
He didn’t elaborate further. And it wasn’t her place to ask him. She was there to learn about her mom’s life, not his.
With a finger, he pushed her mother’s drawing to her side of the small table. “Was that all you needed to know?”
What? No. She’d barely gotten any answers.
He stood up. “Anything else? I need to get going.”
“You haven’t had your coffee. And you said it’s your favorite.”
He shifted his weight.
“Please don’t go. I don’t know anything about my mother’s life when she was younger.
I just got these drawings of hers from Baudelaire’s, and your name was only on the back of this one.
” She flipped the drawing over again for emphasis and pushed it to his side of the table.
“I was hoping you’d tell me a little bit about her designing days. That’s all.”
He sat back down, his downturned lips parting just slightly as he looked at her mother’s handwriting.
“How did you know her?”
His shoulders remained tightly raised, but he picked up his cup and took a drink. He swallowed. “I was an apprentice to Beno?t Baudelaire, and being American, he had me mentor your mom while she studied there.”
“Oh, she studied under you?”
“Yes.”
“What was she like back then?”
There was an undeniable sparkle in his eyes and a lift at the corners of his lips when Emmy asked the question, but then he straightened out his expression. “She was a genuine person, so I suppose she was the same as she was when you knew her.”
“She didn’t talk a lot about her designing days, and I’ve wondered why.”
He shifted in his chair.
“Could you tell me more about your time with her?”
He allowed a small smile to emerge. “She was elegant, soft-spoken, and thoughtful about everything she did.”
“You were right: That’s exactly how she was when I was growing up. But I can’t figure out why she left her talent behind entirely. Do you know?”
He paused, his knee bouncing. “I... couldn’t tell you.”
So he didn’t have any answers either? She doubted that. Certainly, he saw something if she worked for him day in and day out.
“I should go,” he said, more calmly now.
“Thank you for your time. I know you must be incredibly busy.”
Perhaps her mother’s motivation for leaving the design world behind would remain a mystery. Maybe she just changed her mind about what she wanted for her future. Could her mom’s life decisions have been that simple?