Page 14 of Free to Believe
“I’m not as much fun when I’m tamed,” he says dryly.
“I don’t know about that, baby,” I hear from behind me. I spin around and see Ali stride in with a file folder in her hand. “I think you’re fun all the time.”
There are moments in time when despite your own personal anguish, joy shines through. Seeing the softening of Keene’s face every time he looks at my sister is one of those.
She’s tapping the folder impatiently on her hip. “What’s that?” I ask curiously.
“If I’m not mistaken, it’s a way to potentially bring down people for what they did to you without more than a few phone calls,” she says softly.
“I just want this over. We can just let this go. It will be okay.” Eventually my pride will heal.
“This isn’t solely because of you, Em,” Ali says quietly. Sitting next to me, she slides the file over. “We actually could sue whomever made the dress for copyright infringement.”
“What?” I open the folder. Inside is a contract. “What’s this?” My voice trails off as I start to flip through the stack of papers and photos.
“I went through our files. While the dress Dr. Whitacre was wearing was your design, she isn’t the one who bought the dress from us. That’s the original contract from the Texan oil baron’s wife who commissioned the dress—a referral from Danielle Madison.” Ali mentions our family friend and a world-famous supermodel whom I’ve designed formal gowns for. I nod and she continues. “I figured in your shock, you might not have remembered who commissioned the dress.” Ali has an unusually freakish genius brain we heavily rely upon. “I pulled up the contract and it explicitly states we don’t have the right to reproduce that dress for over a year. That year isn’t up for another four months, Em,” she concludes.
Shit. This is huge. “I don’t understand? Why would this have to do…” And then I freeze. I’m holding the pictures from the article that ousted Bryan and Dr. Whitacre.
“Those are the originals from theDarien Times, yes. I contacted the newspaper. I checked our files and saw there was no record of ever selling a dress to Dr. Whitacre. When I mentioned they might need to print a retraction, they were adamant Dr. Whitacre said it was an original. I demanded copies of the photos. They were all too happy to provide them.”
“Where’s the dress?” I demand.
“My office. Remember? I grabbed it on our way out the other morning,” Ali says. “I put it away because I figured you wouldn’t want to see it.”
I sure as shit want to see it now. “Is there a magnifying glass in here?” I demand.
“Will an antique one work?” Jason asks, jumping up.
“I don’t care. I just need something.” There are certain marks I put on every original design that only the family and original design owners know about. Somewhere on the dress, there will be a hand-stitched amaryllis. My initials will also be sewn in somehow, either using beading, stitching, scratches on leather—something. Finally, there will be a dress number somewhere marked on the dress. Each dress has it hidden in a separate location.
Ali leaves the room and is back a few moments later with a white garbage bag. I use my nails to tear into it. I want to touch this dress as much as I want to go back to the hours while we were waiting to see if Corinna was going to live or die, but I have to know.
This isn’t about retribution; this is about our family pride.
The room is eerily quiet as I sweep over the dress carefully using the magnifying glass. I remember the design. When I made the dress for Harper to wear to her daughter’s wedding, she was thrilled I was able to make it flow so effortlessly into her daughter’s theme. She was an absolute treasure to work with. Part of me is hoping she found another dress she loved more and this truly is the original.
The amaryllis should be on the outside of the left hip. It’s not there.
Strike one.
That doesn’t mean the stitching didn’t come out, Em. Look for your initials in the hem where the beading touches the floor. This takes much longer and requires me looking through the hem at every single angle. I don’t see it. All I see are flowers.
Strike two.
My anger increases as I look for the dress number. In this case, it should be stitched right under my initials with the beading as an overlay.
Strike three.
“It’s a fake.” I’m seething. I carefully lay down the magnifying glass before gathering the photos to hand them to Ali. “Find out where it was made and sue them all.”
“Oh, it will be my absolute pleasure.” Ali’s cobalt-blue eyes are shining.
* * *
It didn’t take longfor Ali—with the assistance of Caleb’s brother-in-law Jared—to file a copyright infringement suit naming Dr. Bryan Moser and Dr. Corey Whitacre as the key witnesses.
Anticipating his reaction when he was served to appear in federal district court, Caleb and Keene arranged for their company to provide security both at Amaryllis Events and at the farm. Ali wasn’t fazed in the least. She merely looked at her watch and said, “I give it twenty-four hours before either his attorney—or hers—contacts us to make a deal.”
