Smoke & Mirrors by Skye Jordan
12
Isabel
Five-Alarm Confections is a really cute place. A combination of café and bakery, heavy on the bakery. The kitchen takes up half the space, the display units, stuffed with baked goods, another twenty percent, and the dining room with small tables, the remaining thirty percent. All they serve here is pastry and coffee, but they’re always busy.
I’ve learned that a good chunk of Natalie’s business comes from the community in the form of special events, stocking local stores, and supplying local restaurants with desserts for their menu. I also know she’s quite successful, but more importantly, she loves what she does. It’s given me the incentive to search for a place and a job that work for me, not one I contort myself to fit into. But I still have no idea what that could be. Or where.
Once the last tray of leftover croissants has been bagged for delivery to one of the local nursing homes and Tina has locked the front door and turned over the Closed sign, I dust off my hands and say, “Dress. I’ve been waiting all morning for the dress.”
Natalie bounces on her toes before turning and disappearing into the bathroom. Tina sweeps the floor and sets a stool out, and I grab my sketchbook, where I’ve loosely drawn some styles that would showcase Natalie’s figure best.
“Can’t wait to see it,” Tina says, her eyes bright.
“Didn’t you see it at her wedding with Evan?”
“No, we didn’t meet until after Evan died.”
Remembering Evan is gone still hurts my heart. But that evaporates the second Natalie comes out of the bathroom, holding the bodice to herself while her mother buttons up the back.
An excitement I can only describe as giddiness fills me. The realization that fashion still thrills me is bittersweet. The thought of giving up on it haunts me with bone-deep, esteem-crushing failure. But life has a way of shoving reality in your face every chance it gets.
As Natalie stands on the stool and I make a slow three-sixty around her, Tina and Betsy smile ear to ear, oohing and ahhing over the way Natalie looks in the dress, a royal crepe A-line. And rightfully so. The dress is beautiful, and Natalie is gorgeous in it.
I’m already deep into alterations in my mind by the time Natalie asks, “What do you think?”
“I think it’s amazing.”
She looks down at the dress and slides her hands across the pristine fabric, which is bare satin except for the dozens and dozens of crystal buttons from the nape of her neck to the hem of the train. The sleeves are three-quarter, the neckline square, the skirt flaring from the high waist.
“The simplicity is incredible, and it fits you perfectly. That’s pretty hard to beat.”
“I know.” Some of the excitement fades from her voice. “I should probably just keep looking for a new one. Maybe I’ll get lucky and have a daughter who could wear this.”
“Oh, no. No, no, no. I’m always up for a creative challenge.”
I pick up my sketch pad and sit to put pencil to paper, then lose myself in possible alterations. As I toss out questions like Do you like lace? How about bling? What about the sleeves? How do you feel about showing some skin? I sketch, alternating my gaze from Natalie to the sketch pad.
“That’s amazing.” Tina is watching me over my shoulder. “Damn, girl, you’re talented.”
Not talented enoughis the first thought that fills my mind. Immediately followed by the reminder that I’ve dragged my mess of a life and all my lies across the country with me.
“It’s incredible,” Tina says. “Nat, come see this.”
Natalie steps off the stool and holds the dress’s skirt up as she comes toward me. I turn the book around and point to areas with my pencil as I explain the suggested changes. “We take off the sleeves and leave narrow straps. We bring the neckline down and the bust up. Then taper the A-line into a modified fit-and-flare to show off your sexy body, but by no means are we touching that incredible train.”
“Oh my God.” Natalie glances over her shoulder. “Mom, look at this.”
I turn the sketch pad toward Betsy. She pulls in a sharp breath and puts a hand over her heart as tears glisten in her eyes.
I hold my breath, unsure if those are happy tears or disappointed tears. “We could tone down the moderations if you think it’s too much.”
“No,” Betsy says with an adamant shake of her head. “No, it’s gorgeous.” She reaches out and wraps her hand around Natalie’s. “Honey, you’re going to look stunning.”
Natalie and Betsy and Tina laugh and twitter about the changes, but my gaze is stuck on the sight of Natalie and Betsy holding hands. It opens a stream of loss inside me. My biological mother was just that, a mother by DNA, but she was never a mother in the true sense of the word. And that empty part of me throbs now, seeing a healthy mother-daughter relationship.
I push the loss aside and refocus on the sketch. “A little lace here and here? Maybe a few pearls and crystals all in here? And along here?”
“Yes.” Natalie pushes the word out on a breath, hand over her heart. “Yes, it’s perfect.”
“Well done, sweetheart.” Betsy gives my hand a squeeze and leans in to kiss my cheek. “You’re so talented.”
These snippets of praise eclipse every grade, every competition, every kudo I ever received in fashion school.
Maybe feeling successful doesn’t have to be an arduous fight. Maybe it can be as simple as a few sketches that change someone’s perception for the better. Maybe not every success in life requires a war to attain.
“I’ll set up my sewing machine.”