Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“Morning,” Jack said when Emmy came into the family room the next day.
“Good morning.”
Emmy took a seat on the edge of the sofa and set her mother’s design book on her lap. The lights on the Christmas tree twinkled in the gray of early morning.
“The clouds are rolling in,” she noted.
“Yeah, a pretty big snow is predicted. If you get snowed in, you’re more than welcome to hang out with us for a few weeks.”
“Thanks.” She smiled. “Where’s Madison?”
“She had to run out. She’s picking up some things.”
“Oh.” Groceries. She’d forgotten.
“Are you hungry? I can make some breakfast. I was planning on pancakes.”
“I think I might scoot out to that coffee shop again before I pop in to see my dad. The time alone clears my head.” She held up her mother’s book. “I have some reading.”
“You sure you don’t want to stay?”
“I’ll only be out a little while. Need anything while I’m out?”
“No, thanks.” He got up from his chair, and Emmy followed suit.
Her mind was still absorbed by her thoughts about last night.
She’d gone round and round with questions that had no answers: Why had her mother said so little about her past?
Why had Mitch been uptight about her mother early on?
Why had her dad looked positively panicked when she’d said he needed to tell them something?
She was busy speculating while she climbed into her rental car and headed to the coffee shop.
When she got there, she settled in at the same table with a cinnamon latte and opened her mom’s book.
While Christmas music jingled above her, she flipped through the pages, delighted to find that it was more of a scrapbook of sorts.
She had designs, but also magazine clippings, notes, and endless pages of journaling.
The first few pages were drawings Emmy had never seen. Each sketch carried new weight after spending a year in the industry. Her mother had written notes on the silhouettes and cuts that she’d sketched. Emmy took note of the tailoring details.
She took a drink of the warm latte and flipped the page, reading her mom’s handwriting that labeled vintage fashion references under fabric swatches and texture samples, tear-outs from fashion magazines, and photos of street style and runway looks.
The book was like a manual for how to design, and Emmy was incredibly lucky that her dad had found it.
The next page was a montage of art, architecture, and nature images that must have inspired her mother’s designs. She scanned the grainy photos of Parisian moldings and landscapes.
Just as she was about to turn the page, a particular photo caught her eye.
She set her coffee down and leaned in, squinting at the image of a rainy street.
Was that Rue des Lumières d’Automne, the street from the note in her mom’s clutch?
It was a different angle from the view she’d seen on the internet, so it was difficult to tell.
It definitely looked similar. Then, something hit her: rain.
Vivienne’s comment floated back into her mind.
Rain. Lots of rain. There’s nothing there anymore, dear.
What had Vivienne meant by “anymore”? And what was the significance of rain?
Why had Vivienne mentioned rain and then her mother possibly had a photo of that very street in the rain?
Emmy stared at the image, willing it to give her a clue, but there was nothing.
She moved on to the next page and pored over her mother’s handwritten notes on how certain fabrics draped and moved.
She’d written long paragraphs for each type of fabric: silk, linen, taffeta.
Her mother had even jotted down embellishment ideas for each type of fabric: sequins, embroidery, beadwork.
She’d included sewing techniques, notes, and diagrams. This book was a gold mine for Emmy.
The next page had doodles and quick concept sketches.
The page after that contained inspirational quotes from designers, artists, and historical figures, along with her reflections on fashion trends written on long notepaper, folded and taped in.
She opened each one, reading her mother’s writing—an unspoken conversation happening between her and her mom.
The Christmas music and hustle and bustle of the coffee shop faded as Emmy moved deeper into her mother’s scrapbook.
It was as if she were talking to her and her mom was telling her all the things she hadn’t said while Emmy was growing up.
Emmy got a sense of her mother’s passion for design, her impeccable taste, and her attention to detail.
But it wasn’t until she reached a page full of taped-in journal entries that she really felt her mother. She opened the first folded page:
I went to Galeries Lafayette today and walked through a live modeling event. There were some stunning pieces. I was particularly drawn to the modern designs—the play of light and shadow really excited me. I want to experiment with geometric shapes in my upcoming designs.
Emmy had been so busy over the last year that she hadn’t had time to take a breath. But reading her mother’s note made her want to take her time, to stroll through museums, be inspired. She opened the next note.
I didn’t grow up in this world, and I feel like an outsider.
The family’s values, traditions, and way of life are completely foreign to me.
They have incredibly high expectations for everything, including my career choice and, most importantly, family roles.
I’m not giving up my freedom. The pressure to meet these expectations is overwhelming.
I’m losing my individuality, and I’m regretting my choice. I never thought I’d say that.
Emmy flipped the paper up to see if there was anything written on the back of it, but there was nothing.
What was her mother talking about? Her dad’s family hadn’t had expectations higher than her own mother’s, had they?
Unless they’d been the ones who’d wanted her to quit her job and raise a family?
Had she wanted to continue as a designer and been pressured into leaving it behind?
It didn’t sound like Emmy’s grandparents to force her mom to do anything like that.
Emmy’s mother never complained, so if she’d taken the time to write this down, it had been bothering her. What was Emmy’s dad not telling her?
Had her mom’s happiness been a complete sham?
Had she secretly wanted a different life?
Could that be why she’d had the clutch and this book hidden away—long-lost moments she wished she could return to?
Suddenly, her mother’s calm demeanor took on a new strength.
If she had felt this way, never once had Emmy had an inkling of it.
She opened the next journal entry, engrossed.
I’ve changed my mind about everything. I want to get married right away and leave Paris as soon as possible. I want to disappear. I wish…
What did her mom wish? She hadn’t finished her sentence. This message didn’t fit with the last entry. What was her mother talking about?
“So I ran out to get the essentials before the storm,” her sister’s voice interrupted her reading.
She looked up to find Madison standing at her table.
And to Emmy’s utter astonishment, Charlie waved from beside her sister.
“Hey.”
Emmy closed her mother’s scrapbook and gaped at him. His hair was longer, he had a gold stubble beard, and he was dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans, looking like he’d stepped right out of Wyoming and into the coffee shop, which it seemed he actually had.
“I didn’t want to say anything in case I couldn’t get here for any reason. But I booked a flight when you told me about your dad, and I texted Madison to pick me up at the airport.”
“I wanted to surprise you,” Madison said. “He’s gonna sleep on the sofa.”
Charlie gave her a warm smile.
“You didn’t have to come all this way,” Emmy said, but the fact that he had made her want to throw her arms around him.
“I’ve still gotta get us groceries, and then I’ll head over to see Dad,” Madison said. “I’ll leave you two.” She winked, then blew her a kiss and left the shop.
Emmy and Charlie shared a moment, taking in one another.
“Got a minute?” he asked.
His eyes sparkled with the question, and Emmy immediately knew he was referring to her mother’s story about the café when her dad asked if she had a minute. Her mother had said she knew that one minute would very possibly become a lifetime. Now Emmy understood what that felt like.
She gestured toward the chair across from her, resisting the urge to get up and throw her arms around him. “Wanna sit?”
“It’s good to see you,” he said, his eyes heavy with unspoken words.
“Same.” She cleared her throat to avoid giving away the absolute relief and elation swimming through her at having him there. “Want something to drink?”
“I’ll get it. How about you? Another one?”
“Sure.”
“What are you drinking?’
“I can’t remember,” she said, not caring a bit about what she was having. “Surprise me.”
While it had been a tough holiday, Emmy couldn’t help but think things were certainly looking up.