Chapter 7: My Mother's Missing Letter
Margaret Price lived in a small cedar house on the outskirts of Portland, surrounded by towering fir trees and a garden that looked as though it had been growing without supervision for half a century.
We arrived shortly after five in the afternoon.
The rain had stopped, leaving droplets clinging to the branches. I carried the dress inside its garment bag while Naomi held my sketchbook and the folder containing the competition documents.
An elderly woman opened the front door before we knocked.
She had silver hair, sharp blue eyes, and the kind of expression that made it clear she had spent years learning not to trust charming people.
“You must be Claire,” she said.
“Yes.””
She looked at the garment bag.
“And you've brought Vivian's fabric.””
I nodded.
Margaret stepped aside.
“Come in.””
The house smelled of cedar, old books, and something sweet baking in the kitchen. Photographs covered the walls. Some showed a young woman standing beside theater costumes. Others displayed elaborate gowns on mannequins.
One photograph caught my attention.
A dark-haired woman stood beside a sewing machine, holding a length of ivory silk.
My mother.
She looked younger than I had ever seen her, perhaps twenty-five. Her hair fell over one shoulder, and she was laughing at something outside the frame.
Beside her stood another woman with silver scissors in her hand.
Vivian Price.
I stopped walking.
“That's my mother.””
Margaret turned.
“Yes.””
“You knew her?””
“Very well.””
I stared at the photograph.
“Why didn't you tell me?””
“Because I wanted to be certain you were ready to hear what I had to say.””
Naomi set the sketchbook on a nearby table.
“With respect, Margaret, someone has been sending Claire threatening messages, filing complaints against her, and trying to have her disqualified. I think we're past the point of waiting for the right moment.””
Margaret nodded.
“You're right.””
She led us into a study.
The room was filled with filing cabinets, fabric boxes, and shelves of old notebooks. A large table stood beneath a window, covered with neatly labeled folders.
Margaret pointed to a chair.
“Sit down. I'll explain what I know.””
I sat.
She remained standing.
“My sister Vivian was a gifted designer. She created costumes for theater companies across the country, but she never wanted to become a public figure. She preferred working behind the scenes, creating garments that helped actors become someone else.””
Margaret picked up a photograph.
“Patricia Bennett came to her as an apprentice in 1994. She was talented, ambitious, and very good at understanding what other people wanted to hear.””
“Was she stealing designs then?”” I asked.
“Not at first. Vivian believed in her. She gave Patricia access to her notebooks, her patterns, and her unfinished collections.””
Margaret placed the photograph on the table.
“Then Vivian began preparing a collection that combined traditional tailoring with reclaimed fabrics. It was called After the Ashes.””
I looked at Naomi.
The name no longer felt like a coincidence.
“It was supposed to be Vivian's first major public exhibition,” Margaret continued.
“She had spent years developing the collection. Some pieces used fabric salvaged from old theater productions. Others incorporated damaged wedding gowns and scraps from costumes that had been discarded.””
“Like my dress.””
“Exactly.””
Margaret opened a folder.
Inside were photographs of gowns made from unusual combinations of silk, lace, and metallic mesh.
I leaned closer.
The work was extraordinary.
One gown used torn velvet to create a dramatic train. Another transformed old lace into a fitted jacket. A third incorporated fragments of embroidery into a flowing silver skirt.
“They're beautiful,” I whispered.
“They were,” Margaret said.
“But Patricia wanted the collection for herself.””
She explained that Patricia had begun taking photographs of Vivian's designs and presenting them to prospective clients as her own work.
At first, Vivian believed it was a misunderstanding. She thought Patricia was showing examples of their collaboration.
Then she discovered that Patricia had removed original sketches from the archive.
“When Vivian confronted her, Patricia said the designs were hers because she had helped make them,” Margaret said.
“She claimed Vivian had given her permission to use them.””
“Did she?””
“No.””
Margaret opened another folder.
Inside were letters between Vivian and Patricia. Some were polite. Others were furious.
In one letter, Vivian demanded the return of her original drawings.
In another, Patricia accused Vivian of trying to destroy her career.
Margaret placed the final letter on the table.
“Vivian intended to report the theft. But before she could, something happened.””
“What?””
“Someone broke into her studio.””
I felt my fingers tighten around the edge of the chair.
“Was anything stolen?””
“Her notebooks. Several original designs. A box containing legal documents and a letter she had written to an attorney.””
“Did she report it?””
“She tried. But Patricia had already presented documents claiming the collection belonged to her.””
I looked at the signature on the legal notice.
“The forged contract.””
“Yes.””
