2. Once Upon a Vision
ONCE UPON A VISION
G enevieve Courtenay was tongue-tied and suddenly weak in the knees. If asked how she felt under the scrutiny of those amber eyes, that would be how Vi would respond. If she could even say anything. How did one function in the proximity of this woman?
Even Aoife was affected, though after the initial awed reaction, she recovered quickly and sauntered farther into the studio, leaving Vi behind, and made herself comfortable, jumping to sit on the worktable.
Chiara made an expressive gesture with her graceful hands, shooing her away, accompanied by a few chosen words in Italian which Vi assumed were profanities, but Aoife was not to be thwarted.
“This looks amazing.” She twisted the arm of the mannequin wearing some kind of toga. “You really nailed it this time. I see you’ve had an inspired morning!”
“You break it, you buy it, Sully.” Chiara barely spared Aoife or the mannequin a glance, engrossed in whatever she had been working on at the design station. Then she sighed, lifted her head, and ran a hand over her neck, stretching it as if working out the kinks.
As she stepped away from the desk, she smoothly removed the pencil from her hair, causing it to cascade down in disarrayed waves.
The few silver strands added depth to the silk, and Vi imagined how its softness met the gorgeous satin of the flowing blouse open wide at the neck, how it caressed the sharp collarbones, how it would feel to follow that caress with her own fingertips.
Vi’s mouth went dry. This was getting ridiculous.
She had to work here. She had to be able to function, had to exhibit some level of coherence and intelligence.
At twenty-five, she wasn’t a teenager anymore, for crying out loud.
The fact that, once upon a time, she’d had a massive crush on the world-renowned supermodel was neither here nor there.
And speaking of this fashion business, one thing took Vi, who had made certain assumptions about Lilien Haus, entirely by surprise… Chiara, the Chiara, was actually a couturier these days?
Emboldened by the earlier pep talk, Vi took a few steps into the room and tried to discern what lay on the workstation. As she approached, she could see a sketch.
Though perhaps thinking of it in that simplistic way was not doing it justice. It was a detailed drawing of a dress. The exquisite composition, the details transposed to every single line, so simple yet so delicate.
No, to call it a dress was not doing it justice either. It was a gown. And one that looked like it had been created for a special occasion. One made for memories. One that spoke of intimacy and agelessness. The word “wedding” fell from her mouth before she realized she’d spoken out loud.
Chiara’s sharp exhalation right by her side startled Vi.
Enchanted by the gown, Vi had edged closer to the desk and thus was standing right by the woman whose hands had created this vision.
In fact, the long, slim fingers with their tapered nails were stained with charcoal, and Vi suddenly had the urge to put her own hands in her slacks’ pockets.
Maybe then they’d stop reaching out to touch, to brush the smudges from those beautiful hands.
“Why?”
Vi blinked. The voice was no more than a whisper as she turned slightly to see Chiara drawing even nearer.
She stared down at the sketch, and Vi couldn’t help but indulge just a bit and mentally catalog the smallest minutiae about this woman.
She had met her just a couple of hours ago, and yet she’d been admiring her all her life, albeit from afar.
And now she was allowed the privilege of taking a closer look.
Chiara’s trademark, her big, expressive eyes seemed to dominate her face.
It was what journalists, photographers, and editors had underscored her entire—short as it was—modeling career.
And those eyes were absolutely gorgeous.
Crow’s feet ran under them and to the side, making them even more dramatic.
The rest of the face was just as arresting.
The sharp line of the jaw, the sculpted nose, the wide, unsmiling mouth.
It drew Vi’s attention as Chiara was lost in thought, her lips pursing slightly.
To her surprise, it made Vi sad that the laugh lines around the serious mouth were almost nonexistent.
She sighed and Chiara turned to her fully, eyes alight with curiosity, and Vi tried to not stare anymore. What the hell was she doing? One embarrassing gawking session down in the foyer wasn’t enough? Why did she act like a fool around this woman?
Chiara seemed to be amused by Vi’s lack of social graces, the corners of her lips lifting slightly, the mouth parting, before the lower lip was suddenly sucked in and chewed on slowly as it was Chiara’s turn to peruse Vi’s face.
“Tell me, Ms. Courtenay, why did you say ‘wedding’ just now?”
“Ah…” God, how was she supposed to speak?
