Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN IN THE OLD PHOTOGRAPH
Celeste ordered the display case locked.
She told security to clear the salon.
The customers refused to leave.
People rarely abandon a luxury store when a scandal becomes more interesting than the merchandise.
Ava carried the gown toward the fitting room.
Celeste blocked her.
“You are suspended.”
“For finding a label?”
“For violating collection protocol.”
Mom stepped between them.
“The protocol was created to hide me.”
Celeste looked at her.
“You do not know what you are saying.”
“I know exactly what I am saying.”
“My hands built the first Midnight Collection.”
“My patterns saved this store from bankruptcy.”
“Henry Mercer promised me fifteen percent.”
“Samuel Reed drew the papers.”
“Then they erased my name.”
The color left Celeste’s face.
Celeste Mercer was Henry Mercer’s granddaughter.
She had inherited his silver eyes, his sharp posture, and apparently his certainty that ownership belonged to whoever spoke with the most confidence.
“My grandfather founded Mercer & Reed,” she said.
“Your grandfather sold men’s gloves from a rented counter.”
Mom’s voice remained calm.
“I gave him dresses people crossed state lines to buy.”
The crowd reacted with a low murmur.
Celeste looked toward the security guard.
“Remove them.”
Ava lifted the gown’s lining again.
“There is something else.”
A small strip of fabric had been stitched beneath the label.
Ava cut one thread with embroidery scissors.
Inside was a tiny brass key.
Mom closed her eyes.
“I wondered if it was still there.”
“What does it open?” I asked.
She looked toward the rear of the salon.
“The old pattern archive.”
Celeste laughed.
“There is no old pattern archive.”
“Yes, there is.”
“Behind the tailoring floor.”
“That area was sealed after the fire.”
“What fire?” I asked.
Mom turned toward me.
For the first time, shame entered her face.
“The fire that made them say I was dangerous.”
My stomach tightened.
She had never mentioned a fire.
Ava looked toward the historical photographs lining the hallway.
One showed Henry Mercer and Samuel Reed standing beside the midnight-blue gown.
Between them was an empty space where someone had been cut from the print.
The edge of a woman’s sleeve remained visible.
Ava removed the frame from the wall.
The backing had loosened with age.
Behind the display copy was an older version of the same photograph.
This one had never been trimmed.
My mother stood between the two men.
She was forty-one years younger.
Her dark hair was pinned above her neck.
A measuring tape rested around her shoulders.
One hand touched the gown.
The other held a folder labeled Morrow Patterns.
Beneath the photograph, written in fading ink, were three names.
Henry Mercer.
Samuel Reed.
Eleanor Morrow.
Founding partners.
Celeste stared at the words.
Her mouth opened.
No explanation came.
Mom reached toward the photograph.
Her fingers shook before touching the glass.
“I thought they destroyed every copy.”
I looked at her.
“You were a founding partner?”
“I was supposed to be.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
May you like
Her eyes filled with something heavier than sadness.
“Because the last time I tried to tell the truth, they nearly took you away from me.”
