The Oysterville Sewing Circle

“I owe you big-time for this gig,” Caroline said. It had been Angelique who had introduced Caroline to Rilla, which had led to her getting the contract job. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you …”

“Let’s see … balance my checking account? Finish raising my kids? Find me a bigger apartment?” Angelique stuck out her tongue. “Just a few small favors.”

“I’ll get right on that.” Caroline thought of her own tiny checking account and apartment to match. Even if she wanted kids, she couldn’t afford them.

Angelique stepped back up on the riser and used a hand mirror to check her makeup. “Wearing your clothes is reward enough,” she said, and Caroline felt a rush of gratitude.

“I love everything about this look,” Daria said. “It’s going to stop the show, just you watch.”

“Thanks, Dar.” Caroline looked at them both—twin towers of excessive beauty. “There’s a special place in heaven for loyal friends.” She had enormous respect for what they did as runway models. But she never felt the urge—nor did she have the looks or skills—to join their ranks.

The industry could be hard, sometimes brutal. Up close and firsthand, she’d witnessed young women who barely made a living, crammed together in overcrowded apartments and struggling to make ends meet. Too many of them—even some of the most successful models in the business—suffered from eating disorders, financial manipulation by agencies, sexual predation, and loneliness.

As a designer, she struggled with her conscience. She was part of an industry that set up the models for a hard, even dangerous road. Early on, she’d made a promise that she wouldn’t fall prey to the industry’s worst practices. Her own designs were meant to be beautiful on any woman, not just a size 2 supermodel.

A flurry and buzz erupted as Mick himself swept through the staging area, leaving a ripple of excitement in his wake. Despite his stature in the design world, he looked unremarkable—modest, even. He was middle-aged and paunchy in jeans and a plain polo, and he had the affable mien of everyone’s favorite uncle. Those eyes, though. They were the clearest, brightest blue, the heart of a flame, and so intensely sharp they didn’t seem to belong in his ordinary face.

When he’d burst onto the scene, the press had described him as an everyman whose cutting-edge designs translated seamlessly into ready-to-wear looks. Emerging designers like Caroline regarded him as the perfect mentor—encouraging without demanding, critiquing without disparaging. She liked working for him because she’d learned so much. Looking at him now, you would never know his brand was on shaky ground and that he was just back from a stint in rehab.

He moved through the crowded space, pausing to make a comment or adjustment, greeting models and designers with an affable grin. Rilla, his shadow, followed behind, making more adjustments, though not looking at all affable.

“Well, well, well,” Mick said when he got to Angelique, who was still on the pedestal. She stood like a statue of a goddess, gazing straight ahead as if barely acknowledging his existence. “So this is our lead look today.”

Caroline held her breath while he inspected the garment. When he turned to her, she nearly passed out.

“This is your work?” he asked.

“I … Yes. It is.” Don’t stammer, Caroline, she told herself. Own it.

At his side, Rilla held up her clipboard and said something to him, sotto voce.

He nodded.

Caroline was half-dead by the time he spoke to her again. Had she done something wrong? Did he hate it? Was the upcycled sari too ambiguous? Would he insist on leading with a different look?

He paused, studied the outfit. She’d worked for hours to perfect it. He walked in a circle around Angelique, then turned once again to Caroline. “It’s brilliant,” he said. “What’s your name again?”

“Caroline Shelby.” Her reply came on a gust of relief.

“Good work, Ms. Shelby.” He gave her a thumbs-up sign, and then he strode away.

“Fix the armhole,” Rilla said in a clipped imperative.

Caroline slumped against Daria. “He likes it.”

Daria high-fived her. “He likes it.”

“Help me figure out what’s up with the armhole.” Caroline lifted Angelique’s elbow.

Angelique flinched and sucked in her breath with a hiss.

“Oh, sorry! Did I hurt you? Is there a pin stuck somewhere?” Caroline brushed aside the draped fabric. Then she noticed a smudge of concealer makeup along the edge of the garment. She grabbed a pad and scrubbed at it. That was when she noticed a livid bruise coloring Angelique’s side from rib cage to armpit. “Hey, what happened here? Oh my God, Daria, did you see this?”

“No.” Daria frowned. “Looks painful. Ange, how did you hurt yourself?”

“That.” Angelique pulled away and waved a dismissive hand. “I did hurt myself—I tripped and fell on the stairs. I’m so clumsy sometimes.”

Caroline felt a nudge of concern. “You’re not clumsy,” she said, exchanging a glance with Daria, who looked on, wide-eyed. “You’re one of the most graceful models in the business. Did someone hurt you?”

A production assistant with a headset and clipboard brushed past. “Two minutes,” she said to the group.

“I told you, I fell,” murmured Angelique.

Caroline was at a loss. Her hands worked independently of her mind, quickly altering the armhole even as she studied her friend’s bruises. “That’s not what this looks like. Talk to me.”

“Finish the draping,” said Angelique. “Do not make this into something that it’s not.”

Maybe it was nothing, Caroline told herself. Extremely thin models tended to bruise easily, which was another thing to worry about. But maybe she should heed what the subtle quiver of instinct was telling her—Angelique was in trouble.

“If you ever need anything … maybe just to talk—”

“I hate talking.”

“I know. I talk all the time, though.”

“I know,” Angelique echoed.

“Just … I’ll help, whenever you need me. I mean that. Any hour of the day or night. You can come to me anytime.”

Angelique offered a swift eye roll. “Listen, I’ve been on my own since I was sixteen. Taking a fall down the stairs is the least of my worries.”

“Places, everyone,” someone said. “Line up over here.” An assistant organized the models at the side entrance.

“Remember what I told you,” Caroline said. “If you ever need anything, if I can help—”

“Nom de Dieu, just stop.” Angelique’s face froze into a regal mask as she prepared to walk. A pro to the last inch of her shadow, she squared her posture, getting into character for the show. “We have work to do.”

“We’re not done with this conversation,” Caroline said.

“Yes, we are.” Angelique stepped down and followed a PA to the runway, gliding effortlessly to her place at the head of the line.

Music floated in from the runway area, and the backstage monitors showed a packed house. Caroline’s gaze was glued to a monitor.

“I’m worried about her,” she said to Daria as she tracked Angelique’s progress through the shifting sea of people to the head of the line.

“Me too. Was she in a fight? Did someone hit her?”

“I immediately thought of Roman Blake,” Caroline said. “They broke up, but what if he didn’t take it so well?”