The Next Mrs Russo

Un-fucking-real.

I scan the sheet. “‘The most talented intern I’ve ever had,’” I read aloud.

“Not a lie,” Miller interjects without a hint of humility.

“You’re the only intern I’ve ever had.”

“Thus it’s not a lie. Don’t be a shrew.”

I finish scanning the talking points he’s prepared and flip to the next sheet, which is a letter of recommendation for the Fashion Institute of Technology, written by me. I raise a brow.

“Like you wanted to write it yourself?” Miller asks. “We’ve already established grammar isn’t your forte.”

“Excuse me?”

“I interned it for you, just sign it.”

“You didn’t want to forge my signature on this one?” I scoff.

“I would have, but I wanted you to see what a nice letter you wrote. You put a lot of time into it.”

“That doesn’t even make sense. And no, you know what, keep your letter. I’ll write my own.”

“But—”

“Just remind me when it’s due, Miller,” I say, waving him off. “Go intern something.”

“Fine, but it better be better than the one you already wrote,” he mutters with a completely straight face.

Un—oh, forget it.

I stare at the letter that Miller wrote for himself. I was like him once, which feels so fucking old to say. Aggressive and confident, with big dreams and little fear. Whatever he wants for his future, I’ve no doubt he’s going to get it. He’ll never let a broken heart get in his way. He’ll never allow someone else to question his confidence and turn his determination into… indecisiveness.

I need to borrow a ball from his bag.

Ugh, no, that can’t be right. Fuck these sports metaphors. I need to borrow a leaf out of his book.

Miller wanders back in with the mail and I spot another freaking letter on the top of the stack marked “Urgent” from that evil no-good return address. I tell Miller that it’s spam and to chuck it in the trash. Then I force myself to work on one of the upcycles for Mrs McGinn, hoping to have something to show her when she stops in. I’m determined not to be distracted. Determined to be more Miller-esque.

By the time Mrs McGinn arrives, I’ve nearly completed an overhaul of a vintage tweed coat from the 30’s, removing the dated buttons and piping detail, shortening the hemline a couple of inches and completely changing the neckline into something Chanel-inspired. I’ll need her to try it on so I can make final adjustments, but I’m pleased with what I’ve done.

And once she sees it, I can tell that I’ve hit it out of the park.

“You’ve done this in less than a week?” Estelle asks, her eyes wide and already shimmering with tears. “It’s exquisite! You’re a magician!” She runs one hand along the fabric and holds the other to her mouth.

“Please, try it on,” I encourage her with a big grin. Because I’m really proud of this piece. It’s always an honor to rework a vintage piece, but it’s next-level when you know the history behind the garment, when you’re salvaging something with a history personal to the wearer.

Miller shows her to the fitting room, and when he comes back he’s got a smug, yet respectful look on his face.

“You know, this is the reason I wanted to intern for you,” he says. “You’ve got talent, Audrey Gibson. You’ve got something that cannot be taught, an instinct for seeing potential no one else would see. You know fabric and you know people.”

“Shut up,” I say. “My people skills are adequate at best. You’re just trying to butter me up now that you need me to write that letter of recommendation.”

“Nope.” He shakes his head. “I’m legiterally complimenting you.”

Ha! Finally. “It’s ‘legitimately.’” I smirk.

“It’s an inside joke.”

Oh. Right. Except wait. “Uh, that’s not how inside jokes work. If there are two people and only one of the people gets the joke then it’s just a word that you made up.”

Ha.

“Don’t be old,” Miller says. “And learn how to take a compliment.”

Is it true, what Miller said? Fashion is the one thing I’ve ever loved with every part of me, but I’ve never known if it would love me back. If I’d be able to make a success of it with my little store. I still don’t know, to be honest.

What I do know, though, is that when Mrs McGinn comes out of the fitting room, crying happy tears and saying she can’t wait to see the rest, I’ve done one thing right.

And maybe Miller’s right.

Maybe I do know a little something about clothes—and people.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

After a week of working on what’s essentially turned into a mini-collection for Mrs McGinn, I’m exhausted. Like, tired all the way down to the bone. My fingers are covered in little stabs from my needles, especially since the sequined belt on one of the dresses I did for her required hand-beading. But it was worth it to see her face when she tried it on. It fit her like a glove, and she’s going to wear it as her mother-of-the-bride dress to Gabby’s wedding. She said it’s going to make her feel like her mom is there with her in spirit on Gabby’s big day. It’s become commonplace for Mrs McGinn, or Estelle as she insists I call her now, to cry in my store, but, well, that day we both cried. She’s told me that she’s going to be sending her friends my way, too, which is all just surreal.