“THIS IS A DISASTER,” Grace said, looking up from her suitcase. Jules, who was dressed in a black wool jacket and matching pants with gold braid that she’d designed and made herself, scooted over to her feet, then sat back on his bottom.
Now that he was better and his fever had broken, Jules was back to being his usual sweet self. She was amazed at how much Jules’s first illness had frightened her. For his whole life, he had practically lived in her hectic artistic workrooms, being cuddled and cooed over by some of the top models in Paris. He’d always seemed unperturbed by all the hustle and bustle, and other than colic when he was three months old, he’d never even had a fever.
When Mica had called in half his family to help, she’d thought he was going overboard. She’d been wrong. Jules was the picture of health. The only trouble was that now she had to attend Gina Barzonni’s formal New Year’s Eve dinner, and Grace, an up-and-coming Paris designer, hadn’t brought a thing to wear.
She lifted a midnight-blue-and-black woven poncho interlaced with silver threads. She could pair it with a wool skirt, but she’d stand out like a sore thumb amid the velvets and satins at Gina’s party.
Jules clapped his hands and blew out a long raspberry.
“Even you’re a critic, huh?” Grace chuckled and put the poncho on the bed, then picked up Jules. “Well, if Mica can call in his troops, I’ll have to call in mine.”
* * *
“YOU’VE COME TO the right place.” Mrs. Beabots beamed. “Several of the girls come to me during the holidays. They just don’t make lovely dresses like they used to, and they certainly don’t sell them in Indian Lake,” she continued. “Gina’s party is always elegant and we do love getting dressed up for it—and the dancing at the Lodges.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” Grace said, giving Jules his pacifier. He smiled and threw his little arms around her neck, burying his head against her shoulder.
“I’m happy he’s feeling better. There’s nothing worse than trying to help a child who can’t speak,” Mrs. Beabots said as she went toward her bedroom. “Babies and helpless animals. I’m a pushover for both. But don’t tell anybody.”
“I’ll never say a word.” Grace chuckled.
The tinny, antique sound of the doorbell rang out.
“That will be Sarah and Isabelle.”
“Isabelle’s coming, too? I can’t wait to see her!”
“She’s a renowned artist now. She paints the loveliest fairies and water sprites,” Mrs. Beabots said. “For my money, the girl has nailed her naturescapes. I love what she’s doing now with oils. I bought one for the dining room. It’s a woman reclining in a forest glen with tiny fairies peeking out from under the fallen leaves.”
“It sounds lovely.”
“It is.” She went to the front door and greeted her guests.
Fairies? Grace stared after Mrs. Beabots wondering what kind of silliness she was talking about.
Mrs. Beabots returned with Sarah and a pretty, elfin-faced woman with hair that hung nearly to her waist. Grace remembered her well.
Isabelle instantly put her arms around Grace and Jules. “I’m so happy to see you again. And your beautiful baby. I want to hear all about Paris!” Isabelle blurted out. “Do you like it there?”
“No. I adore it,” Grace said effusively. “It’s heaven.”
Isabelle unwound the gray-and-black scarf around her neck and took off her matching tweed jacket. “I just got married this past summer—Scott and I didn’t go on a honeymoon, but we’ve talked about Paris so much. I’ve downloaded dozens of virtual tours on my phone,” she said, gushing.
“That’s great,” Grace said, remembering her run-in with Isabelle’s brother on the train last October. “Congratulations on your marriage.” Why did her old friend’s news give her such a pang of sadness? Grace hoped it didn’t show. Jules laid his cheek against hers, taking her out of her thoughts.
“It’s so nice to see the three of you together,” Mrs. Beabots said. “All artists in your own right. You have a lot in common.”
“Well, today we all have something else in common, Mrs. Beabots,” Sarah said. “Gina’s party is tonight and I, for one, haven’t shopped since Charlotte was born.”
Grace took in the wrinkled black skirt and stretchy, rust-colored top Sarah wore.
Mrs. Beabots pointed at Sarah’s outfit. “Isn’t that the same top you wore when you were pregnant?”
“It is,” Sarah replied glumly. “I was bored with it then and I’m still bored now.”
Mrs. Beabots said, “There was something to be said for the maternity clothes of fifty years ago. Those trapeze blouses and capes had a certain swing and elegance. I remember one that a friend of mine wore in Paris. It was black with a sequined silver collar and cuffs. She was a blonde like you, Sarah, and she looked like a queen.”
Grace hung on Mrs. Beabots’s every word. She envisioned the way she would encrust the collar with black seed pearls, jet beads and silver sequins. She’d pair it with black-and-white harlequin pants and black leather ballet flats. Mrs. Beabots was right. No wonder she and her team were having problems. The offerings for the average woman were the same styles, same colors, year in and year out. Unless one lived in Paris or New York or London or could afford haute couture, everyday fashion was bereft of innovation.
“All of this is to say,” Isabelle added, “that none of us has anything to wear to Gina’s party. And Maddie and Liz told us we should wear something special because Gina hired a professional photographer this year. I don’t understand. What’s the big deal?”
