Chapter 6
I enjoy my coffee on the deck, but it’s already looking to be a hot day. Last night at dinner, everyone was joking about how last summer was just so hot. Unusually hot, and this season seems just as warm. Paris could be uncomfortable at times, but I didn’t explore. I didn’t set out to vacation in France because I was so busy with my studies and working ahead on projects. The university was cool with the industrial air conditioning, but otherwise, I never noticed how sweltering it could be there.
Just as well that I’m not going on any hikes or anything. I only brought my coffee out here to avoid the sound of the squeaky fan in the living room. I have to add it to the list of other pesky items in the cabin. I know he’s letting me stay here to get out of my mother’s sight, so I hate to complain for the sake of not being treated to a five-star stay. He’s doing this as a favor, and I don’t want to sound ungrateful.
Before the sun can really rise and bake me anymore, I head inside. Jetlag still bothers me, but I have something important to look forward to today, something more rewarding than noticing the little odds and ends that stand out at this cabin or lamenting the warmth that’s preventing me from sitting out on the deck with my coffee.
Lauren’s coming over today, and I can’t wait. The chance to sink my teeth into a design excites me, and soon, I fall into a spell of impatience, wanting her to be here already. She arrives before too long, though, and I show her in.
“Hi, Claire!” She comes with me into the living room, where I left a notebook open on the coffee table. I can’t help but feel like a student, eager to please and ready to dive into what I studied so long and hard for.
“Thanks so much for offering to help me with this,” she says as she sits on the couch. “You cannot believe how challenging this is for me.”
“Because of the distance?” I ask. It feels like we’re in the middle of nowhere up in these mountains, but so much is online now, not in a studio or shop. That’s part of the magic, though, being immersed with the options of gowns. Maybe it just doesn’t feel the same being so remote up here.
“Well, yes. That, too.”
That too? She said it like that would be an afterthought, not a main point. What else?
“It’s just something I haven’t done, and I’m overwhelmed with all the options.”
I pause and let that sink in. Lauren was engaged before, so I’m not sure how to interpret that comment. She probably means an assistant or wedding planner handled it all, and this is her first time taking over the process on her own. That’s got to be it.
“I hear you about the options. So many to consider, but that’s what I’m here for.”
She’s like a blank canvas, and she can’t have any idea how much this matters to me.
For the next several hours, I focus on figuring out what her dream dress would look like. I don’t think about my mother, or Owen, or that apprenticeship where someone else would be in charge. I’m the boss of this design, and I have no room to think about anything else.
We cover lengths and styles. I show her design samples of different dresses. Seated together on the couch, she can lean over and see on my tablet what I’m referencing. She asks about fabrics, and I ask her about what vibe she wants. She tells me what her hard passes are, and I suggest what I think would look good with her body shape.
“Please tell me it won’t have shoulder pads.” She glances at me sideways with a smirk.
“Shoulder pads?” I slap my pen to my notebook and raise my brows. Sure, she’s funny when she wants to be, but I didn’t realize she’s this kind of comical. “You want to request no shoulder pads?”
She nods, serious, with wide eyes staring back at me.
“Why…” I shake my head. “Why would you even think I would consider shoulder pads?” I can’t help but cringe at the mere idea of a cushion on her shoulders. Not only are they sorely out of style as a trend that should never allow to rise from the dead, but they would look terrible on her, specifically with her slender frame.
She sighs. “I just wanted to make sure to mention it.”
Blinking a few times, I try to guess again if she’s joking. “No. No shoulder pads, Lauren.” I almost want to shudder at the idea of them.
She perks up and sits straighter, happier after clearing away that detail. “You don’t know how much this means to me.”
Because I have the common sense to say no to shoulder pads?
“Before you arrived, I woke up every morning with a little sense of dread. That I wouldn’t figure this out or even know how to navigate dresses and picking one thing versus the other. You’re making it so seamless and simple. So relaxing. And now, I’m actually excited about what my dream dress will look like! How long would it take for you to make the dress, whichever style we go with?”
I smile. Has she forgotten what I said last night? “I didn’t bring much with me, Lauren. For one, I don’t have my sewing machine. I don’t have much fabric to show you, and this isn’t a well-equipped studio and workspace to create the dress of your dreams.” I smile, but inside, I hate that I can’t. Talking about what she might like is infectious, and I wish I could count on the experience of handling this myself. Of feeling the satiny smooth materials and shaping it to her size. It just won’t be the same to design and envision her gown and let someone else try to bring it to justice, but that’s just how it’ll have to be.
