"May I?" Liddy asked, reaching toward the dress.
Sophia hesitated before shrugging. "Be my guest."
Liddy lifted the raspberry-and-white garment from the suitcase and held it out in front of herself. "I love this so much—I could eat it up. If only I weren't nursing, then I'd steal it from you and wear it myself."
"That looks so cool and comfortable, Sophia," Meg said, joining them. "I can tell by the cut that it's one of yours, but that color! So different."
Sophia reached for the dress and gently folded it over the other garments hanging on her arm. "Yes, I suppose it is."
Meg reached for it again and held it by its armholes. "Oh, please wear it today. I want to see it on you."
Liddy nodded. "Me too. Let me live vicariously through your svelte-ness. I beg you."
Meg danced the dress in front of her, turning it left to right like the steering wheel of a car, her smile imploring. "Put this on and then we'll do some sightseeing before Liddy has to get back to the baby. So much we need to get caught up on."
"He's still nursing, so I can't leave him for too long," Liddy added. "I hope you two don't mind me butting in, but" —she shook her head—"the story of how you came to be here, in this family, is still so surreal to me. I'm so glad you're here, Sophia. Truly."
"And I am glad you're here as well. You two are like sisters—I can see that."
Meg tilted her head to one side, still holding the dress in front of Sophia with that pretty-please smile on her face.
Sophia relented, headed to the bathroom, and slipped into the dress, mindful of the way the fabric embraced her skin and gratified her curves. She stared at herself in the mirror for three long beats. The dress was dated, but still fit her well. She had bedhead, though, from her nap, so she took a hair tie from the drawer, twisted her hair at the crown, and rolled the excess into a messy bun.
"Hey, beautiful," Meg called out. "You ready?"
She emerged from the bathroom to Liddy's reaction. "Gorgeous! What a pretty color on you. And you have the perfect chin line for that hairdo—my profile is the pits."
Meg clucked her tongue. "Really, Liddy, I don't know how you come up with things like that. There's nothing particularly hideous about your profile."
Liddy tilted her head to the side. "Hear that, Sophia? One of us used the word hideous in a mention of my profile, but it wasn't me."
Meg cracked up. "I can't win with you. Let's get out of here."
Meg drove, Sophia sat shotgun, and Liddy took the back-seat driver position. Sophia took in the green-blues of the sea that abutted their drive. They made a quick stop at the harbor museum, jogged up the stairs, then lingered at the telescopes that opened a view to the Channel Islands in the distance.
Sea air filled her lungs and refreshed her soul. When was the last time she'd thought of anything other than her designs? Her business? Her ... problems?
Meg interrupted her musings. "I know it's not Italy, but isn't that ocean gorgeous? And those islands?"
"They are so lovely. In a small way, though, those islands floating out in the sea remind me of Italy's coast." She turned to Meg. "I often traveled by train by myself for the day—for inspiration."
Meg hugged her neck. “Oh, you are a girl after my own heart."
Liddy tilted her head to the side. "Meg ran away to the coast one day. Didn't you?"
Meg's eyes widened. "I absolutely did. I was mad at your brother." She laughed. "So I took a train to some cute little hilltop villages—there are five of them."
"Cinque Terre?"
"Yes! Well, only one of them. I went to Vernazza."
Sophia's heart lifted. "One of my favorite places to go. Did you have a meal? Their fish is the freshest I've ever tasted."
Liddy rolled her eyes. "Did she! She tells the story every chance she gets."
Meg put a hand on her hip. "You're sick of me? Is that what you're saying?"
Liddy sighed and hugged her friend. "I could never get sick of you. Go ahead and tell your story for the thousandth time."
Meg's eyes shined. "I ran off to Vernazza and made a friend there. A woman who was traveling alone. We had lunch together and—you're not kidding about that fresh fish—it still had its head intact."
Sophia smiled. "Of course it did. You didn't think they would serve you frozen fish, I hope?"
