Chapter 6: The Woman Who Knew My Mother
Eleanor Whitmore chose a small café on the edge of downtown for our meeting.
It wasn't the kind of place I expected a famous designer to visit. The windows were fogged from the cold, the wooden tables were scratched, and a bell above the door jingled whenever someone entered.
But when I arrived at three o'clock on Saturday afternoon, Eleanor was already waiting in a booth near the back.
She wore a charcoal coat, a cream scarf, and simple black gloves. Her silver hair was swept into a neat bun, and a leather portfolio rested beside her untouched cup of tea.
She stood when she saw me.
“Emily?””
“Yes.””
For a moment, she simply looked at my face.
Then her expression softened.
“You have your mother's eyes.””
I'd heard that sentence a thousand times since childhood, but from Eleanor's mouth, it felt different.
She wasn't remembering my mother from photographs.
She had known her.
She had worked beside her, argued with her, and apparently failed her.
I slid into the booth.
“Thank you for meeting me.””
“Thank you for agreeing to come.””
I placed my mother's letter and a copy of the contract on the table.
“Before we begin, I want to make something clear. I'm not here to ask for favors. I want to know what happened.””
Eleanor nodded.
“You have every right to ask.””
“Did my mother steal your designs?””
“No.””
The answer was immediate.
“Did she copy work that belonged to Whitmore Atelier?””
“No.””
“Then why did you allow the accusation to stand?””
Eleanor looked down at her hands.
“Because I believed the wrong person.””
She opened her portfolio and removed a thick folder.
Inside were photographs of dresses, handwritten notes, old correspondence, and several pages of sketches. The paper had yellowed, but the lines remained clear.
“Your mother came to work with me when she was twenty-three,” Eleanor began.
“She had no formal fashion degree, but she possessed something I couldn't teach. She could look at a piece of fabric and understand what it wanted to become.””
I thought of the way my mother used to hold scraps against the light, turning them until the colors aligned.
“She designed a collection called Wildflower, inspired by plants growing through cracks in concrete. The collection was supposed to be our first major collaboration.””
Eleanor placed a photograph on the table.
The dress was breathtaking.
It had a deep-blue bodice, silver stitching, and red flowers climbing from the waist toward the shoulder.
My heart skipped.
It looked like the design I'd drawn in my sketchbook.
Not exactly, but close enough to make my hands go cold.
“That's the original collection?”” I asked.
“Yes.””
“Who designed it?””
“Your mother created the first concept. I helped develop several pieces for production. We planned to release it under both our names.””
“Then what happened?””
Eleanor took a slow breath.
“Richard Price joined the studio as a business consultant. He had connections with retailers and investors. He convinced me that our contracts needed to be more restrictive before we expanded.””
“Madison's father.””
“Yes.””
She turned another page.
“Richard reviewed our design records and began claiming that several pieces in the collection were based on existing patterns owned by the studio. He argued that your mother had incorporated those patterns without permission.””
“But she hadn't.””
“No. We eventually discovered that some of the records he used had been altered.””
I leaned forward.
“Altered how?””
“Dates had been changed. Sketches were removed from the archive. Some of your mother's preliminary drawings disappeared.””
My mouth went dry.
“The same thing happened to me.””
Eleanor's eyes lifted.
“I know.””
“Did you see the video?””
“Daniel sent me a copy.””
I looked down at the folder.
“Then you know Vanessa stole my designs.””
“Yes.””
“And Diane helped her.””
“I saw the email.””
I swallowed.
“Why would they do that?””
Eleanor closed the folder.
“Richard approached Diane several months ago. He wanted Madison to receive a showcase placement, and he knew your entry could complicate that. Diane was worried that your participation would draw attention to the old dispute involving your mother.””
“So they stole my designs to keep me out.””
“That's what the evidence suggests.””
“Did Richard tell them to do it?””
“I don't have proof of that yet.””
I stared at her.
“Yet?””
Eleanor opened a second folder.
“This is why I asked you to meet me. I have spent years trying to establish what happened to your mother's collection. When Richard altered the records, I accepted his explanation because I trusted him. By the time I discovered the inconsistencies, your mother had withdrawn from the studio.””
“Why didn't you contact her?””
“I did.””
“What happened?””
Eleanor's eyes glistened.
“She refused to see me.””
I looked away.
I could imagine my mother receiving a letter from the woman who had once been her friend, knowing that the same woman had failed to defend her when her reputation was under attack.
“She was already sick,” Eleanor continued.
“I knew that. I should have gone to her home. I should have apologized in person. Instead, I sent letters and told myself I was respecting her wishes.””
She paused.
“That was cowardice, Emily. Not respect.””
For the first time, I saw the woman beneath the reputation.
Not the founder of a fashion house.
Not the name printed on glossy magazine covers.
Just someone who had made a terrible decision and spent years living with it.
I looked at the old sketches.
“Why did my mother send you my drawings?””
Eleanor smiled sadly.
“Because she believed you had the same gift. She wanted you to have an opportunity she never received.””
She removed another document from the folder.
It was a letter from my mother, dated two years before she died.
Eleanor,
Emily has started drawing dresses. She sketches on everything—receipts, napkins, the backs of grocery lists. I think she sees the world in lines and colors, the way I did when I was young.
I'm not asking you to give her anything. I only want you to keep these drawings safe. One day, she may want to know where she came from.
My eyes filled with tears.
I wiped them quickly.
“Did she ever tell you she was afraid?””
“Of what?””
“That I might become a designer and go through the same thing she did.””
Eleanor considered the question.
“She was afraid the industry would be unkind to you. But she was more afraid that you would give up before you had the chance to discover what you could do.””