Lauren smiles and shakes her head. “But Caleb will spare no expense,” she reminds me. “I’m aware you’ve known him for a long time, so I can’t imagine how you would think Caleb wouldn’t spring for making this happen.”
I couldn’t. I really couldn’t think of that ease of having money like she likely assumes I can. Billions are waiting for me, but I’ve never once considered myself wealthy. My mother holds those accounts, and she is the “gatekeeper” of my finances. I’ve only been able to tap a little bit for living expenses, and those were expected to show that I was a Rennard, that I was from a prestigious name. I didn’t have the simple capital to open my own dress shop, let alone sourcing the materials and things I would need to make Lauren her dress here.
“He wants you to make my dress,” she explains bluntly. “Whatever you need, we’ll make it happen.”
Those words are music to my ears. My mother might never let me have the funds to work as I’ve always wanted to, but my cousin’s best friend isn’t as stingy. He’s clearly over the moon about his fiancée, too, and I know he means it when he says he’ll get her whatever she wants.
“Look at it this way: you have no budget, Claire. You have full rein to make this dress happen.”
I glance around the living room, picturing a dress form, a sewing machine, and another workstation with lighting, letting the magic of her words seep in. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah. Really. I’ve never cared too much about fashion. I never could.”
I furrow my brow at that odd statement.
“But I can tell you definitely know your stuff. Even your sketches show so much talent!” She points at my notebook.
“Well, I have a good idea of what I’m working with.” That’s not true. I have no things to work on yet, but I believe her and Caleb, and I will have fabrics soon. “I have a solid grasp on what you’d like,” I amend.
I stack up my notebooks when she says she needs to finish an errand for Marian before it’s too late, but before she leaves, she grows quiet, watching me like she’s debating to say something.
“I heard you were going to elope,” she finally says softly.
I hide a cringe. “Yes. Yes, I was.” I sense that she’s got a story, too. Her comments about not picking her dress make me wonder why, and it seems that closeness and curiosity goes both ways between us.
Lauren is sweet and considerate, I can tell by her words and mannerisms, but delving into the topic of my failed elopement isn’t small talk. That’s deeper. I’ve never had a close friend to confide in, and while a big part of me wants to think Lauren could be such a friend, I’m hesitant to open up that much and be too comfortable to share it all. In the end, I’m doing this for money. I’m working for her, so already, that connection of a service being rendered has tainted how true our friendship could be.
I only came here to be too busy and slightly unreachable from my mother, but I’ll have to face her and return to Paris eventually.
She pats my hand as she stands, interpreting my lack of a further answer correctly. I don’t want to talk about it, and she respects that.
After I see her out, a restlessness fills me. Lauren doesn’t seem as outgoing as Aubrey. From the little I’ve seen of the two friends, I’ve picked up on that. Still, having Lauren here in the capacity as someone who could be a friend, not a client, made the cabin seem less lonely.
To escape the reminder that I have no one to rely on for company or companionship, I head outside. With the sweeping vistas and wide-open scenery here on the mountainside, I should feel smaller. Like one speck of a person in such a vast, large world, but it helps.
Or he helps to stave off some of this loneliness. Sawyer is hard at work down below, and when I get as comfortable as I can on the deck that overlooks the area where he’s working, I’m reminded that I’m not entirely isolated after all. It’s a small thing, but I’ll take it.
With a sweating glass of ice water, I do my best to ignore the heat of the sun. My headphones block out the annoying noise of their equipment, and with them as background noise and company, I find it quite workable when I’m no longer alone or restless. Between the fabric sample book I do have and the notes from talking with Lauren, I’m soon lost in sketching more in my book, scheming options of what I could do when I get the materials to work with and make her dream dress a reality.
The only problem I discover is that Sawyer is also feeling the heat. He’s so sweaty he’s working shirtless, and it’s becoming harder and harder to ignore him. My curiosity intensifies, and the temptation to stare is more difficult to ignore.
He’s just doing his job. Dalton’s words from last night trickle through my mind, and I try to double down on doing mine. Each time the cocky man catches me looking, I frown and focus again on my sketches.
It’s a losing battle, but I can’t bring myself to go inside and deprive myself of seeing him out there. I don’t know if it’s the age-old magnetism of seeing something attractive and struggling to look away, or the deeper desire not to feel so alone in this cabin with so many faults and odd flaws.
Either way, I’ll do my best to avoid thinking about exactly why I can’t keep my eyes on my own task. It’s one thing to admit to being curious about Sawyer, but it’s something else entirely to confess that he’s too hard to ignore.