The Oysterville Sewing Circle. Susan Wiggs
“I’ve barely been able to sleep or eat since I got the call.” Caroline was bursting. The moment she’d heard the news, her entire world had shifted on its axis.
“Can you set my phone by me?” Angelique asked. “I need to call my kids.”
Caroline propped the phone on a rack close by, and Angelique made a video call. Her daughter picked up, poking her face in close. “Maman,” she said in her little Minnie Mouse voice, and then asked something in Haitian Kreyòl.
“At the show, ti cheri mwen. Tell your brother to come.”
The picture tilted as Addie called for Flick. The two of them leaned in close, chattering to their mother in a rapid patois of French and English.
“Her kids are so danged cute,” Daria said.
Caroline poked her face next to Angelique’s. “Hi, guys! Remember me?”
“Caroline!” Addie clapped her hands. “You made me a hood with a mask.”
“That’s right. For when you need to hide from the paparazzi.”
“What’s paparazzi?” asked Flick.
“All the people who want to take your picture when you’re getting coffee,” said Caroline.
“I don’t like coffee,” Flick said.
“Then you probably don’t have to worry about the paparazzi,” said Angelique.
“When are you coming home, Maman?” asked Addie.
“After the show. After you’re asleep. Be good for Nila, okay?” She added something in French and blew them a kiss.
“They’re wonderful,” Caroline said.
Angelique smiled. “They’re my life.”
“I don’t know how you do it all, being a single mom and having this amazing career.”
Daria nodded. “It must be really hard. No idea how I could make it work if I didn’t have Layton.”
“I don’t wonder about these things,” said Angelique. “I do what must be done.”
Daria’s hand drifted to her distended belly. She gasped and moved her hand lower.
“Are you all right?” asked Caroline.
She nodded. “Braxton-Hicks contractions.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yep. Saw the doctor this morning.”
“Here we go,” a production manager called. “Five-minute warning!”
Caroline had to set aside her worry through the backstage frenzy of the show. Everyone pitched in to style the models and send them out to the percussive soundtrack that flowed through the speakers. Between hurried wardrobe changes, Caroline and Daria watched on the live-feed monitors set backstage. The buzziest stars and media types sat in the front rows along the runway. Plugged-in bloggers commented on the show in a constant stream, and the feed scrolled along the bottom of the monitors.
Even on the screens, the scene looked incredible. The theme of water and light worked beautifully. The models appeared to float along with the current projected on the surface of the runway.
“God, I love my job,” she murmured, watching a gaucho pants and midriff blouse ensemble she’d designed for Mick Taylor shimmer past the admiring crowd.
The accolades for the entire collection were enthusiastic, judging by the popping of cameras, the eruptions of applause, and the sight of critics and bloggers madly live-tweeting and broadcasting the show. She checked her phone’s live feed. The list that scrolled up the screen was filled with words of praise.
Daria high-fived her. “That was incredible. And we’re done here. The finale is coming from the other side of the stage. After that, it’s your moment.”
She shuddered with pleasure and nerves. “Cool. Let’s watch.”
Jostled by models hurrying to and fro to change, they found a spot by a large screen just as the final collection came from the opposite side of the stage. The soundtrack shifted to a haunting electronic version of Handel’s Water Music.
The lead model emerged, and a collective gasp issued from the audience. The live feed at the bottom of the screen immediately lit with comments. Caroline tilted her head up to watch. She blinked, then frowned in confusion. What the hell …?
The model, visibly and dramatically pregnant, was wearing a tunic. And not just any tunic. It was a piece Caroline had designed for her original line.
She grabbed Daria’s arm and dug her fingers in deep.
“Ouch! Hey—”
“Look at the runway,” Caroline said in a strangled whisper. At the far end, the model demonstrated the garment’s conversion from maternity tunic to nursing top, and the audience went crazy.
“Holy crap,” Daria said. “Is that …? Oh, God.”
“It’s my collection.” Caroline felt nauseous as her clothes paraded down the runway, garnering looks of admiration and bursts of applause. The garments were virtually indistinguishable from her designs. Her original designs. The samples were made from slightly different fabrics. More expensive headwear and footwear. Models she’d never seen before.
But the unique aspects of the clothing—the conversion from maternity to nursing to fashion, and even the stylized nautilus motif at the shoulder—had been lifted straight from Caroline’s own designs. A blatant, outright theft.
The collection was touted as Mick Taylor’s innovative new line called Cocoon.
Caroline crossed her arms in front of her middle as a wave of nausea reared up inside her. The sense of violation was as overwhelming as a physical assault, invasive and shocking. The live tweet feed at the bottom of the screen lit with more praise: Mick Taylor is back with a stunner of a collection.
Daria was saying something, but Caroline couldn’t hear through the roar of outrage in her ears. Her gaze stayed glued to the monitor, which now showed Mick Taylor at center stage, accepting accolades like a conquering hero.
All through the backstage area, the post-show rush continued to swirl like a tornado, but still she didn’t move. Yet her thoughts whirled around and around. Mick Taylor had copied her original collection, the one that was meant to launch her own career. The man she worked for, the man to whom she’d given her loyalty and hard work, had stolen her designs.
She staggered, dizzy with outrage. Angelique appeared at her side, bringing her to a stool. “Did you see?” Caroline asked, still too shocked to feel anything but numb disbelief.
“I’m so sorry. Come sit,” Angelique said.
“How completely shitty,” Daria said. “What an underhanded thing to do.”
Caroline took a deep breath. The numbness was wearing off and giving way to something more awful. Everyone knew what stealing looked like, but nothing could have prepared her for the shock of it. “I’m shaking. God, I feel so violated.”
“He is terrible,” said Angelique. “I’m ashamed to even know him.”
Caroline had to remind herself to breathe. This was a common occurrence in the fashion industry, happening at all levels. No one was safe. This particular situation was a virtual case study of a major label appropriating designs from an independent artist. Students in design school were told to expect it, and maybe on some level she had. The practice went by different names—“referencing,” “inspired by,” “an homage.”
Trying not to puke, she rocked back and forth on the stool. “No one is dead or injured,” she muttered. “No one has been given a cancer diagnosis. It’s not the end of the world.”
“That