I looked at the letter.
That sounded exactly like my mother.
“She told me never to let someone else's cruelty decide what I was capable of.””
Eleanor's expression changed.
“She wrote that in the letter she left you?””
I nodded.
“She used to say it to me, too.””
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
The café's espresso machine hissed behind the counter. Outside, a bus rolled through the wet street, leaving a ribbon of water along the curb.
Then Eleanor pushed a small envelope toward me.
“Your mother asked me to give you this if you ever decided to pursue design seriously.””
I stared at it.
“What's inside?””
“A formal invitation to apply for the Whitmore Atelier Young Designer Fellowship.””
I didn't touch it.
“You're offering me a fellowship?””
“I'm offering you the opportunity your mother wanted you to have. The selection process will remain independent. You'll need to submit original work, attend an interview, and demonstrate your skills.””
“So you won't simply give it to me because you knew my mother.””
“No. And I suspect you wouldn't want me to.””
I almost smiled.
“You're right.””
“Good.””
She slid the envelope closer.
“The fellowship provides a summer apprenticeship, access to the studio's resources, and a scholarship toward an accredited design program. It isn't a guarantee of a career. But it can open a door.””
I looked at the envelope.
For years, I'd imagined becoming a designer as something distant and expensive, a dream reserved for people with wealthy parents and connections.
Now the opportunity was sitting in front of me.
But I couldn't stop thinking about the showcase.
“What happens to the complaint against my mother?””
Eleanor's expression grew serious.
“I intend to correct the record.””
“How?””
“By releasing the original design archive, the unaltered contracts, and the evidence we have gathered about Richard's actions.””
“Will that prove my mother was innocent?””
“It will establish that the accusation was unsupported and that key records were manipulated.””
“That's not the same as an apology.””
“No,” Eleanor said quietly.
“It isn't.””
I appreciated that she didn't try to soften the truth.
“I want her name cleared,” I said.
“Not because I want to inherit her career. Because she deserved to have people know what happened to her.””
Eleanor nodded.
“Then that's where we'll begin.””
My phone vibrated on the table.
A message from Lily.
*LILY:* Emily, you need to see this. Madison just withdrew from the showcase.
I opened the attached screenshot.
Madison's statement was short.
After careful consideration, I have decided to withdraw my entry from the Westbrook Young Designers Showcase. I remain confident in my work and look forward to pursuing future opportunities.
There was no apology.
No acknowledgment of my designs.
No mention of Vanessa or Diane.
I showed Eleanor.
She read the statement and set the phone down.
“Richard will try to contain the damage.””
“By making Madison withdraw?””
“Possibly. Or by making her the only person who takes responsibility.””
I thought of the email, the video, and the way Madison had looked at me behind the auditorium.
“Do you think she knows more than she's told us?””
“I think people rarely confess everything the first time they are frightened.””
Eleanor gathered the papers.
“Emily, I need to ask you something. When Vanessa entered your room on March 21, did she take only your digital files?””
“I don't know. The video shows her photographing my sketches and copying files to a USB drive.””
“Did she remove any physical documents?””
“I haven't noticed anything missing.””
Eleanor went very still.
“What?””
She opened the folder again and showed me a photograph of a design from my mother's Wildflower collection.
The image showed a midnight-blue gown with a silver-threaded bodice and a dramatic train. Along the hem, tiny crimson flowers formed a pattern that looked almost like flames.
I recognized the silhouette.
It was the design my mother had started but never finished.
The one I'd found in her sewing box.
“Why are you showing me this?”” I asked.
“Because this design was never included in the final collection. Your mother kept the only original sketch.””
I stared at the photograph.
“But the design is in the archive.””
“Yes.””
“How?””
Eleanor looked directly at me.
“Richard submitted it to the studio three weeks ago, claiming he'd discovered an overlooked piece in the old collection.””
My stomach dropped.
“That can't be right.””
“I thought the same thing. The design contains a distinctive sequence of stitches your mother developed herself. I recognized it immediately.””
I remembered the leather portfolio, the old patterns, the silver thread.
And the hidden pocket in the sewing box.
“Someone has been going through my mother's things,” I whispered.
Eleanor nodded.
“Which is why I need to know whether anything else is missing.””
I thought about the photograph of Vanessa beside my sketchbook.
About the USB drive.
About the mysterious person who had sent me the video.
Then another possibility occurred to me.
“What if the person who sent me those messages isn't trying to help me?””
Eleanor's eyes narrowed.
“What makes you say that?””
“They knew about the sewing box. They knew where to find the video. They knew my mother had left something behind.””
“Whoever sent the messages has access to information that could be useful to us.””
“Or information they want us to find.””
Eleanor sat back.
For the first time since we'd met, she looked genuinely unsettled.
“That's possible.””
My phone vibrated again.
This time, the message came from an unfamiliar email address.
There was no greeting.
Only a photograph of the original Wildflower sketch.
Beneath it were six words.
*Your mother did not draw this.*
I stared at the screen.
A second message arrived.
*Ask Eleanor what happened in Paris.*
I lifted my eyes toward the woman sitting opposite me.
She had gone pale.
“What's in Paris?”” I asked.
Eleanor didn't answer immediately.
She folded her hands on the table and looked toward the rain-streaked window.
Then she turned back to me.
“Emily, there is one thing your mother never told you about the night her collection disappeared.””
My pulse quickened.
“What?””
Eleanor took a breath.
“Your mother wasn't alone in the studio that night.””
She paused.
“And the person who left with the original designs was not Richard Price.””
I leaned forward.
“Then who was it?””
May you like
Eleanor looked me directly in the eyes.
*“It was your father.””*