Mrs. Beabots smiled. “Oh, I know this one. Gina and Sam are going to announce their engagement. Their wedding will be at the end of January.”
“So soon?” Grace gulped. Again, she didn’t know why other people’s weddings were of any particular concern to her. Except for the fact that she kept hearing Mica’s voice as he asked her to marry him.
Marriage. In all her life, even her daydreams about Mica when she was a teen, she hadn’t actually gone so far as to consider marriage. Grace wasn’t sure she was the marrying kind. She’d lived her life alone, pursuing her own goals. Making decisions. She was an independent woman.
Then Jules had arrived and suddenly Grace’s life wasn’t just about her.
She was a mother now. Raising a child on her own, she could now admit, wasn’t as simple and straightforward as she’d thought it might be. But becoming a wife—a partner? She wasn’t sure she wanted to take on that role.
“What are you going to wear, Grace?” Isabelle asked, her eyes filled with admiration.
“That’s why I’m here. I hadn’t planned on a formal affair. I do have a crimson off-the-shoulder blouse from my fall line that might be right, but I need a skirt to go with it.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Beabots exclaimed. “I have just the thing.” She motioned for the women to follow her.
Once in the bedroom, Mrs. Beabots flung open two white, paneled doors revealing a walk-in closet almost as big as Grace’s entire Paris apartment.
“What is this?” Grace gasped.
Sarah and Isabelle shot her knowing smiles.
Mrs. Beabots waved her hand toward the interior. “This, my dears, is where I keep my treasures.”
Grace felt as if she was walking into a fashion designer’s museum. The clothes were arranged by color, with all the blouses on one side of the room alongside the dresses, long coats and jackets. On the opposite wall were skirts and trousers. Grace realized that she was looking through clear plastic garment bags holding Christian Dior skirts that possibly could date back to 1947, when Dior’s “New Look” put Paris couture back on the map after World War II. She saw Yves Saint Laurent jackets and slacks. A Molyneux black evening gown. Suits by Courrèges. Grace knew them all. She’d studied fashion history nearly all her life. When she was ten, she dreamed of wearing gold lamé gowns. Now she designed clothing and hoped that one day, her pieces would end up in a history book. It was her passage to immortality. Grace believed that deep inside her, she possessed enough creativity to be that good—the best in her field.
And nothing was ever going to stop her.
Somehow, Mrs. Beabots’s closet represented the dream that Grace had cobbled together for herself from long years of yearning, a million and half hours of work, associations she’d made and lost, sacrifices...
Yes. She’d given up a lot to be in Paris. Time she could have spent with Aunt Louise. The one person who loved her above all others.
Grace was astonished at the number of days and years her dream had taken from her life, yet she still wasn’t where she wanted to be. Had it been worth it? Had she made the right decision?
Jules wiggled in her arms. What else was she sacrificing in order to succeed?
Grace walked over to a large plastic bag holding a skirt constructed of yards of pink chiffon. A thick white satin sash was sewn onto the waist. “This is Dior, isn’t it?”
“Yes, dear. It is. You have a good eye and it will be perfect with your crimson blouse.”
“Oh, I couldn’t. This is priceless.”
“Perhaps. But I’d rather have the memory of seeing you in it at Gina’s party than visit it in this closet. My delight is in having you girls experience a tiny portion of what my life was like when I was young and living in Paris.”
Grace put Jules on the carpet so he could move around and she could inspect the clothing more closely. “This was circa 1950, I believe. Where did you get it?”
“Oh, I bought it from a girl I knew in Paris. She’d been a model for Dior and he gifted her with the skirt. It’s too long for me, but when she sold it, she needed money. At the time, I thought I was paying too much. Now, of course...”
“It’s worth a fortune,” Grace said.
“A small one.” Mrs. Beabots smiled as she took a black suede jacket with gold piping on the lapels off the hanger. “Here, Isabelle, try this on.”
While Isabelle stuck her arms through the sleeves, Grace wandered over to a set of drawers with clear plastic dust covers. She peered at the silks. “These are Hermès.”
“And Dior, Chanel, Yves Saint Laurent and a few others. I always like a splash of color. Pick one out for Isabelle, to go with her jacket.”
Isabelle shook her head. “Those scarves are worth over three hundred dollars each. What if I lose it?”
“What do you think that jacket is worth?” Grace chuckled. “I’m guessing a couple thousand.”
Mrs. Beabots smiled mischievously. “This is the last time I bring a know-it-all into my closet.”
“Oh, Mrs. Beabots.” Sarah laughed. “You’re having a blast with us and we love it. We all know your treasures are, well, treasures.”
“We do?” Isabelle asked as she touched the jacket sleeve. “I can’t wear this.”
“Sure you can,” Grace said. “And you’ll do it with your head held high. Trust me, you’ll feel excruciatingly marvelous all night long. Nothing changes a person’s perspective like the clothes she wears.”
Sarah dropped the gold earrings she was holding back into their velvet tray. “Why is that? Are we so shallow that a sweater can alter our mood?”