And how was she supposed to explain her own silly outburst?
“It’s not… I don’t know. The dress—” She could have smacked herself on the forehead.
“Gown, sorry, it looks like it’s waiting for a moment.
I can’t explain it exactly. Like it’s made for an occasion and I am not sure there’s anything more momentous than a wedding? ”
Aoife’s laughter cut through their tête-à-tête.
“What kind of feminist are ya, kid? Wedding? The most momentous? Pfft!”
“Shush, Sully. No, a wedding isn’t the most important moment in a woman’s life, but it is a moment. Go on, Ms. Courtenay.”
The voice was gentle, and a graceful hand gesture encouraged her to go on. Vi felt slightly lightheaded under the focus of those eyes. Had anyone ever really wanted her opinion with this level of interest?
“I’m sorry for not having the words. But it’s a vision, a feeling it gives off. It’s a love story. One with a happy ending.”
They looked at each other in silence, amber on gray, and in the background, Vi could sense Aoife holding her breath. She held hers as well, wondering if she had said something stupid yet again, as the face in front of her was pensive before the corners of the sensuous mouth tipped up once more.
“Maybe, Ms. Courtenay. Maybe.” The sadness had lifted from the curious eyes and Chiara stepped away, her fingertips tracing the rough edges of the sketch, smudging the charcoal a little, making what looked like a check mark on the bottom of the paper.
“So that’s it?” Aoife jumped off the worktable. “You’ve found your theme?”
“Ah, I’m sorry, but what’s happening here?” Vi looked from one woman to the other.
Chiara took a few steps away from the sketch, walking slowly towards the bank of tall windows. For the first time since entering, Vi noticed small colorful squares that filled one of the panes at eye level.
The sun played with the shadows on Chiara’s beautiful features, casting colorful reflections through a myriad of post-it notes that formed a strange mosaic on the glass.
Despite the writing being entirely illegible to Vi, the scroll messy and too sharp, the bright pinks and screaming yellows managed to look both out of place yet remarkably serene, and so did the woman when she turned back to face her companions.
“For the past several months, I’ve been stuck on this one design.
No matter what I drew, nothing else came to me.
And even when I did draw this very gown, or variations of it, I just couldn’t find that something to describe it.
Ivory or white, even crimson and cerulean, no matter what color I gave it, I still didn’t know what to make of it. I guess I know now.”
Chiara reached out and plucked a dark green post-it from the glass, balled it up, and unerringly three-pointed it into the garbage can. The slim shoulders seemed to relax, as if a weight had lifted.
Chiara smiled again, the gesture reaching her eyes, and as she spoke, the characteristic hand gestures she’d been quite famous for back in the days of regular interviews and appearances, were once again on display. Such an Italian stereotype.
But Vi found the movements elegant, refined.
Like a dancer. Vi supposed Chiara could have been one.
Tall, very slim still, even after twenty years off the catwalks, long-limbed, she had a fluidity to her gait and movements that reminded Vi of the grand ballet mistresses of old.
Maya Plisetskaya came to mind, both in statute and coloring. Vi was fascinated all over again.
An elbow to her ribs rather rudely interrupted said fascination.
“Honestly, kiddo. Stop with the staring. We get it. You actually did have her posters on your wall.” Aoife’s smile cushioned the sting of the words somewhat.
“Don’t let her bully you, Ms. Courtenay.
” Chiara came back to them and laid her chin on Aoife’s head, affectionately hugging her from behind.
Vi felt the envy at the ease of their touch in her bones.
And then the anger at her own need for affection singed her stomach even as she tried not to turn away.
“Hey, hey, I may be a short-arse, but there’s no need for such a public display of superiority, Conti!” Aoife bristled and half-heartedly tried to extricate herself from the embrace.
“There’s no ‘may be’ about you being short, Sully.” Chiara’s laughter was bright and unrestrained, peels of it echoing across the studio’s tall ceiling, and to Vi’s surprise, Aoife stopped struggling and allowed herself to be held, turning around and burying her face in Chiara’s shoulder.
Chiara just tsked and pulled her closer.
The poison of envy dissipated, and Vi soaked in the happiness and genuine affection.
She just wished she could bask in the sunshine that radiated off Chiara a little bit, her locks catching the glint of the beams of light trickling through the small forest of post-its and her eyes alight with humor and mischief.