Chapter 5: The Studio Nobody Was Supposed to Find
Mom refused to let me go to the studio alone.
For twenty minutes, we argued in the kitchen while the untouched dinner on the stove went cold.
"Absolutely not," she said, folding the email printout and placing it beneath a stack of bills.
"Someone broke into our home, and now they're inviting you to a deserted building.""
"They didn't break in. Richard tried the door.""
"That is not the reassuring distinction you think it is.""
"He knows we found the letter. If we don't go, he could move whatever's left in the studio.""
Mom pressed both hands against the counter.
"And if we do go, he could be waiting for us.""
I couldn't argue with that.
But the photograph of Grandma's sewing machine haunted me.
She had sold it to Richard, according to Mom. Yet the machine had appeared in a building that might still contain her original patterns.
Why would he keep it?
Why tie Brielle's ribbon around it?
At last, Mom picked up her phone.
"We're not going alone," she said.
She called Denise Harper, the showcase coordinator, and explained what had happened. Denise listened without interrupting.
When Mom finished, Denise said, "Do not contact Richard. Preserve every email, every photograph, and the original letter. I'll help you find someone who can verify the studio's ownership.""
"Can you come with us?"" I asked.
"Yes. Tomorrow morning. And Emily?""
"Yes?""
"Don't tell anyone at school where you're going.""
The next day, we met Denise outside the brick building shortly after nine.
The street was quiet, with only a bakery opening its shutters and a delivery truck rumbling past the corner.
Mom carried the wooden chest's smallest sketchbook in her bag. I had brought the photograph of Grandma's studio and a printed copy of the mysterious email.
Denise studied the building.
"The property changed hands twice," she said.
"The current owner says the upstairs unit has been locked for years. He believes the previous tenant left some equipment behind.""
"Did he say who the tenant was?"" Mom asked.
"An interior design company that dissolved in 2019.""
I looked at the photograph.
"Grandma died before then.""
"Yes," Denise replied.
"Which means someone else may have used the space after her.""
She called the property manager, who arrived carrying a ring of keys.
"You're here about the old studio?"" he asked.
"Yes," Denise said.
"We believe it may contain property belonging to Eleanor Bennett.""
The manager frowned.
"Eleanor Bennett? I remember that name. A man came here a few months ago asking about the same unit.""
My heart skipped.
"Who?""
"Didn't give me his name. Expensive suit. Gray hair.""
Richard.
Mom's hand tightened around her bag.
"What did he want?""
"He asked whether anything remained inside. I told him the unit had been sealed since the previous tenant left.""
"Did you let him in?"" Denise asked.
"No. He didn't have authorization.""
The manager unlocked the front door.
We climbed a narrow staircase that smelled of dust, damp plaster, and old wood.
At the top stood a gray metal door.
The manager turned the key.
It opened with a long, rusty groan.
Sunlight filtered through grimy windows. Shelves lined the walls, and several cardboard boxes sat beneath a table covered with a white sheet.
Then I saw the sewing machine.
It stood beside the window, its curved metal base catching the light.
A champagne-gold ribbon was tied around its arm.
I walked toward it slowly.
"Grandma," I whispered.
The machine was old, but unmistakable. A tiny scratch marked the metal near the needle plate. I remembered making that scratch when I was nine, after accidentally dropping a pair of scissors.
Grandma had laughed instead of scolding me.
"Now it has a story," she had said.
I reached out and touched the machine.
A folded note was tucked beneath the ribbon.
I pulled it free.
The handwriting was unfamiliar.
You came back.
I looked around the room.
"Someone was here recently.""
Denise examined the ribbon.
"This looks new.""
Mom walked toward the shelves.
"Emily, look at these.""
The boxes contained fabric samples, old invoices, and folders marked with dates. Most had been disturbed, as if someone had searched through them and put everything back in a hurry.
I opened a folder labeled *LAWSON ATELIER — 2016*.
Inside were sketches of evening gowns, each bearing Grandma's initials.
E.B.
Some designs were familiar from her sketchbooks. Others were completely new to me.
One drawing showed a blue gown with a fitted bodice and a flowing skirt.
