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the attention to detail. This isn’t just a dress. It’s couture.
“You know about
construction techniques.”
I’ve never seen anything like this outside of a museum. Something
stirred in my chest, a feeling I’d almost forgotten. Recognition.
professional respect, the
acknowledgement of skill by someone who understood the craft. “Would you like some coffee?” I asked. We sat in my
kitchen, Gloria’s enthusiasm filling the space like sunlight through winter windows.
She asked detailed questions
about my techniques, admired photographs of other pieces I’d made over the years, and listened with genuine interest as I
explained the difference between French seams and flatfell seams, the art of setting in sleeves without puckers, the
patience required for handsewn button holes. “You know,” she said, cradling her
coffee mug. “My cousin Ella is getting married in 3 months.
Her budget is basically non-existent. She’s a social
worker. Her fianceé teaches kindergarten and she’s been crying about it for weeks.
She can’t afford anything decent
and she’s too proud to ask for family money.”
“That’s difficult,” I murmured, though something in her tone suggested
this conversation was heading somewhere specific. “She’s about Halie’s size,”
Gloria continued casually. “Maybe a
little taller, but not by much.” The implication hung between us like a bridge waiting to be crossed.
I looked
through the archway at the dress, remembering the weight of it in my arms as I had carried it away from Halie’s
wedding suite. Silk that had never felt the joy it was created for. “You think she’d want to wear a rejected dress?” I
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