Page 33 of Ten Christmases Without You
“No idea,” Madison said.
“I just wondered if she had an actual client or something.”
“Yeah, I don’t know.”
Emmy got off the phone, claiming fatigue. She set the design on the table and opened her suitcase, making piles of dirty laundry and hanging what she hadn’t worn back in the closet. Her mother’s dress dangled there, glimmering behind its clear plastic case. Just under it was the box with her mom’s sewing machine. She’d never opened it.
“I want you to have my sewing machine,”her mother had said. By this time, she was frail, and every minute counted. She’d spent the last week making calls to people, including all her family members, to give them her wishes.
“I don’t want to talk about that right now,”Emmy had said, fighting tears.
“I know you don’t, but it’s important to me, and there’s not a better time to do it.”
Emmy pushed the thought away as she slipped her jeans onto a hanger and hung them on the bar in front of the dress. Then she worked on getting the rest of her things put away.
But after she’d showered and climbed into bed, despite the long day, she lay awake, her mother’s short career on her mind. When Emmy was growing up, her mom had a busy social life. She hosted a book club, she was president of the Parent Teacher Association, and she’d attended so many benefits that Emmy lost count. She had lots of friends in the neighborhood, andshe was always chatting with people. Whenever someone new moved in, she was the first one over with a welcome basket.
Who was Anne Brewer before she was Mrs. Brewer? Emmy wished she’d asked her mother more questions about her younger years. Whenever she did, her mom had never really gone into much detail. She did ask her once,“Why did you leave fashion?”
Her mom replied,“Because I wanted a different life for myself and my future family.”
But with whom had she worked? Who were her friends before she had a family? Maybe Emmy would ask her dad tomorrow.
She rolled over to view the clock.2:00 a.m.Oof.She rubbed her eyes and tried unsuccessfully to induce sleep. Her mind was still curious about the names on the back of her mother’s sketch. No one by that name had attended the funeral, so her mom hadn’t had contact with Mitchell Augustine or his wife that Emmy was aware of. But the story behind those names kept eating at her. Why weren’t they at the funeral? Did they know she’d passed? Would he care? Did her mother even know them or were they a potential client? Perhaps she’d designed a dress for them and they’d passed on it. Yes, that was probably it.
Wide awake, she got out of bed and clicked on the light in the kitchen. Maybe she just wanted to be closer to her mother, but she couldn’t help but feel that her mom was sending her a message. Was she going crazy? She opened her laptop and searched for the name Mitchell Augustine.
A handful of people came up. Which one would her mom have known? A couple of them were too young, and one seemed quite old. Could the old guy be the one? She checked his profile; he did something with freight lines. Her mother didn’t have a connection with that line of work. But then another photo of him below his profile caught her eye. This man could be hermother’s age. He was the creative director and head designer of Harlow and Ash, a major fashion brand. She’d seen that line in Bloomingdale’s before. Could that be the Mitchell Augustine on the back of her mother’s drawing? The coincidence caught her off guard—finding it seemed too easy, as if she were meant to know. She needed to wait until the morning, when her mind would be clear. Otherwise, she’d go down the rabbit hole all night, trying to find a connection.
She left the page up but hit “sleep” on her computer. Sleep. Yes, that was what she needed to do. Tomorrow, she’d ask her dad if he knew the guy. That would be a good place to start. But right now, it was time to get some shut-eye.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next morning, as Emmy nibbled a toasted bagel with jam, she called her dad.
“Miss me already?” he asked.
“Yes, actually. I do.” She leaned on the windowsill to view the lightly falling snow but then thought better of it when the draft from under the old window chilled her to the bone.
“What’s up?” His soft tone betrayed his fondness for her.
“You know Mom’s drawings you found in the box with her dress?” She picked up her plate and moved over to the sofa, snuggling into the throw that was lumped beside her. “There are two names on the back of one of them: Mrs. and Mitchell Augustine. I wondered if maybe they commissioned Mom’s work. Do you know the name Augustine?”
She hung on the tick of silence.
“No, I can’t say I do,” he replied, to her disappointment.
“Mom never mentioned him or maybe his wife at all?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Hm. I was just curious. Other than her designs, I don’t know much about what she did before you two were married. Do you have any stories?”
He cleared his throat. “When I met her, she and I were both studying in Paris, as you know. Even though she wore French clothes, something about her told me she was American. I could never put my finger on it…”
Emmy smiled, the image of her mom fluttering into her mind.
“I was homesick, and she radiated like the sun. I couldn’t understand how someone could glow like she did.” He chuckled. “Anyway, I knew she was probably the talk of the town and men must be falling all over themselves to take her out. She had lots of friends all over the world from her travels and a handful of old friends from her childhood.”
