Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
With a call to a fellow barista at the coffee shop and a promise to work the evening shift tomorrow, Emmy had managed to organize her day so she could go to Harlow and Ash.
There was a bigger problem than her work schedule, however.
She’d spent the majority of last night chatting with Charlie.
She’d gotten off the phone in a sort of lovestruck delirium, taking deep, infatuation-filled breaths and humming while she got into bed.
Eventually, she fell asleep without even thinking about the problem she’d face today: She didn’t have enough time to design and create an outfit, and she was walking into one of the biggest design firms in the country.
She considered her mom’s clothes she had, but they weren’t quite the vibe she needed—something fresh yet timeless versus traditional. Nothing in her closet fit the occasion.
So all morning she’d been in panic mode, scouring the internet and typing in searches for “what to wear to look chic on a budget” and “how to look cool with nothing.” But as she sat there, she figured that it might be better to admit that she didn’t have a vast wardrobe.
She didn’t even really know why he wanted to see her, or for that matter, why she’d agreed to go.
What she really wanted was the opportunity to learn more about her mom’s early years.
She wanted to get to the bottom of her mom’s life.
By learning more about her, Emmy hoped she could release the guilt she held about not asking her mother more about those years.
She’d only been fifteen when her mother died, so she shouldn’t have held herself so accountable for not learning more about her mom’s college days, but still she did.
What really surprised her, however, was that her dad didn’t seem to know either.
Was it really that there wasn’t much to know, or had her mother specifically hidden something from them?
Emmy pondered this as she decided on a pair of jeans and her trendiest sneakers; a black crewneck, long-sleeved cotton top; and her trench coat. Simple but elegant.
However, she’d dress it up with a... conversation piece? She attached the gold shoulder chain to her mother’s beaded green clutch and slipped it on crossbody. Then, she added the simple emerald-drop earrings she’d worn with her green dress at the wedding.
Perfect.
Emmy caught a cab. “To Astoria Row, please. Harlow and Ash.”
When she arrived, the interior of the lofty building was organized chaos and creative inspiration.
She walked past the large windows that flooded the room with natural light, past panels of fabric swatches, sketches, and mood boards on the walls.
A worktable fit for a king, covered in scattered sewing supplies and half-finished clothing patterns, stretched through the space.
But before she could get to that part of the room, she had to pass a modern, backlit glass desk and a woman in all black with large white earrings, her deep-brown hair pulled so tightly in a bun that not a single strand could escape.
She smiled at Emmy with red lips and a row of perfectly straight teeth. “May I help you?”
“My name is Emmy Brewer. Mitchell Augustine told me to meet him and to let Talia know that he asked me to come.”
“I’m Talia.” She waved Emmy forward with a soft, manicured hand. “Follow me.”
Talia led Emmy past racks of clothing samples—everything from linen and silk mock-ups that were still pinned at the hems, to runway-ready pieces.
They continued past a wall filled with bolts of fabric—silks, wools, and textiles she couldn’t even label.
They stopped at a dress form draped with an in-progress design, pins holding the fabric in place.
Then, they walked up to a door made entirely of frosted glass.
Talia stuck her head in, her muffled voice calling, “Mitch?”
“Yes?”
“Emmy Brewer is here.”
“Excellent. Let her in.”
Emmy entered and Mitchell gestured across his minimalist desk to a stylish leather chair.
“Hi, Emmy. Please. Have a seat.”
While she unwound herself from her clutch and her coat, Mr. Augustine stacked scattered fabric swatches and a sketchpad off to the side and closed his laptop.
Then he sat back in his tall chair. Behind him stood a pinboard, covered in pages torn from fashion magazines, color palettes, and sketches, along with a credenza filled with a row of design books, rare textiles, and awards, and a rolling rack containing more prototypes of the latest designs.
“Coffee?” He pointed to a well-stocked espresso machine against the side wall.
“No, thank you,” she replied, sure she’d spill it all over herself.
Just seeing this space made her incredibly curious.
It was her mother’s world; a legacy inherited by Emmy that she never fully understood.
But in an odd and foreign way, the space felt comfortable.
As if she were meant to be there. When she swam out of her thoughts, he was staring at her clutch, his shoulders tense, the way they’d been at the coffee shop. His face was ghostly white.
“Are you okay?” Emmy asked.
