Page 63 of Ten Christmases Without You
With a call to a fellow barista at the coffee shop and a promise to work the evening shift tomorrow, Emmy had managed to organize her day so she could go to Harlow and Ash.
There was a bigger problem than her work schedule, however. She’d spent the majority of last night chatting with Charlie. She’d gotten off the phone in a sort of lovestruck delirium, taking deep, infatuation-filled breaths and humming while she got into bed. Eventually, she fell asleep without even thinking about the problem she’d face today: She didn’t have enough time to design and create an outfit, and she was walking into one of the biggest design firms in the country. She considered her mom’s clothes she had, but they weren’t quite the vibe she needed—something fresh yet timeless versus traditional. Nothing in her closet fit the occasion.
So all morning she’d been in panic mode, scouring the internet and typing in searches for “what to wear to look chic on a budget” and “how to look cool with nothing.” But as she sat there, she figured that it might be better to admit that she didn’t have a vast wardrobe.
She didn’t even really know why he wanted to see her, or for that matter, why she’d agreed to go. What she really wantedwas the opportunity to learn more about her mom’s early years. She wanted to get to the bottom of her mom’s life. By learning more about her, Emmy hoped she could release the guilt she held about not asking her mother more about those years. She’d only been fifteen when her mother died, so she shouldn’t have held herself so accountable for not learning more about her mom’s college days, but still she did. What really surprised her, however, was that her dad didn’t seem to know either. Was it really that there wasn’t much to know, or had her mother specifically hidden something from them?
Emmy pondered this as she decided on a pair of jeans and her trendiest sneakers; a black crewneck, long-sleeved cotton top; and her trench coat. Simple but elegant.
However, she’d dress it up with a... conversation piece? She attached the gold shoulder chain to her mother’s beaded green clutch and slipped it on crossbody. Then, she added the simple emerald-drop earrings she’d worn with her green dress at the wedding.
Perfect.
Emmy caught a cab. “To Astoria Row, please. Harlow and Ash.”
When she arrived, the interior of the lofty building was organized chaos and creative inspiration. She walked past the large windows that flooded the room with natural light, past panels of fabric swatches, sketches, and mood boards on the walls. A worktable fit for a king, covered in scattered sewing supplies and half-finished clothing patterns, stretched through the space. But before she could get to that part of the room, she had to pass a modern, backlit glass desk and a woman in all black with large white earrings, her deep-brown hair pulled so tightly in a bun that not a single strand could escape.
She smiled at Emmy with red lips and a row of perfectly straight teeth. “May I help you?”
“My name is Emmy Brewer. Mitchell Augustine told me to meet him and to let Talia know that he asked me to come.”
“I’m Talia.” She waved Emmy forward with a soft, manicured hand. “Follow me.”
Talia led Emmy past racks of clothing samples—everything from linen and silk mock-ups that were still pinned at the hems, to runway-ready pieces. They continued past a wall filled with bolts of fabric—silks, wools, and textiles she couldn’t even label. They stopped at a dress form draped with an in-progress design, pins holding the fabric in place. Then, they walked up to a door made entirely of frosted glass.
Talia stuck her head in, her muffled voice calling, “Mitch?”
“Yes?”
“Emmy Brewer is here.”
“Excellent. Let her in.”
Emmy entered and Mitchell gestured across his minimalist desk to a stylish leather chair.
“Hi, Emmy. Please. Have a seat.”
While she unwound herself from her clutch and her coat, Mr. Augustine stacked scattered fabric swatches and a sketchpad off to the side and closed his laptop. Then he sat back in his tall chair. Behind him stood a pinboard, covered in pages torn from fashion magazines, color palettes, and sketches, along with a credenza filled with a row of design books, rare textiles, and awards, and a rolling rack containing more prototypes of the latest designs.
“Coffee?” He pointed to a well-stocked espresso machine against the side wall.
“No, thank you,” she replied, sure she’d spill it all over herself.
Just seeing this space made her incredibly curious. It was her mother’s world; a legacy inherited by Emmy that she never fully understood. But in an odd and foreign way, the space feltcomfortable. As if she were meant to be there. When she swam out of her thoughts, he was staring at her clutch, his shoulders tense, the way they’d been at the coffee shop. His face was ghostly white.
“Are you okay?” Emmy asked.
“Yes,” he said, the word coming out breathy. “I recognize your purse.”
She held it up. “It was my mom’s. We figured she must have gotten it in Paris.”
He nodded slowly. “Do you know much about it?”
“No, actually. I know nothing at all.”
“Well, that particular clutchis aCartier minaudière.”
Cartier? Holy cow.