Grace shook her head. “I don’t think it’s shallow. Sarah, you’re a designer—you understand the power of color, shape and texture. I imagine you do, too, Isabelle, because of your painting. Well, it’s the same with fashion. A red lipstick reflects my attitude on a particular night in a different way than a beachy coral does during the day. Haven’t you ever had an outfit or a piece of clothing that made you feel special, more like yourself? That’s what I’m talking about.”
“I guess so,” Isabelle answered. “I just hardly ever have time to do more than paint, take care of our kids and spend time with Scott. I never have an afternoon to go from shop to shop trying to put an outfit together. I like dresses, because it’s all in one. Some shoes and earrings and I’m done. Of course, I look at you and I think, with a bit more effort, I could do this. Grace, believe me, I get what you’re saying.”
Grace heard the appreciation in Isabelle’s voice and suddenly felt a spark of enthusiasm hit her creative cells. She’d been recharged, as if her battery had run low.
It had been a long time since she’d actually talked to women outside the fashion-and-design industry. Her friends were her design-team members. She had coffee with models and fabric artists. Her life in Paris revolved around fashion. Her peers should have ignited her talent, but lately, they had not. It wasn’t their fault. The problem had been within Grace. She’d been so overloaded with Jules, she feared she’d lost her imagination.
Grace realized that she’d buried her creativity under a mountain of deadlines, expectations and her own egocentric need to succeed.
It was no wonder her sketches didn’t materialize into the visions in her head. Due to financial strains, she’d chosen to work with a new silk weaver from Lyon whose fabric was subpar. It had been a bad choice and a waste of valuable time because the fabric was simply not right. To make matters worse, the English wool she’d ordered was dense and the weave too loose for the jackets she’d designed.
She looked at the riot of color in Mrs. Beabots’s closet. These vintage clothes were the best the big houses could turn out at the time. They didn’t settle for second best. They didn’t use remnant merino wool or cottons that couldn’t hold their dye. They demanded the best from themselves.
Grace stood in front of Isabelle and flattened the collar until it sat perfectly. “This jacket was meant to be worn with a simple and comfortable sheath dress, or a plain skirt and sweater. We’ll find something and you will feel and be amazing.”
“I have just the sheath,” Mrs. Beabots said, handing Isabelle a sleeveless black silk number. Isabelle went behind a Chinese screen and when she emerged, Grace studied the outfit, tilting her head from left to right. “You should wear half your hair up and away from your face, the rest tumbling down your back. Then we’ll stud your hair with rhinestones that will glitter in the lamplight. Let your hair be your accessory. Then we need long earrings.”
“Shoulder dusters!” Mrs. Beabots said. “I love them!” She turned to a velvet-lined drawer and pulled out a pair of long gold bars studded with rhinestones. At least Grace thought they were rhinestones. In this closet, they could be diamonds.
“Put these on, dear,” Mrs. Beabots encouraged.
Isabelle turned toward one of the three full-length mirrors. “That’s me?”
“Wait until I put those rhinestones in your hair,” Grace said.
Sarah beamed as she stood behind Isabelle. “You look incredible. You’re...transformed.”
Grace stood back from the group as they continued admiring her selections. Her mind was ricocheting with ideas. Her new designs needed to be comfortable and utilitarian for those women who went from offices or an artist’s easel to a kid’s school play and then to a dinner or a friend’s party. She would take the mainstays in every woman’s closet and give them a touch of glamour. Not glitz, just subtle glamour like the gold piping on the Yves Saint Laurent jacket.
She needed workable fabric. She knew just where to find the perfect fabrics for these designs.
“This is it!” Sarah squealed, holding up a long, off-the-shoulder dress in black crepe. It was classic and elegant. “I’ve seen this before and always admired it. It’s Chanel, I think. I have black heels and new gold-and-rhinestone earrings I got for Christmas from the kids.”
“Perfect!” Mrs. Beabots said.
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Beabots. But now I have to scoot.” Sarah hugged the three of them in turn. “I can’t wait to see you in that Dior skirt at Gina’s party,” Sarah told Grace as she left. “You’ll be gorgeous.”
“I’d better go as well,” Isabelle said.
Grace picked up Jules and followed Mrs. Beabots out of the closet. She closed the doors reverently, feeling as if she’d walked out of a dream and back to reality. Her mind whirred with a tornado of design ideas. All Grace wanted to do was sit down with her sketchbook and get to work.
Yet she had to focus on the fact that in a few hours, she’d be at the Barzonni villa with Mica. Surprisingly, her heart swelled with anticipation. Half the reason she wanted to look stunning tonight was to see his reaction. She wanted to surprise him. Entice him. Push him.
Did he have feelings for her?
They hadn’t resolved a thing and time was running out. She had no idea what her next move would be, but she couldn’t let him talk her into marriage.
Maybe the Dior skirt wasn’t such a good idea after all.
“Grace, dear. Don’t you want to try that skirt on?”
“It’s very generous of you, Mrs. Beabots, but perhaps I shouldn’t wear something quite so...eye-catching.”
“Nonsense. What on earth would you wear instead?”
Grace let out a breath. “A suit of armor.”