Page 61 of Ten Christmases Without You
“Stop it!”
Emmy giggled. “I told him he wouldn’t know her.”
“Em-myyy! Why didn’t you tell him you’d made it?”
“Because I’m not a designer. I’m a poor PR wannabe who can’t afford a nice dress.”
“Maybe if you’d told him, he’d have given you a job and youcouldafford a nice dress.”
The inadequacy she’d felt her entire life reared its head. “I made one dress, and the process was rocky at best. I doubt very seriously he’d want to employ someone who has zero experience and no idea what they’re doing.”
“Everyone starts somewhere.”
“I don’t even know if I’d want to be a designer anyway.” The word “designer” felt foreign on her tongue in relation to herself. Just saying it made her feel like an impostor. Her mother was the designer.
“I’ve gotta go, but keep me posted if Mr. Fancy Pants comes back to you with anything else.”
“Okay.”
Emmy got off the phone and checked her email. All the talk about jobs made her wonder if she’d had a response from any of the companies she’d applied to. But there was nothing. Even the jobs tucked away in insignificant cities hadn’t replied. She lay there, the events from today swirling around in her mind. She tried to fill in the blanks in her mother’s story. Her dad said her mom had been crying in the café that day they’d met. She’d had a bad day at work. The only work she had was at Baudelaire’s, right?
Had her tears had anything to do with Mr. Augustine’s fiancée or their canceling the wedding? Or was Mr. Augustine difficult to work for, and now he felt guilty about that? Had he run her off?
But one thing stood out: Her mother’s talent had been so incredible that her billionaire heir mentor had asked her to design his bride’s dress. Emmy could never live up to that level of ability. Her mom had been blessed with an incredible aptitude that very few people had, but her success was more than that. Her ability included unwavering belief in herself. That was the difference between Emmy and her mom.
Was Emmy selling herself short? It was easy enough for Madison to tell her to go for it. Her sister didn’t have to be able to produce creative work consistently. From the outside, it was easy to say, “Just go for it.”
But should she?
Mr. Augustine had beenher mother’smentor. Could he mentor Emmy as well? Would he be too far along in his career to entertain the idea? And was that what Emmy wanted? What if he was a nightmare? With her email inbox empty, the idea of exploring the prospect was becoming increasingly more attractive.
She opened her email and sent Mitchell Augustine a message.
Hi Mr. Augustine,
It was so kind of you to meet me today for coffee. Thank you for your time and for helping me learn more about my mom. I was a little shy to mention it then, but the designer of the dress I was wearing was actually me. It was my first shot at designing. Anyway, thanks for meeting me.
Best wishes,
Emmy
While she had enough guts to come clean about making the dress, seeing herself as talented enough to ask for anything froma top New York designer was still not quite within her reach. But before she had a chance to contemplate her abilities or lack thereof too long, an email pinged right back and she gasped, frozen, as the words registered.
Emmy,
Meet me at Harlow and Ash on Astoria Row tomorrow at noon. Tell Talia I asked you to come.
M.
While she was stunned by the fact that he’d requested she visit his headquarters, something else stood out. She gawked at the format of his message. It looked a whole lot like another message she’d seen…
Meet me on Rue des Lumières d’Automne at 8 p.m.
M.
Just then, her phone rang, startling her. She grabbed her chest and then answered the call without even looking at it to see who it was. “Hello?”
“You okay?”