“Why didn't Vivian fight it?””
Margaret's expression changed.
“She did.””
She told us that Vivian had hired an attorney and gathered evidence, including photographs, letters, and records of the materials used in the collection.
But before the case could proceed, Vivian died in a car accident.
The investigation into the stolen designs collapsed.
Patricia kept the collection.
Within five years, she had established herself as a successful fashion consultant. Her name appeared in magazines and industry profiles, often beside photographs of garments that had originally belonged to Vivian's archive.
I stared at the pictures.
“What happened to my mother?””
Margaret sat down opposite me.
“Elena helped Vivian document the theft. She was the only person outside the family who knew the entire story.””
My throat tightened.
“Why?””
“Because your mother had worked with Vivian before she became a seamstress. She was a talented patternmaker. She understood how to identify a copied design, and she kept meticulous records.””
Margaret opened a drawer and removed a small envelope.
“After Vivian died, Elena took several documents home for safekeeping. She intended to give them to Vivian's attorney.””
“But she never did.””
“No.””
“Why?””
Margaret looked at me for a long moment.
“Because Patricia threatened her.””
The room seemed to shrink around me.
“What did she threaten?””
“Patricia claimed she would accuse Elena of stealing the designs herself. She said she would destroy her reputation, make sure no fashion house hired her, and use her connections to prevent her from working professionally again.””
I shook my head.
“My mother was already struggling financially. She would never have risked that.””
“Exactly. She had you to raise. She was frightened of losing the only income she had.””
Margaret placed the envelope in front of me.
“Your mother kept the evidence hidden. She told me she would reveal everything when you were old enough to understand.””
I stared at the envelope.
“Then why didn't she?””
Margaret's eyes filled with tears.
“Because she died before she could.””
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
My mother had died when I was fourteen. I remembered the hospital room, the smell of disinfectant, the way Dad had held my hand while a doctor explained things I was too young to understand.
I had spent years grieving the things she would never see.
My graduation.
My first apartment.
My first serious design.
Now I was learning that she had carried a secret through all those years, protecting someone else's work while trying to raise me.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a handwritten letter addressed to Margaret.
The paper had yellowed around the edges.
Margaret,
If Patricia has not returned the original notebooks by the time you receive this, I believe we have waited long enough.
Vivian trusted her. That trust was used against her.
I have kept copies of the evidence in a place Patricia will never think to look. Claire must not know about this until she is old enough to understand why some people would rather destroy a person than admit what they have done.
If anything happens to me, please give Claire the letter and the sewing box.
She deserves to know that her mother did not stay silent because she was weak.
I stayed silent because I was trying to protect my child.
But silence is not the same thing as forgiveness.
Elena.
I read the final line twice.
Then I pressed the letter against my chest.
Naomi placed a hand on my shoulder.
Margaret wiped her eyes.
“Your mother was braver than she believed.””
I looked up.
“Where is the evidence she hid?””
Margaret hesitated.
“I don't know.””
My heart sank.
“You said she kept copies.””
“She told me they were somewhere Patricia would never think to look. I assumed she meant a bank deposit box, but I searched the records after Elena died and found nothing.””
I thought about my mother's sewing box.
The brass thimble.
The old patterns.
The handwritten note she'd left for me.
For Claire, when she forgets how much she can do.
I had carried that box through every move.
I knew every needle and button inside it.
Or I thought I did.
I opened the bag I had brought from the convention center and removed the sewing box.
Margaret leaned forward.
“May I?””
I handed it to her.
She examined the wooden base, turning it over carefully.
Then she stopped.
“Claire, did you know this compartment opens?””
I stared at her.
“What compartment?””
Margaret pressed a small brass latch hidden beneath the velvet lining.
A narrow panel slid loose.
Inside lay a folded piece of paper, a tiny key, and a photograph of my mother standing beside Vivian.
I reached for the paper.
It contained a handwritten address and a short sentence.
The original records are where the first dress was made.
Beneath it was a date.
October 14, 1996.
The day Vivian's final collection had been scheduled to debut.
Margaret looked at me.
“Claire, do you know where that first dress was made?””
I thought of the address my father had given me when I was little.
The old theater where my mother had once worked.
The building had been closed for years.
But the date on the paper made my pulse quicken.
Because October 14, 1996, was also the date Patricia had claimed Vivian signed away the collection.
And if the original records were still hidden in that theater, they might prove the entire contract was a lie.
Before I could speak, Margaret's phone rang.
She answered, listened for several seconds, and went pale.
“What do you mean, the lock has been changed?””
May you like
She looked at me.
“Someone has been inside the theater.””