“Yes,” he said, the word coming out breathy. “I recognize your purse.”
She held it up. “It was my mom’s. We figured she must have gotten it in Paris.”
He nodded slowly. “Do you know much about it?”
“No, actually. I know nothing at all.”
“Well, that particular clutch is a Cartier minaudière.”
Cartier? Holy cow.
“The technique is considered to be an art form. It was crafted using a micro-beading method perfected in the nineteenth century. Each bead was individually handsewn onto the base, which is one hundred percent charmeuse mulberry silk. And the clasp is hand-forged twenty-four-karat gold filigree.”
“It sounds incredibly expensive.”
“Yes.” He nodded once, heaviness behind his eyes.
Emmy looked down at the clutch, seeing it in a new light. It was a vintage designer piece, and it had sat in a cardboard box in her parents’ house when it should probably be on display somewhere.
“I’m surprised my mom could afford this on a student’s salary. How did she get it?”
“I bought it for her.”
Emmy looked up, shocked. “Wow. That’s quite a gift.”
“Indeed.” He pressed his lips together with a tight smile.
“If you don’t mind me asking, why did you buy my mom such an extravagant gift?”
He rubbed his lips together as if to hold in whatever was on them, as if he were having second thoughts. “Maybe it’s best to let the answer go.”
“Why would that be best?” she pressed.
“Because why I bought it doesn’t matter now. It took me seeing you yesterday to realize. What matters is, she held onto it.” Happiness played in his eyes. “And she gave it to you.”
“She didn’t give it me. She had it in the bottom of a box in my parents’ closet, and I fished it out and decided to keep it.”
He studied the clutch, his smile fading as his mind seemed to go somewhere else. But then he snapped out of whatever the thought was. “I’m sure if she was here, she’d want you to have it.”
Before she could decide whether to mention the note she’d found inside, he stood up.
“But let’s turn our attention to why you’re here. If that dress you had on yesterday was any indication of your talent, I’d love to put your skills to the test to see if you’d be a good fit for our team. If you’re interested, of course.”
She twisted around to face him as he moved around the room. “Here’s the thing: Until that dress, I’d never sewn anything since I was a kid playing with my mom while she made me clothes. I don’t know if I’d be any good.”
“How long did it take you to make that dress?”
“I made it the night before our meeting.”
His eyes widened. “You’re kidding me.”
“No. Why?”
“I’d like you to apprentice under me. We can start with a basic sketch or two and a few sewing projects to gauge your skill level. Once I see what you know, we’ll go over sewing basics, fabric types, industry terminology, and digital design tools before your hands-on work begins.”
She opened her mouth to protest but then closed it and nodded instead.
The prospect terrified her, but what was her reason for wanting to say no?
Charlie had quit his corporate job to fish for a living.
She should follow his lead, right? But if she got going with this and became successful, she’d need to stay in New York.
Mitchell was still talking, and she wanted to stop him, but she didn’t. He was pacing.
“We’d start you on small tasks like cutting patterns, sewing simple pieces, or assisting with fittings.
You’d shadow me, observe how I select fabrics, collaborate with manufacturers, and interact with our elite clients.
Then we’ll begin your technical skill development.
I’d require seven to eight hours of work, and the days can go much longer before a show.
I could pay you about thirty-five dollars an hour.
Does that sound like something you’d be interested in? ”
She tried to rein in her disbelief. If she was calculating correctly, that was about $73,000 a year.
That was over double what Vivienne had offered her.
And if that wasn’t enough to convince her, there was also an underlying motivation: She might learn more about her mom’s designing days.
“Could I take twenty-four hours to think it over?”
“Of course.” He looked at his watch. “I have a meeting. I wish I could’ve offered you lunch. Have you eaten?”
She shook her head.
He hit a button on his phone. “Talia? Call in whatever lunch Miss Brewer would like to eat and pay for it with the company card. Then, have it delivered to her apartment.”
“Oh, you don’t—” she protested, but he cut her off.
“Nonsense. Anything you like.” He opened the door for her. “I hope to hear from you tomorrow.” He handed her a shiny metal card with a QR code. “That’s my personal number. Call me on that.”
Emmy placed the card into her mother’s clutch.
“Thank you,” she said, unsure of an appropriate response.
This was definitely unexpected. And she only had twenty-four hours to figure out which direction her life would go in.