"What was that woman's name again? Your friend?" Liddy said.
"Priscilla."
Liddy's voice sounded wistful. "There's something charming about running off to a foreign country and making a friend who can wander those cobblestone streets with you and share your angst, isn't there?"
Sophia smiled, unsure if Liddy was joking or dead serious. It did sound rather charming, but given the circumstances of what was happening in Meg and Jackson's life at the time, Sophia doubted the excursion to Cinque Terre was as awe-inspiring as all that. She bit the inside of her cheek. Then again, it wasn't her story to tell. Who was she to judge Meg's memory of a day in Cinque Terre?
"Penny for your thoughts," Meg said.
Sophia shook her head and mustered a smile. "Sorry. I was, uh, thinking about how nice it may have been to have run into you in Vernazza. Those happy little houses on the hill can do wonders for a person's countenance. Wouldn't you agree?"
Meg watched her, pensive. She nodded. "You do understand."
"It's no wonder you made a friend there," Sophia added. "Sometimes a physical change of place makes it easier to let go of the ideas that plague us. It sounds as if you and Priscilla were good for each other."
"Yes, yes, we were. Sometimes I wonder how she's doing, whether she's been able to conquer the mountain she faced as I have."
"Perhaps someday you will find out."
Meg smiled. "I hope you're right."
Liddy lifted her phone and motioned for Meg and Sophia to scooch closer to each other. "Let me get a pic of you with those islands in the background."
The breeze lifted tendrils from Sophia's face, and as she tucked the wayward hair alongside her shoulder, her gaze caught sight of the raspberry blush of her dress. The glimpse startled her. She had temporarily forgotten that she'd forgone her usual black, white, or gray aesthetic.
Then it hit her. Sophia's mind churned. Why hadn't she tossed away this dress when she'd found it? Too much time had passed for it to be considered fashionable, but more than that, it reminded her of thoughts and feelings she'd prefer to leave behind. One's clothing—like art and books and other items people hold dear—were like that. Maybe her hesitation to part with it felt akin to letting go of history. Like throwing away a child's first baby shoes.
History. Some things were written about to be remembered, while others should never be thought of again. Such as the contents of her stepfather's note, the one he'd written after one too many shots of grappa.
Hadn't she already conquered this mountain? She'd taken his words into consideration, made adjustments, and found a modicum of success. She supposed that the dress she wore now had played a part in that success. And perhaps for that she could manage to be glad.
Meg cinched her closer. "Say cheese."
Sophia made herself smile.
Liddy lowered the camera phone and plunked it into the designer diaper bag she carried in place of a purse. She patted her stomach, which looked as if it no longer contained even a smidge of baby fat. "Are you ladies ready for lunch yet? I'm starved."
Sophia had hardly touched her eggs at breakfast this morning, and though time had melted away, her appetite had yet to return.
He'd written all day. Not that he had been aware of time, but the darkness that descended upon his room was a sure indication that he'd managed to pour more words onto a page than he had in months. The mermaid who swam into his consciousness early in the morning had lingered. She'd splashed him with her shimmering tail and he'd held on, praying his hands would not slip from her silky scales as he tirelessly put her story on paper.
The ride had, at times, made him breathle
ss.
Christian hit "save" again, then popped his knuckles in one loud rumble. His stomach reacted by grumbling back, so he stood and searched for something to fill it. A half pack of saltines ... two sections of a peeled tangerine ... and one slippery slice of processed ham stuffed into a baggie in the mini fridge.
He'd have to do better than that.
Before he'd had the chance to lace up his running shoes, the click of the slider door of the suite next to his reminded him that he was not alone. He threw open his own slider and stepped out.
"Evening, Christian," Sophia greeted him, her face awash in moonlight.
He stroked his beard, burying a yawn. "Evening yourself. Been busy today?"
"If you count sea gazing and wine tasting busy, then yes. Yes, I have been."
"Ah. I see you've been out with Meg."
