It wasn’t a real apology. Not yet. But she’d said I was wrong out loud, in a room with other people in it, for the first time in my life.
I made her a cup of tea. That was a start. On June seventh, the Ashcombe Glasshouse was mine.
Eleanor made sure of it. I didn’t get married. Instead, I threw a party.
For every seamstress, embroiderer, cutter, and presser who had ever worked in Odile’s workroom. Forty-one women and three men, in their best clothes, under the floating orchids, with champagne and a cellist and a three-tier lemon cake.
Margot got a raise and gave a speech. Odile danced with Theo. And at midnight, Odile and I stood by the fountain and announced the new name of our atelier.
Fontaine & Hale. My gown hangs in the front window of the atelier on Harbor Row now. On a dress form, under a single soft light.
People stop on the sidewalk to look at it. Brides. Grandmothers.
Little girls, with their noses pressed to the glass. There’s a small white card at the hem, in my handwriting. Lily of the Valley, Windblown.
Four hundred and six hours. For Nana Rose. J.H.
Someday, I’ll wear it. For someone who knows exactly whose name is stitched inside.
