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What was it about listening to sad songs and wallowing in self-pity that could make her feel better? Okay. So not better, not by a mile.
How do I live without you…
At least there was camaraderie in her pain.
It was after she’d replayed the song a fourth time that she realized that she couldn’t just hide in her roach-infested apartment for the next three days, crying and wallowing in her grief. Not just the apartment.
She couldn’t stay in this tiny town, a town that had once felt like it was filled with the promise of a new life and that now only would have reminders of what she’d lost.
She had to get out of here. She had to get away and gain some perspective.
She didn’t have any real friends back in Denver that she could call. A hotel might have been an option for a night or two, but not for anything long-term since her credit limit was still only five hundred dollars.
Leaving only one option.
She hit the number and waited. He answered on the fourth ring. “Hi, Dad. It’s Waverley.”
A couple minutes later, with arrangements made for a car to pick her up in the morning, she hung up the phone, rolling to her side.
It’s just temporary, Waverley. Until your money is back and you can find your own place.
Still, for some reason, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was coming full circle in her life again. Like she was that fourteen-year-old girl who’d just lost the most important person in her life.
But this time she wouldn’t let herself lose sight of who she was or what she offered. She wouldn’t let her father make her feel like she wasn’t good enough.
Even though she was back to wondering that very thing.
Chapter 29
“This is beautiful, Waverley. The attention to detail, the stitching, and the lovely pattern you chose,” Nina said, holding up one of the dresses that Waverley had brought for her meeting today.
Waverley beamed with pride and relief at the compliment. She’d worked twenty hours a day for the past three days to get these done, and even though she hadn’t found fault with them, there was still that lingering air of self-doubt that crept in and made her wonder if they would be good enough.
Throwing herself into the work these past few days had been the only thing that had held her together, even if she had cried buckets of tears as she played said music on a loop in her earbuds. It had been just the escape she’d needed.
Nina lifted two more and turned them around to inspect before holding them up to her body as she looked in the mirror ahead. “I’m guessing this is an American size sixteen, correct?”
“That’s right.”
Nina nodded. “It’s probably something we can talk more about, but I might recommend that, as you’re getting up and off the ground and putting together your first collection, you focus more on providing samples in the traditional sizes. Twos, fours, sixes. Once you’re more established, then you can expand to the plus sizes.”
Waverley’s smile slipped. “I’m sorry? You’re talking about starting exclusively in the lower digits?”
“Definitely. Now the samples you brought in we can include in the first collection. Maybe they can help us gauge our customers’ reactions for later on.”
“I see.”
“Nina?” It was one of the sales associates who was standing with a customer in front of a display. “Could I get your assistance?”
“Excuse me for a minute, Waverley,” Nina said, already setting down the dress and heading over.
Waverley had been so excited and flattered about this prospect of working with Nina Brennan, a woman with connections to insiders from New York and Paris, where she’d once worked as a fashion editor, that she hadn’t even thought to ask more about what Nina was envisioning for the line of clothing.
Or, to be more precise, to ask herself what she envisioned for her brand.
While Nina talked to the customer, Waverley looked around the shop. There was definitely a “type” who was shopping here. Women in the middle to upper middle class who had an eye for unique but not absurdly priced selections. Most of them probably wore nothing larger than an eight. Sizes that opened up a vast range of options to them, as evidenced by the selections they had draped over their arms that sales associates were quickly whisking away to dressing rooms to make finding more clothes easier.
Then there were the minority of women, much like herself, who were meandering around, their faces not as bright and cheery as the others as they sorted through the racks. A few of them had a top or two, or maybe a large, billowy dress that would be more forgiving of their extra curves. Nothing to get too excited about.