The design was nearly identical to the dress I had made.
But beneath it was a second sketch.
The same gown, redesigned with red roses along the center seam and delicate strands of beads hanging beneath them.
My breath caught.
I stared at the page.
I had never seen this drawing before.
Yet it matched my repaired dress almost exactly.
"Mom," I whispered.
She came to my side.
When she saw the sketch, her face crumpled.
"Oh, Eleanor.""
I looked between the two drawings.
"I thought I came up with the roses.""
"You did," Mom said softly.
"You couldn't have seen this. We never found this studio.""
"But why is the design here?""
Denise took the folder and examined the dates.
"The original blue gown appears to have been created years before the rose variation. The records might help establish when each design was made.""
She turned the page.
A handwritten note appeared at the bottom.
Red roses represent restoration. The repaired garment must never conceal the damage completely.
I felt a chill travel down my spine.
That was exactly what I had done.
I hadn't hidden every trace of the torn seam. I had reinforced the damaged edges and allowed the red flowers to frame the place where the fabric had split.
The note was signed Eleanor Bennett.
"She thought of it first," I whispered.
Mom touched my shoulder.
"Perhaps she knew someone else would need the idea one day.""
I wanted to believe that.
But the next folder changed everything.
It contained correspondence between Grandma and Richard, including copies of invoices, design submissions, and a letter bearing the Lawson Atelier logo.
Denise read it aloud.
"Dear Ms. Bennett, following our meeting, we confirm that your original collection will be presented under the Lawson Atelier name. Your compensation will be determined after the first commercial release.""
She looked up.
"This isn't an ownership agreement. It's a payment arrangement.""
Mom leaned closer.
"Keep reading.""
Denise continued.
"The company acknowledges your authorship of the designs submitted on March 12. Any alteration or commercial use beyond the agreed exhibition requires your written approval.""
I gripped the edge of the table.
"Then Richard had no right to claim the designs.""
"Not based on this letter alone," Denise said.
"We still need the signed agreement. But this supports your grandmother's account.""
A sound came from the staircase.
Footsteps.
Slow and deliberate.
The property manager looked toward the door.
"Did someone else come with you?""
"No," Denise answered.
The footsteps stopped outside.
Then Richard Lawson appeared in the doorway.
He wore the same charcoal suit as the previous evening. His eyes moved over the open folders before settling on me.
"I wondered how long it would take you to find this place," he said.
Mom stepped in front of me.
"You have no right to be here.""
Richard smiled without warmth.
"This building is private property. I have as much right to enter as anyone who has been invited.""
"The property manager invited us," Denise replied.
"Did he invite you?""
Richard ignored her.
His gaze settled on the folder in my hands.
"Put that down, Emily.""
"No.""
His expression hardened.
"You don't understand what you're holding.""
"Then explain it.""
He stepped into the room and reached for the folder.
I pulled it against my chest.
"Don't touch me.""
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then Richard looked at the sketch of the blue gown.
Something like grief crossed his face.
"My wife wore that design," he said quietly.
I stared at him.
"Your wife?""
"At a private event. Eleanor made the dress for her.""
Mom's expression changed.
"Your wife knew my mother?""
Richard's eyes shifted toward her.
"They were friends once.""
"Then why did you threaten her?""
His jaw tightened.
"Because Eleanor made a decision that put my entire company at risk.""
"What decision?"" I asked.
Richard looked at the red-rose sketch.
"She decided to expose a lie that would have destroyed everything I had built.""
He turned toward the door.
Before leaving, he looked at me one last time.
"Your grandmother wasn't the only person who paid for her choices, Emily.""
Then he walked away.
For several seconds, the room remained silent.
Denise closed the folder.
"We need to get these documents secured.""
But I couldn't stop thinking about Richard's wife.
About the blue gown.
About the way he had looked at the sketch as if it were a memory he couldn't bear to touch.
Mom picked up the note beneath the ribbon.
She turned it over.
There was another sentence written on the back.
Ask Richard why his wife never wore the dress again.
I looked toward the staircase.
May you like
Richard had disappeared.
And for the first time, I wondered whether the truth about my grandmother's stolen designs was only part of the story.
