Chapter 4 - An Impossible Offer
I stared at her in utter disbelief. "What?"
"I run the Lumière Art Collective on Michigan Avenue," Charlotte said, pulling a sleek black business card from her coat pocket and setting it on top of my sewing machine. "We restore vintage textiles, curate high-end fashion exhibits, and host community arts programs. My head textile restorer retired last month."
"Charlotte, I’m just an alteration seamstress—"
"Don't sell yourself short," Charlotte interrupted firmly, pointing at the emerald gown. "I’ve had dresses altered by the top couturiers in Paris. That hand-stitch technique you’re using is a blind French catch-stitch. Nobody under sixty knows how to do that anymore unless they learned it from a master."
She leaned closer, her tone dropping into a businesslike cadence.
"Four thousand dollars a month," Charlotte said. "Full health insurance for you, Sophia, and Lily. On-site daycare in the gallery's creative studio while you work. Flexible hours."
My heart hammered so hard against my ribs I thought it would crack. Four thousand dollars a month. Health insurance for my girls. No more hiding in Mr. Larkin’s basement for ten dollars an hour. No more counting coins in jam jars.
It was everything I had prayed for on my knees every night since John died.
"There’s a catch," I said, my voice shaking slightly as I searched her face. "There has to be."
Charlotte didn't blink. "There is."
"What is it?"
"My father's foundation provides twenty percent of the grant funding for the Lumière Collective," Charlotte said coldly. "He visits the gallery once a month for board inspections. If you work for me, you will see him. And if he asks... you will tell him that you got this job entirely on your own merit, not because he paid me to hire you."
I stood up from my stool, holding the finished emerald gown in my hands. The hem hung absolutely straight, perfection in every thread.
"I don't need Edward Hale to pay people to hire me, Charlotte," I said, my voice dropping into a register of quiet, unyielding dignity. "I do good work. If you hire me, it’s because of my hands, not your father's guilt."
May you like
Charlotte looked at me for three long seconds. Then, for the first time since she had walked into the shop, a genuine, radiant smile broke across her face.
"Start on Monday, Abby," Charlotte said, taking the dress. "And tell Mr. Larkin he’s fired."
