Kristina McMorris - Letters From Home

What a statement the garb would make with a sharp, lightning-bolt collar rather than a conservative rounded appeasement. And if the belt were an inch wider with, say, a square copper buckle—

A sound from the doorway whirled Julia around. Her teacher entered, a small box in her arms. Mismatched pattern pieces hung over its edges like a deflated circus tent. Julia’s anxiety, instantly revived, sprang to attention.

“Ah! I see already you are here, Zhoolia .” The same tough elegance permeating Simone’s French accent encompassed her trademark appearance: dark hair slicked into an impossibly tight bun, no bangs to soften her angled features, slender arms pale against her all-black attire. Only wrinkles huddling around her eyes confessed her age exceeding fifty. And aside from her raspberry lipstick, the jeweled chain on the half-glass spectacles dangling from her neck provided her sole splash of color. “Have you been here long?” she asked.

Julia grappled for her thoughts. “I—arrived a little earlier than I planned.” Even more consuming than the rudeness of her untimely arrival was her tampering with the suit behind her. She could think of no discreet way of returning the outfit to its original state. Inching to her right, she settled for barricading the view. “Did you end up visiting New York last month, to see your niece?” She flung the question across the room, a verbal sleight of hand.

“Mmm,” Simone affirmed, moving toward a worktable beneath the windows, her posture and movement like a swan’s. “Have you ever been?” She set down the box.

“Oh yes,” Julia replied. “About once a year since I was little. My mom liked to take my sister and me there to holiday shop, see Broadway shows, and such.”

“And you are fond of it? That big city?”

A memory floated toward Julia: the first time she rode an open carriage through Central Park, the glow of lanterns painting the drifting snowflakes gold before her eyes. She swore heaven couldn’t be any more beautiful. “I think it’s the most magical place on earth.”

The teacher nodded, then nodded again. “Good.” The right answer. Simone disdained wrong answers. And, as Julia had learned, a student never had to question into which category their response had fallen.

“May I help you with that?” Julia hurried toward her, pulling the woman’s eye line to a safe periphery.

“Scraps,” the teacher complained, her fist full of thin strips from the box. “Silk pieces, they promised. But no. Only scraps.” She dropped them into a rejected heap on the long rectangular table, a fixture Julia knew well. On occasion, she had literally lived on the nicked and scarred slab—eating, sleeping, dreaming among the spools and yardsticks when a gust of creativity caught hold.

“Well,” Julia offered, touching the coveted material, “hopefully the war will be over soon, and everything will go back to normal.”

“Mmm . . . normal.” The word entered the air, soft as a wish. A brief pause and Simone’s wistfulness disappeared, shut down on command. “Alors.” She straightened. “You are wondering why I called you here, non? ”

Fresh tension snapped through Julia as she waited.

“Let me first say,” she began, “the opportunity, at your level of experience, is an exception. However, I would prefer not to see a talent like yours wasted. Not to mention the effort and time I have contributed to your education.”

This was even worse than Julia expected. The woman was obviously inviting her into the advanced design program. A wondrous offer for a one-year student, almost unheard of.

Regardless. Julia’s answer would be the same: Thank you for everything—but—but . . . The words resisted, dug in their heels, as Simone said, “You see, you’ve been offered an internship.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.” Julia’s decline toppled out before the last statement soaked in. “What was that?”

Simone’s expression held at stoic. “An internship, chérie . At Vogue. Naturally, they’ll want to interview you first, but I assured them you’d be perfect.”

“I had no—that you—” All of the thoughts in Julia’s head crashed into each other, landing in a pile of confusion. A single word crawled from the wreckage: “How?”

Simone shrugged one shoulder, as if both took too much effort. “During my trip to New York. I brought a file of your sketches, and two of the gowns you designed for the fashion show.”

Though the showcase last spring was only class-wide, the rave reviews Julia had received sent her spirit gliding cloud-high for an entire week.

Simone went on, “A dear friend I studied with decades ago is now working in designs for Vogue . And she believes you have something special. A gift. As do I.” That last sentence, above all others, lit Julia inside. Compliments from the woman were like collectible coins. Rare and priceless. “But,” she pointed out, “you will have a lot to learn before then.”

“When would it start?”

“They had hoped for this winter, but I told them of your studies. She would be willing to wait until late spring for you. And you would be expected to prove, at all times, why you were worth the wait.” She paused a beat for emphasis. “The pay would be minimal, and you would be responsible for all your expenses. Although there would be other interns you could share a flat with, if you prefer.”

Julia’s mind was spinning. “And this is . . . for how long?”

“That is up to them,” she replied. “Or you. At the end of the summer, you could decide to return to school, or remain. The choice would be yours.”

Julia breathed against the enclosure of her excitement. She felt herself drifting once more toward the clouds. Grounding herself as best she could, she shook her head and said, “I don’t know what to say, how to thank you.”

Simone’s reply came strong. “Don’t prove me wrong.” The teacher’s reputation had obviously served as an ante in the gambling match. The shared pressure didn’t go unnoticed. “Of course,” she added, “you will need to do some preparation work, around your studies at the university.”

“The university?” Julia barely grasped the familiar word.

A suggestion of a smile played on Simone’s lips. “ Eh bien. I have given you much to consider. They will need your answer by end of summer.”

Carried by the irrational current of the moment, Julia embraced her. As could be expected, there was no reciprocal effort—the teacher treated hugs like a contagious illness—but Julia didn’t care. She had been handed a throne, and she wasn’t about to complain about the detailing of its cushion. Rather, she simply stepped back and said, “Thank you.”

Simone nodded before returning her attention to her box of scraps. A cue that their meeting had ended.

“Have a good day,” Julia bid, and headed for the hall.

“Mmm,” she said. “And Zhoolia .”

“Yes?” She turned to find Simone’s head still down.

“No playing with other people’s designs while at Vogue . D’accord? ”

Julia’s gaze darted to the mannequin. She felt a poke at her side, the finger of guilt. “Yes, ma’am,” she replied, and without another word, she ducked out the door.

Once outside, Julia strode down the sidewalk, bridling an urge to skip. She could hardly feel her shoes making contact with the ridges of city cement.

A streetcar of strangers clanged across the street. A hefty construction worker passed lugging two buckets of tools. Julia wanted to shout to them all, spreading the news. She wanted to pick up a phone, tell her parents. Race home and write Christian all about it—