Chapter 6: The Secret Patricia Buried
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Patricia stood in the attic doorway, one hand gripping the frame. Her expensive cream blouse was perfectly pressed, her blonde hair arranged in its usual flawless waves.
But her face had lost every trace of its usual confidence.
She was staring at the photograph in my hand.
“Emma,” she repeated, “put that box down.””
I slowly stood.
“Why?””
“Because those things belong to me.””
I almost laughed.
“They belonged to my mother.””
Patricia stepped inside.
“Your mother left a lot of things behind. You don't understand what you're looking at.””
“I understand that your name is on a letter from Eleanor Brooks.””
Her eyes flickered toward my phone.
“Who are you talking to?””
“Eleanor.””
Patricia went completely still.
Through the speaker, Eleanor's voice came again.
“Patricia? Is that you?””
Patricia reached for my phone.
I stepped backward.
“Don't.””
“Give me that.””
“No.””
Her expression changed.
For the first time, I saw something beneath her polished appearance.
Fear.
“Emma, you need to listen to me. Your mother was confused near the end. She misunderstood certain business arrangements.””
I stared at her.
“You stole her designs?””
“I did not steal anything.””
“Then why did Eleanor say you had access to the original collection?””
“Because I worked with her.””
“Did you steal it?””
Patricia's jaw tightened.
“You're too young to understand how the fashion industry works.””
I looked at the sketch.
“My mother designed these dresses.””
“Your mother helped with some drawings. That doesn't make her a designer.””
The words hit me like a slap.
I remembered my mother's hands guiding mine across the sewing machine.
I remembered her telling me that every stitch mattered.
And now Patricia was standing in front of me, dismissing the work that had once made my mother happy.
“You don't get to decide what my mother was,” I said.
Patricia's voice sharpened.
“I'm your stepmother. I've spent years keeping this family together while you constantly create problems.””
Lily stepped forward.
“She's not creating anything. She's asking you why you stole her mother's work.””
Patricia turned toward her.
“This conversation does not concern you.””
“It concerns me if you're threatening my best friend.””
Patricia looked at me again.
“Give me the box, Emma.””
I held it tighter.
“No.””
She took another step.
Then Eleanor spoke through the phone.
“Patricia, I have waited fourteen years for someone to ask me about that collection. You will not intimidate Margaret's daughter into silence.””
Patricia froze.
“Eleanor, this is none of your business.””
“None of my business? I spent years trying to recover what you took.””
“You have no proof.””
A quiet laugh came through the speaker.
“Oh, Patricia. That's where you're wrong.””
Patricia's face drained of color.
“What proof?””
“The original contracts. The copyright registrations. The correspondence between you and Margaret. I kept everything.””
Patricia shook her head.
“You destroyed those records.””
“No. I protected them.””
I looked down at the letter.
My mother had been right.
She had left me something important.
Not just a dress.
Not just a sketch.
A truth.
Patricia suddenly turned toward the staircase.
“Richard!””
Her voice echoed through the attic.
A moment later, footsteps sounded below.
“What is it?”” Richard called.
“Get up here. Now!””
He appeared at the doorway.
His eyes moved from Patricia to me, then to the box.
“What happened?””
Patricia pointed at me.
“She broke into my private things.””
I looked at her in disbelief.
“This is my mother's sewing box.””
Richard frowned.
“Emma, why are you digging through old belongings?””
“Because I found something.””
I held up the photograph.
He studied it.
“What is this?””
“Mom and Eleanor Brooks. They created the Rose Garden collection together.””
Richard looked confused.
Patricia quickly interrupted.
“It's nonsense. Your mother was helping Eleanor with some alterations. That's all.””
I turned toward him.
“Did you know?””
He hesitated.
“Know what?””
“That Patricia stole my mother's designs.””
His expression changed.
Patricia stared at him.
“Richard, don't encourage this.””
I noticed something.
He wasn't looking at me.
He was looking at the photograph.
And there was recognition in his eyes.
“Richard?”” I whispered.
He swallowed.
“Your mother mentioned something about a collection years ago.””
My heart sank.
“What did she tell you?””
He rubbed his forehead.
“She said Patricia had taken some sketches. But I thought it was a misunderstanding.””
Patricia stepped forward.
“You promised never to bring that up.””
The room went silent.
I stared at them.
“You knew?””
Richard looked at me.
“I didn't know the whole story.””
“But you knew something had happened.””
He didn't answer.
Patricia folded her arms.
“Margaret was difficult. She believed everyone was against her. She accused people of stealing her ideas because she couldn't accept that Eleanor wanted to work with me.””
“That's not true,” Eleanor said through the phone.
Patricia glared at the device.
“You weren't there.””
“I was the one who hired you. I was the one who trusted you. And I was the one who discovered you had copied our private collection and registered it under your own business.””
My fingers went cold.
“Registered it?””
Eleanor continued.
“Yes, sweetheart. Patricia submitted several designs under her name. Your mother discovered it when she saw one of the dresses being advertised.””
I looked at Patricia.
“Why?””
Patricia's eyes flashed.
“Because I deserved something for once!””
Her voice cracked.
“Do you know what it was like? Working for Eleanor? Watching Margaret get praised for everything? She could draw a dress in ten minutes, and everyone called her brilliant.””
“You stole her work,” I said.
“I improved it!””
“You put your name on it.””
Patricia stepped closer.
“And what did your mother do? She ran away, got married, and left the industry. I built a business. I made something of myself.””
I looked at her.
“Using her designs.””
She didn't deny it.
Instead, she pointed toward the sewing box.
“Give me those papers. They are not yours to distribute.””
I shook my head.
“They're my mother's.””
“Emma, you have no idea what you're getting yourself into.””
“Then explain it.””
She stared at me.
And for the first time, she had no answer.
Richard finally spoke.
“Patricia, perhaps we should let Eleanor explain everything.””
Patricia turned toward him.
“You're taking her side?””
“I'm trying to understand.””
“You've had three years to understand!””
She grabbed her handbag and stormed downstairs.
A door slammed.
Richard remained in the attic.
He looked older than I had ever seen him.
“Emma, I'm sorry.””
I looked at him.
“For what?””
“For not listening to your mother.””
I swallowed.
“Are you sorry because you believe me, or because you finally realized Patricia might be in trouble?””
He lowered his eyes.
I didn't wait for an answer.
Lily helped me pack the sewing box.
We left the house ten minutes later.
Outside, Eleanor was still on the phone.
“Emma,” she said gently, “I need you to come to my studio tomorrow.””
“Why?””
“Because I want to show you something your mother left with me.””
I looked at the photograph.
“What?””
A pause.
Then Eleanor said:
“Her final design. The one she never finished.””
My breath caught.
“What did it look like?””
Eleanor's voice softened.
“It was a dress she called The Phoenix Rose.””
I looked at the red roses sewn into my own gown.
And suddenly, I understood why my mother had always told me that damaged things could become beautiful again.
She had been trying to teach me something long before I knew I would need it.
But Eleanor wasn't finished.
“There's another reason I need you here,” she said.
May you like
“What is it?””
“Patricia knows about that design. And if she discovers you have the original, she may try to stop you from showing it.””
