I Made His Wife’s Dress Now I’ll Marry Another Chapter 65
The old print shop in Paris was even worse than the photographs had suggested.
The roof leaked. The floor slanted. The biggest cutting table had a scorched edge. My mother, however, made one circuit of the windows and declared that the afternoon light would be good enough for the finest needlework.
I named the studio Visible Seam.
Not Whitmore. Not Moreau.
Every sample garment would keep one visible basting line on the outside for a time, with a full list of its makers hanging beside it. Before delivery, the customer could choose to have the seam removed—but every name would remain on the internal label forever.
Sofia set up the maker-credit format.
In the space for her own role, she wrote: *Trial Apprentice.*
“Why not Structural Design Apprentice?” I asked.
“Because I haven’t decided yet.”
“Good.”
My mother taught embroidery two afternoons a week. When she got tired, she went upstairs to rest. No one was photographing her illness anymore.
The atelier next door, Julien’s, remained closed.
When I needed the large pressing equipment, I knocked, as per the rental agreement. When I didn’t, we each worked separately.
Our first real date didn’t happen until the fifth week after the studio opened.
He took me for onion soup by the canal.
“Is this revenge for that hospital tomato soup?” I asked.
“No.” Julien took one sip and frowned. “This is me choosing the wrong restaurant.”
I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my soup on the table.
That night, he walked me to my door and only asked, “May I kiss you?”
I said yes.
He still waited for me to take the last half-step first.