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“ ‘Dear Izzie,’ ” she started to read out loud. “ ‘I have some news that I hope you will find as exciting as I do. Last week, I suggested that the War Widows’ Fund host a fundraiser for the war effort featuring local dressmakers, and I was gratified that our committee chair, Lady Nolan, was delighted by the idea.

“ ‘Obviously, I will include Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions in the list, but I wanted to ask your opinion about other dressmakers that you admire. I trust your taste implicitly.’ ”

“As she should,” muttered Jack loyally.

She shot him a little smile and then continued, “ ‘I know that you are probably tired of me saying this, but I wish that you’d let me include one of your designs. You are so talented, and people should know that.’

“Then she sends some news from the neighborhood and that’s it.”

She stared at the letter for a long moment before Jack gently asked, “What do you think?”

“The fashion show is a good idea. It will be good for business,” she said, fumbling to return the letter to its envelope.

Jack reached out to still her hand. “Izzie, that’s not what I meant. Your sister seems to think you have a real talent for designing.”

“She just feels guilty,” she said, explaining what had happened when she’d gone to London on leave. He listened politely, his head slightly tilted as he took it all in, and when she was done he nodded.

“I understand why you were offended by what Sylvia did, but, Izzie, it sounds like she could really use your designs.”

She closed her eyes. “She’s wrong. Mum always made that clear.” And that was the blunt truth of it that she couldn’t escape.

“Did your mother say that to you?” he asked.

She sighed. “Not in so many words, but it was obvious. She was always telling me that I was being unreasonable. That what I was sketching was all wrong for our clients.”

“You know,” Jack started slowly, “when my brother went away to college, I missed him something fierce—we all did—but I think, more than anything else, I was jealous of him. Families tell each other all sorts of stories about one another until it feels like they must be true. In our family, Louis was the smart one. He was the athlete, the scholar, the golden boy. He was going places.

“I was the talker of the family—a ‘charmer’ Mom calls me. Dad never thought much of that. All through school, I would bring home my report card with straight Cs and he would just shake his head and ask why I couldn’t be more like my brother. I thought that, since I was never going to have the book smarts to make him proud, I’d turn myself into the best football player in Iowa.” He laughed. “That didn’t exactly come naturally either. I had to work at it in a way that Louis never did.

“As far I knew, the only thing I was good at was talking to people. They’d tell me things that they swore up and down they’d never told another soul, and I’d try to help them with whatever problems they had.”

“That’s a rare thing,” said Izzie.

“Thank you. I know that now, but I never really thought it was useful until I started working for Dad selling harvesters and tractors. Then, he started to say, ‘That boy could sell sawdust to a lumber mill.’ It wasn’t much, but, finally, Dad thought I was good at something, even if he still didn’t trust me to help decide what new equipment we should offer or how we should reinvest into the business.

“Then Dad died and Louis came back. I started to make those decisions that Dad always told me I didn’t have the head for without even realizing it. Advertising, marketing, research—it turns out I’m good at all of it.

“I’m rambling on,” he said, shooting her a sheepish smile. “I do know that the one thing I learned was that I didn’t have to be the man my father thought I was. I could be more than that.”

She felt something warm slide down her cheek, and when she lifted her fingers to touch it, she realized it was a tear.

“You think I should let my sister use my sketches,” she whispered.

“I think it sounds like your mom loved you very much and wanted what she thought was the best for you, but sometimes you need to decide what that is for yourself,” he said.

Something twisted in her gut. She respected Mum and everything she’d done with the shop so much, but she couldn’t deny that for years there had been little voices whispering to her, urging her to rebel. As she’d grown older, she’d found it harder to understand why Mum was so resistant to change.

Why weren’t her designs right for Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions?

Why couldn’t they court a newer, younger customer?

Why was change so frightening?

Why continue to say no when Sylvia so clearly wanted to try something—anything—different?

“I’ve been angry at my sister for so long,” she said. “I don’t know if I can say yes.”

Jack smiled. “Do you get called stubborn much?”