Page 57 of Ten Christmases Without You
God, why did you need her when Ineed her more?
The sobs came heavy and fast. Emmy squeezed her eyes shut. She waited for the ache to subside the way it always did. And when the exhaustion of keeping herself together over all these years passed, a sweet memory descended and covered her like a warm blanket.
“Press the foot pedal to start winding,” her mother said from behind a seven-year-old Emmy as she toyed with Emmy’s curls. “The bobbin will stop when it’s full.”
Emmy sprung up with a gasp. “Thank you,” she whispered into the air of her apartment.
She closed her eyes, going back to that day.
“And before you start, I always test on a scrap of fabric first.”Her mother handed her a little square of white cotton with yellow ducks on it—the same fabric Emmy had used that day to sew a bag to hold her coin collection.
“Yes, that’s right,” she heard herself say as she wiped her tears and got up to find a small piece of the fabric.
Clearing her throat, she placed the spool on its pin and guided the thread through thetension control. She kept going, directing the string down toward the needle. She selected astitch, adjusted thestitch lengthandwidth,and set the tension.
The further she got, the less fear she had. She wanted to do this for her mother. Her mom wasn’t there to do it, and no one else had the skill to make it happen.
She placed a fabric square under the presser foot and lowered the lever. With her foot on the pedal, she began to stitch the scrap. Her seam was a little wobbly at first, but then itevened out. When she felt like she had a good handle on it, she made a few adjustments to reduce the tiny bit of gathering and then began to sew the dress.
It was a relatively simple design, so she should be able to make it, but just in case, she sent up a prayer to guide her in the process.
As the night wore on, and Emmy sewed, she imagined her mother’s laughter, the tiny crease that formed between her eyes when she was listening to Emmy’s stories, and the mild squeeze of her arms when she embraced her. Emmy had been robbed of her mother’s love for over a decade, but she still had the skills her mother had taught her and the raw talent that she’d inherited—those things could never be taken from her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Emmy had forty-five minutes until she needed to be at Cadeau, off 57thStreet. She’d slept until her alarm at eight, having spent most of the night sewing—she’d worked until almost four in the morning.
The process had been slow, and she’d been meticulous about getting every stitch just right. She’d had to redo one of the cream cuffs, and she had to watch a few online videos to master the stitch technique for the back zipper. But the interior lining had been the hardest part, taking most of the hours. Now, the finished, ironed dress hung on her closet door. She’d been too nervous to try it on.
So instead, she’d gotten a shower, lotioned her skin, painted her nails, dried and curled her hair, and applied makeup. She had to spend extra time on the dark areas under her eyes from not sleeping.
Just looking at it on the hanger, the dress was fantastic. She’d surprised herself. Even if for some reason it didn’t fit, Emmy was quite proud of what she’d been able to accomplish on her first try. She’d paired it with tall brown boots that she’d splurged on a few years ago and the cream-colored trench coat that she’d wornwhenever Vivienne entertained top clients. With her ivory scarf and mittens, she was sure she had a winning outfit—better than anything she could’ve bought at the store. But now, she just had to fit it.
Moment of truth.
Emmy slipped off her bathrobe and then took the dress off the hanger.
Her heart pounding, she unzipped the back and stepped into it, shimmying the fabric up her body. She slid her arms into the sleeves with surprising ease. Then, she reached around and zipped it up. Still unwilling to believe she’d pulled off such a feat, she went over to her full-length mirror and took in her reflection.
Complete astonishment ballooned inside her.
Her creation fit like a glove.
Standing opposite her twenty-seven-year-old self, the image blurred in front of her as a childhood memory took hold.
Five-year-old Emmy gave a spin, the ruffles of her newly made dress puffing out around her as her patent-leather shoes tapped on the kitchen floor. She’d sat on her mom’s lap or beside her during most of the sewing for the dress.
“You look so beautiful in your handiwork,” her mother said with a smile.
“My handiwork?” Emmy giggled. “I didn’t do anything!”
“Yes, you did. You gave me the motivation to keep going. I do everything for you.” Her mother scooped her up in her arms and tickled her while Emmy threw her head back in a fit of giggles.
Her adult-self came back into focus on the whisper of her mother’s words:You look so beautiful in your handiwork.
Her cab honked outside.
Feeling unstoppable, Emmy snatched the folder with her mother’s drawings and shoved it into her handbag. Then shegrabbed her coat and wrapped her scarf around her neck. With a swipe of her mittens from the counter, she was out the door to meet Mitchell Augustine.
