a weird fixation with lemon shortbread. Chocolate-chip made me nauseous. Cinnamon-sugar gave me the dry heaves if they were even in the same room. But lemon shortbread? Couldn’t get enough. Except… we hadn’t told her we were expecting yet. And then she casually mentioned, as if it had nothing to do with why she sent the cookies, that she couldn’t eat enough lemon shortbread when she was pregnant with Warren.
She’s a menace.
Or perhaps a sorceress would be a more appropriate label. It’s hard to be mad when she uses her powers for good. It’s also hard to be mad when you’re eating cookies, if you’re looking for a bit of life advice.
“Oh, my God, it’s perfect!”
There’s nothing like the look of joy on a woman’s face when she’s found the perfect dress. Or pantsuit. Or, hell, even the perfect bow-tie for her dog. In this particular case, however, the woman in question is a bride-to-be, and she’s just had her Say Yes to the Dress moment.
With me.
In my shop.
And no matter how many dresses I redesign and sell, upcycled wedding dresses are extra-special. The moment a bride’s eyes light up during the fitting, after I’ve revamped an heirloom dress into their dress, well, it never gets old.
Today is even more special though, because the bride in question is Estelle’s niece so it feels like a full-circle moment. After I made the dress for Estelle’s daughter, my customer list exploded. Apparently, her daughter’s something of an influencer, and one post about her “one-of-a-kind” dress and I can barely keep up with the demand. Which is crazy. It wasn’t that long ago that I was worried about earning enough to keep the lights on in my inherited brownstone. Now I employ Miller when he’s on school break along with two full-time seamstresses.
I’ve been called the Dress Resurrector, which is super cool. And badass. With this dress, though, it’s accurate. What I’ve done here is nothing short of resurrection. Miller referred to the ‘before’ of this dress as “eighties catastrophic.” He wasn’t wrong. Speaking of…
“Miller, can you bring me a few pins?” I ask. “I just want to bring up the hem a little.”
“We need to hire another assistant,” he sasses, tossing me the pins while I watch the bride turn in the mirror, checking how the dress skims her hips, the vintage lace overlay atop a creamy white satin. “I can’t be doing my own work and be at your beck and call every second, you know.”
“Hmm,” I murmur. “Have I fired you yet this week?”
“Not yet, and I was starting to worry it was another weird side effect of all the pregnancy hormones.”
“What are my other weird side effects?” I question, eyes narrowed.
“Where would I start?” Miller heaves a dramatic sigh. “That week you spent insisting you could taste colors—”
“I thought I could. It was a very confusing time.”
“Your demand that I surprise you with a bakery treat every time I come home from the city.”
“That’s no different from before I was pregnant.” I roll my eyes.
“I know,” he deadpans. “I was being kind.”
“Awww, Miller.”
“Your insistence on wearing maternity jeans,” he continues, because apparently he’s done doling out the compliments.
“Because I’m pregnant!” I interject. The nerve of this kid.
“When the baby was still the size of a donut hole,” he finishes.
The thing is, that stretchy panel is really, really comfortable. I side-eye Miller and shrug. “Okay, hush. I’m very busy here.” I wave a hand in the direction of the bride.
He smirks, heading back to his design table while I finish pinning the hem for the bride. She heads out a few minutes later with her mom in tow, huge smiles on both of their faces.
“Did you finish the last batch of signage for the Reclaimed Home?” Miller asks, hand already on the stair rail as he’s about to head upstairs to my paint studio. Once I moved all my things into Warren’s place, my old bedroom became my paint studio. Because I, Audrey Gibson Russo, have my own line of custom signs available exclusively at the Reclaimed Home. They send me boxes of signs and I deface them. Only now, instead of Sharpies, I use paint and each sign is hand-numbered and signed by me.
I’m not at all smug about selling more artwork than my ex.
Well, maybe just a little.
I had my old mugshot printed, in black and white because it made me feel like more of a badass, and then I hung it on the wall in my paint