I Made His Wife’s Dress Now I’ll Marry Another Chapter 67
Before the ninety-day license expired, my father came to Paris.
He didn’t ask to renew all the silhouettes. He only brought three samples from Whitmore’s new, independent design team.
“The board wants to adopt your maker-credit system,” he said.
“The system doesn’t belong to me. Just do it.”
He blinked. “You’re not charging a licensing fee?”
“Putting the right names on things wasn’t my invention.”
He lowered his eyes to the inner labels.
At the top was a young designer’s name. Beneath it were the names of seven workers. Sabine’s name was nowhere to be found.
“She enrolled in a foundation course in pattern drafting at a community college,” my father said. “She started from year one.”
“That was her choice.”
“She asked me to give you this.”
It was an unsigned structural sketch for a child’s coat, the lines awkward, the armhole revised over and over.
In the corner were the words:
*This time, I didn’t use your master pattern.*
I slid the drawing back into the envelope.
“Tell her that homework goes to her teacher, not to me.”
My father gave a small, bitter smile. “You still won’t forgive her.”
“She isn’t relearning for my forgiveness.”
In the end, I renewed the license on only two of the silhouettes, for six months, at the full market rate.
The other seven left Whitmore’s windows for good.
They would have to fill the empty space themselves.