Chapter 10 - THE PROMISE ANNA NEVER GOT TO KEEP
“Every dress?”
I looked at Grace.
She stood beneath the entrance hall chandelier, holding her mother's handwritten list against her chest.
Vincent came to stand beside us.
“Sweetheart, that's a wonderful idea. But it's a very big project.”
Grace looked at him.
“You said Mom wanted to help children.”
“She did.”
“And you said we were going to fix what Peter did.”
“Yes.”
“Then shouldn't we finish what she started?”
Vincent opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
I almost smiled.
The most powerful man in Manhattan had just been outmaneuvered by a fourteen-year-old holding a piece of paper.
But there were practical problems.
The foundation's funds were under independent review.
Its manufacturing contracts had been canceled.
Several hospitals had lost confidence in the organization.
And I was a seamstress working from a small rented studio, struggling to keep my own business alive.
“Grace,” I said gently, “we can't make everything overnight.”
“I know.”
She looked down.
“Could we start with one?”
That question was harder to refuse.
Three days later, Vincent arranged a meeting with the foundation's new independent program director, Margaret Ellis.
Margaret was sixty-two, with silver hair, sensible shoes, and the direct manner of someone who had spent thirty years managing children's medical charities.
She spread the original project records across a conference table.
“Anna's idea was extraordinary,” she said.
I examined the designs.
There were coats with adjustable openings, dresses with flexible back panels, shirts that accommodated medical equipment, and formal outfits for children who struggled to find comfortable clothing.
Some sketches were beautiful.
Others were unfinished.
But every design had one thing in common.
Anna had started with the child's needs.
Not the appearance she wanted to create.
Margaret turned toward Grace.
“Your mother insisted on consulting families before approving a pattern.”
Grace smiled.
“That sounds like her.”
Vincent glanced at me.
“Lauren, could your studio produce a small collection?”
I hesitated.
“My studio is one room above a dry cleaner.”
“We could arrange better facilities.”
“That isn't the only issue.”
“What else?”
“I'd need experienced people. Proper fittings. Materials that can withstand repeated cleaning. And we'd have to work with families and their medical teams whenever a garment interacts with medical equipment.”
Vincent nodded.
“Then we do it properly.”
Margaret leaned forward.
“The foundation can contract qualified manufacturers once the board approves the program. We can fund a pilot under independent supervision.”
I looked at Grace.
She was watching us with enormous hope.
“I'd like to help,” I said. “But I want it to be a real business arrangement. Not a favor.”
Vincent smiled.
“Agreed.”
Then Margaret revealed the first obstacle.
The original supplier had closed.
Its specialized equipment had been sold.
And the foundation's former contractor had retained several prototype patterns pending resolution of the financial investigation.
“We can reconstruct the designs,” I said.
“It could take months,” Margaret warned.
Grace looked disappointed.
But then I remembered something.
“Anna's sewing case.”
Vincent looked at me.
“What about it?”
“She kept samples. Measurements. Notes. I saw dozens of folded papers beneath the thread tray.”
Grace straightened.
“Mom's drawings!”
That afternoon, we returned to the estate.
Inside the wooden case, beneath a removable compartment, we found a collection of pattern pieces carefully tied with pale-blue ribbon.
They were incomplete.
But they were enough to begin.
Vincent sat beside his daughter while she sorted them.
“Your mother would have loved this,” he whispered.
Grace smiled.
For the first time, her mother's memory wasn't merely something she was trying to preserve.
It was something she could help carry forward.
Two weeks later, my rented studio looked completely different.
Margaret had arranged for two experienced garment technicians to help develop prototypes.
Vincent had contracted my business at a fair rate, with written payment terms and no requirement that I surrender ownership of my own designs.
My overdue bills were finally under control.
Eli spent afternoons at the table near my sewing machine, doing homework and drawing superheroes.
Grace visited after school whenever she wanted.
But not everyone approved.
One afternoon, a representative from a luxury department store visited my studio.
She offered me a substantial long-term contract.
Enough to change my business.
There was one condition.
“We'd prefer you stop publicly associating your work with the Donovan Foundation,” she said.
I looked at her.
“Why?”
“The recent scandal makes some of our investors uncomfortable.”
I thought of Grace.
Of Anna's unfinished jacket.
Of the children who had waited for clothes they'd been promised.
“Then I'm afraid we're not the right fit.”
The woman seemed genuinely surprised.
“You're turning down a guaranteed contract?”
“I'm choosing the work I want my name attached to.”
She left without another word.
That evening, I questioned my decision.
Then Grace arrived carrying a new sketch.
It wasn't a dress.
It was a navy-blue suit.
“What's this?” I asked.
Grace sat beside me.
“Margaret showed me a request from a boy at one of the hospitals.”
I studied the design.
The trousers had room for a leg brace.
The jacket had adjustable fastenings.
“He wants to go to his sister's wedding,” Grace explained.
“What's his name?”
“Mason Rivera. He's eleven.”
I smiled.
“That's a lovely idea.”
Grace looked worried.
“He hasn't worn a suit since he started using his brace. His mom says he's been refusing to attend family parties because nothing fits comfortably.”
I examined the sketch again.
“We could make this.”
“Really?”
“Yes. We'd need to meet him and his mother first.”
Grace handed me another paper.
It was a message from Mason's family.
I read it.
Then I looked at the date.
The wedding wasn't next month.
It wasn't even next week.
It was Saturday.
Three days away.
May you like
And beneath the request, Mason had written one sentence in uneven handwriting.
I JUST WANT TO STAND BESIDE MY SISTER WITHOUT EVERYBODY LOOKING AT MY LEG.