"What happens at the beach ... stays at the beach." She laughed. "Meg and her friend Liddy told me to say that, but nothing really happened."
"You won't find me judging."
Her smile reminded him of a little girl's, gentle and shy, but those eyes. From this spot across the divide, her unwavering gaze seemed full of questions. If he did not break away soon, they'd cast a spell on him and he'd soon find himself lying beneath a hammer, as if he were the shell of a coconut awaiting its fate.
"If you don't mind me saying, you look ... quite exhausted."
He pressed his lips together, the light dawning. "Was it the slippers that gave it away?"
She stood on her tiptoes and braced herself to look over the railing and onto his deck. "They have seen better times, haven't they?"
"Hey!" He gave her a mock glare then shrugged.
She only laughed quietly.
He leaned his tired body against the railing, allowing the night air to bring him a second wind. "I'd be insulted if you weren't a fashion designer, you know. But hey, maybe you could design something more to your liking."
Now it was she who shrugged. "I don't do feet."
He lowered his voice. "But you haven't seen mine."
She gasped a little. Had he crossed the line? Would not be the first time he had opened his mouth and stuck in a foot—pun intended. Though when had this ever bothered him?
A way to a woman's heart was through her gut, in a sense. If he could make her laugh—really belly laugh—she'd be his. His father had always told him that and he'd found it to be true. But Sophia ... she was different. Jackson's sister. Ethereal. A porcelain figurine in the next suite over ...
And he didn't care to cause her to break.
"I suppose I could make you a pair of socks." Her melodic voice interrupted his internal struggle.
"Excuse me."
"Shoe design is not part of my repertoire, ah, but socks. Socks I can do, though I would need to remind myself how." She lifted two palms and gave him a little shrug. "It would not be a problem."
"You're serious."
"Well, I would hate for you to get sick."
He scrutinized her expression in the moonlight.
"From all those holes in your slippers," she deadpanned.
He crossed his arms in front of him. "Well, now you're just pulling my leg."
She squealed as softly as a whisper and covered her face in her hands, her shoulders shuddering from deep and abiding laughter.
He'd won. And he kind of liked that.
Chapter 3
“You look bereft. How can I help?"
Wade stood near the empty chair at Sophia's table in the hotel restaurant. One hand beneath his elbow, the other holding his chin, his expression imploring. She gestured for him to sit.
"I am right, aren't I, Sophia?" he said once he'd slid into a chair. "You need help with something."
Sophia swallowed, thinking. Slowly, she said, "I think I may. The problem is, I'm not exactly sure what kind of assistance I need. I can't bother Jackson with my problems right now ... not with all he has on his schedule."
Wade wore a perfectly tailored heather-gray suit that contrasted beautifully with his dark hair. She surmised that he must be on his way to a business meeting. Perhaps with Jackson. Or a vendor. Still, he sat across from her, one elbow on the table, his chin leaned into it, concern knitting his brow. "What is it?"
"My sales rep called. She is preparing to represent my dresses at a show in New York in September, but she says interest is low and she's not sure there will be enough orders to sustain my business. I'm afraid I'm going to lose her too. Plus, the small manufacturer I've been using is asking for guarantees."
"And this has taken you by surprise, I take it?"
"In all honesty, no."
He gave her a succinct nod. "So you have had indications? To what do you attribute the drop in sales?"
She answered him with a shrug and a small shake of her head. Could she finally admit that this news of a downturn only served to highlight her lack of confidence? No matter what success she had found, even for a short while, she could not shake the opposite sense of herself. Unsure. Critical. Wary of her artistic imperfections. Sophia preferred to stay inside her head with only music and her thoughts to occupy her.
"But you would like to recapture your sales, right?"
She exhaled a breath. "Yes, but I admit that I have been very distracted with personal upheaval in the past year. I've not given my designs the attention they need—and my creativity is rather flat right now."
