Chapter 27 Wrenley #3
While I won’t pretend to know all the details, I know enough to know that losing one position does not suddenly erase eight years of experience. Unfortunately, one of fashion’s less charming qualities is its tendency to confuse the loudest voice in the room with the correct one.
The reason I am writing is because a colleague of mine is producing a period drama set in the 1920s. It has a substantial budget, a network already attached, an experienced team, and the kind of creative freedom costume designers spend their careers hoping to find.
I took the liberty of showing them examples of your work, and the response was very enthusiastic. They’re interested in speaking with you.
I’ve attached the project overview along with preliminary design materials.
If you’re interested, I’ll arrange an introductory meeting with the production team.
Assuming the conversation goes well, they would like concept samples shortly thereafter.
If I don’t hear back from you in two weeks’ time, I’ll assume you are not interested.
The position would require a relocation to Los Angeles.
The production company has immigration counsel in place and would handle sponsorship and the necessary paperwork should you move forward.
In other words, the logistical hurdles are already solved.
All you need to decide is if you want to take this once in a lifetime opportunity that’s being handed to you.
For what it’s worth, I always thought you were wasting your time and skill at that company. There are only so many places you can go when everyone in the room is determined to think small.
Review the materials and let me know your thoughts.
Regards,
Tammie Roswell
President & Creative Director
Halcyon House
Two weeks.
That’s exactly how long it is until my wedding.
My chest feels tight as I read the email over and over, like repetition will change what it’s saying. It doesn’t. And the email is reading more like: Hey, Wrenley. You know how five minutes ago, you felt really good about your future? Psych!
Remi pulls up to Ruger’s house, but I barely notice. I’m too busy staring through the windshield, my phone still clutched in my hand.
Are you sure you’re okay? Remi asks, waving a hand in front of my face.
I blink.
My first instinct is to tell her everything. To hand over my phone and ask what she thinks I should do. But the words catch somewhere in my throat because the second I tell someone, this stops being a strange email in my inbox and becomes a real possibility.
I don’t think I’m ready for that.
Fifteen minutes ago, I was in a basement, deliriously excited about my wedding and my future here in Alaska. Now I’ve got this email offering the exact life I planned on chasing when I got here, only with far fewer hurdles standing in my way.
If I say yes, I lose Alaska. I lose Ruger before we even have a real chance.
I lose Audrey and Beryl and Fabric Delights.
I lose sewing classes and annoyingly nosy neighbours and women who come together to make a wedding happen.
Walter’s coffee and his unfiltered thoughts.
I lose the mountains that make me feel connected to Vancouver.
I lose the life that until a few days ago, I didn’t fully realize I wanted.
The thought makes my chest ache.
But this opportunity isn’t something I can just dismiss either.
People spend years trying to break into a production like this.
They network and hustle and send portfolio after portfolio into the void, hoping the right person notices.
Meanwhile, Tammie Roswell is opening a door for me that most people won’t even get close to knocking on.
If I say no, I can’t just assume another opportunity will magically appear when I’m ready.
I’ll have to live with knowing I walked away from the easiest path I’m ever likely to be given.
I look at Remi. I’m fine, I say.
The lie comes easier than I’d like.
We did good work tonight, she says. I’ve got a meeting tomorrow and the day after. Then we have the cake tasting a couple of days after that.
I try to imagine the schedule in my head and immediately come up blank.
Can you text me the schedule? I ask.
Of course, she says with a smile. I have spreadsheets.
How very Remi of you, I say with a laugh.
Have a good night, Wren.
Good night, I say and get out of her truck.
I walk through the gate and up the path to the house.
I can see Ruger sitting on the couch through the window, the light from the TV casting a blue glow on him.
He looks so relaxed and comfortable. The sight of him usually makes me feel better.
Tonight, seeing him makes me feel terrible because I’m standing out here with a huge secret and absolutely no idea what to do with it.
I thought my biggest decision was whether I could picture a life in Alaska.
Now I’m choosing between two futures I want so badly that giving either up feels like the wrong choice.
What the hell am I supposed to do?