Chapter 5

Margaret stared at her daughter.

“You cut me out?”

Vanessa wiped her cheeks.

“It was twelve years ago, Mom.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

I stood very still.

The other guests seemed to understand that whatever had happened with the business, this was something different.

This was personal.

Margaret looked toward Eleanor.

“Do you still have the photograph?”

Eleanor nodded.

“In the original portfolio.”

“Was there something wrong with how I looked?”

Vanessa’s expression collapsed.

“Was my dress dirty?”

“No, Mom.”

“Then what was wrong?”

Vanessa couldn’t answer.

Margaret looked down at her faded coat.

“I was still wearing my cleaning uniform when that picture was taken.”

Eleanor’s face tightened.

“I remember.”

Margaret nodded slowly.

“I’d come straight from work.”

Her voice became quieter.

“I didn’t want to miss seeing her dressed up.”

For the first time, Vanessa stepped toward her mother without trying to interrupt.

“Mom, I was nineteen. I was stupid.”

Margaret looked up.

“Nineteen is old enough to know whether you’re ashamed of somebody.”

Vanessa stopped.

I could see she wanted to defend herself.

Instead, she sat down.

Luca took the empty chair on Margaret’s other side.

He looked toward Eleanor.

“Why did you agree to remove her?”

Eleanor hesitated.

“The presentation was for a group of investors. They were interested in Vanessa’s story.”

“And Margaret didn’t fit the story?”

Eleanor swallowed.

“We were presenting Vanessa as a young designer I’d mentored.”

“She was a young designer,” Margaret said. “And you did mentor her.”

Eleanor looked at her.

Margaret continued.

“You didn’t have to erase me to tell that story.”

The words seemed to hurt Eleanor more than an accusation would have.

She lowered her head.

“You’re right.”

Charles pushed away his plate.

“This happened more than a decade ago. We have a business to save.”

Luca turned toward him.

“And every time somebody asks a question about that business, you tell us to stop talking.”

Charles leaned forward.

“Because talking won’t finish twenty-eight dresses.”

“No. But it might explain why your workers haven’t been paid.”

Eleanor suddenly spoke.

“Charles, where did the rest of the deposits go?”

He looked at her.

“We’ve discussed this.”

“We discussed eighty thousand dollars for the showroom.”

“Yes.”

“Margaret says eight women are owed wages.”

Charles glanced toward the guests.

“This isn’t the place.”

Luca answered immediately.

“You made it the place when you put my family name on your brochure.”

Charles looked furious.

But Eleanor wasn’t finished.

“Last month, you told me the payroll account was funded.”

“It will be.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

Charles reached for his napkin.

Vanessa slowly looked at her father.

“Daddy, what happened to the money we set aside for the seamstresses?”

He avoided her eyes.

Luca noticed.

“Vanessa, did you know the wages weren’t being paid?”

“I knew some payments were late.”

“How late?”

“Two weeks.”

Margaret quietly corrected her.

“Three for Helen. Almost four for June.”

Vanessa looked devastated.

“She told me it was two.”

Charles pushed back his chair.

“I’m not going to be interrogated in front of strangers.”

Luca’s voice hardened.

“Those strangers paid for dresses your company promised to deliver.”

Charles looked toward the door.

I thought he might leave.

Instead, Eleanor spoke.

“If you walk out without answering, Charles, don’t come back expecting me to defend you.”

He stopped.

For the first time, I saw fear cross his face.

Not fear of Luca.

Fear of losing the woman beside him.

Charles slowly sat down.

“The showroom renovations cost more than expected,” he admitted.

Eleanor stared.

“How much more?”

“Thirty-five thousand.”

“You told me twelve.”

“I was trying to make it work.”

Vanessa whispered, “And the wages?”

Charles rubbed his face.

“We covered the building expenses first.”

Margaret closed her notebook.

“You paid for marble counters while Helen waited for her paycheck?”

Charles looked at her sharply.

“You wouldn’t understand what it takes to run a company.”

Margaret’s voice remained steady.

“I understand what it takes to pay someone for work they’ve already done.”

Luca placed a hand on the table.

“Enough.”

The word silenced Charles.

Then Luca looked at Vanessa.

“Why before Christmas?”

She shook her head.

“We’ve been through this.”

“No. We’ve discussed your collection. I want to know why you needed me married to you before the deliveries.”

Vanessa stared at the chandelier.

Finally, she answered.

“The launch announcement called it the Moretti wedding collection. Buyers were expecting photographs of me wearing an Eleanor Bellini design at our wedding.”

“So the wedding was an advertisement.”

She looked at him desperately.

“I love you, Luca. That part is real.”

He said nothing.

“I wanted the wedding to save the company, too,” she admitted.

Luca’s face tightened.

“You could have asked me for help.”

“I was afraid you’d say no.”

“I might have.”

“I know.”

“Then you decided for me.”

Vanessa lowered her head.

I had never seen her look so small.

Eleanor reached toward Margaret’s notebook.

“There’s another matter we need to settle.”

Margaret looked up.

“What?”

“The designs. Our business records show that we received permission to use them.”

Vanessa went very still.

Luca frowned.

“Permission from whom?”

Eleanor looked toward Margaret.

“From you.”

Margaret seemed confused.

“I never agreed to sell my mother’s patterns.”

Charles spoke quickly.

“Permission isn’t the same as a sale.”

Luca turned toward him.

“Explain.”

Charles reached into the leather folder he’d brought to the dinner.

He removed a single cream-colored sample sheet.

On the front was the drawing of the pearl-trimmed wedding gown.

Below it was a printed statement giving Bellini House permission to reproduce and sell the design.

And beneath that was a signature.

Margaret leaned forward.

I watched her eyes move across the page.

She read it once.

Then again.

Her fingers started trembling.

“Mrs. Bellini?” Luca asked.

Margaret pointed toward the bottom.

“That’s my name.”

Charles gave a small, relieved nod.

“Exactly.”

But Margaret slowly shook her head.

Then she looked directly at Vanessa.

“That’s my name, honey. But I never wrote it.”