Wade's expression turned pensive, his lips pursed. He rubbed his fingers together while in a fist, almost as if squeezing a baseball. As he did, he watched her, the effect like the brush of fresh pine needles up and down her arms.
Finally, he said, "First, I think you need to find a new manufacturer."
She coughed a laugh. "I hardly think I can do that now, not with Fashion Week only a couple of months away. No." She shook her head. "I've only just arrived and now it appears that I need to book a flight back to New York to meet with them. They are lovely people. Truly."
Wade wrinkled that space between his eyes again, his mouth curved as a smile burgeoned on his face. "Can I talk you into holding off? As I'm sure you know, Los Angeles is a hub for apparel manufacturing. There are many full-package manufacturers in your own backyard, so to speak."
He was right. She knew this, but Los Angeles had never appealed to her. Not like New York and Milan. For some reason, every time she pictured LA she saw gray. Not silvers of shimmering fabric that paired well with white and black, but the drab kind of gray that started out white, only to fade to a colorless swatch.
"Or perhaps it's time that I let it go."
"Your design business?"
Maybe her purpose in it had already been fulfilled. "Yes."
"Sophia, one thing I've learned over the years is that the time to think big—really big—is when you're at the bottom."
She laughed at this. "With all due respect, Wade. I can't imagine that right now."
"Well, you're in luck. And as it happens, I will be driving to LA in about"—he pulled his phone from his pocket, checked the screen, then re-engaged her with his gaze—"in about an hour. I have a meeting with a client in Santa Monica. Should be brief, and if you don't mind waiting, I would be glad to take you downtown to visit some of those manufacturers by the middle of the afternoon. If nothing else, you will be inspired by the garment district."
She thought a moment. One of the benefits of working with companies in New York—other than the fact that they were in a city that she adored—was their willingness to take on a boutique designer like Sophia. Hers, a small family-owned manufacturer in a small walk-up where rents had grown tenfold in a short amount of time. Still, they prevailed. She had wandered in one day with a suitcase of her garments and myriad questions.
"Can you help me produce my dresses in multiple sizes?"
"Do you handle distribution?"
"How do I create a tech pack?"
Lost in the memory, she smiled at her own ignorance.
Wade leaned his head to the side, ap
praising her. "What's on your mind?"
She startled. "Pardon?"
"You were smiling."
"Oh, that." She laughed gently. "I was thinking back to when my design hobby turned into a business. I had no idea what I was doing, so I packed up my dresses and walked into a small sewing studio and asked for help."
"Remarkable. So you had no plans to start a business?"
Her smile dimmed. An unkind memory circled her mind, unwilling to land. She gave it a mental swat, reminding herself to stay in the present. "I suppose I had thought about it, but never very seriously. I was young. Sewing and designing had been my passions for as long as I could remember, so it came as a surprise to me when I received a message about a dress I had worn in a photograph."
"I'm sorry—I don't understand. Who was it that saw your photo?"
"My friend Carla had taken it and framed it. We had been traveling through Positano and the weather had turned unbearable, so I decided to try the sample I had brought with me. Its fabric was breathable and light, a crinkled cotton, perfect for the Italian coast in summer."
"Are you telling me that your business was started with a photograph?"
"You could say that, yes. A friend of hers saw the photo on her mantle and asked if she could sell the dresses in her boutique. I suppose you are right. That first boutique spread to more than a dozen—enough to run a small design company."
"Old fashioned word of mouth. Social media is powerful and an integral part of my business, but I'm sure you know that."
Sophia shrugged. "I am an anomaly. I don't care much for social media. All those angry voices in one place cause me to struggle."
"Struggle?"
"With humankind, in general."
"I see. That's understandable, but I hope that I can prove you wrong."
She leaned to one side, considering him. His eyes sparkled, as if he hid a secret. "Is that a challenge?" she asked.
He laughed. "One that I think I will win."
"Okay. Let's see if you can change my mind—and prove me wrong."
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