“How would you possibly—” Margaret began, then stopped, because the words couldn’t find a path around her shock.
“It’s genuine,” I said quietly.
Beatrice’s mouth dropped open. “Who—who would give you something like this?”
“A gift,” I said. “From my godmother.”
“Your godmother?” Beatrice echoed, incredulous.
Margaret’s hands trembled as she stared at the label. The name was stitched in elegant lettering that even people like Margaret spoke with reverence.
Alisandra Richie.
The Italian designer whose gowns were worn by royalty, whose waiting list was years long, whose name opened doors in circles Margaret treated like sacred ground.
“There must be some mistake,” Margaret whispered.
There wasn’t.
Before she could recover, the doorbell rang.
David frowned. “Are you expecting someone?”
I glanced at my mother. She had that calm, knowing expression again.
David went to the front door and returned moments later, looking slightly stunned.
Behind him stood my mother and a woman Margaret recognized instantly.
Margaret gasped. “Elena?”
The woman who stepped into the sunroom carried herself with quiet authority. Silver hair swept into a smooth style. Simple linen outfit that probably cost more than my monthly rent. No flashy jewelry. No desperation to impress.
Elena Richie smiled warmly.
“Maggie Thompson,” Elena said, voice amused. “It’s been, what, thirty years? Still intimidating young brides, I see. Some things never change.”
Margaret looked like she’d forgotten how to breathe. “Elena Richie… what are you doing here?”
My mother stepped forward and squeezed my shoulder. “I believe you’ve been getting to know my daughter,” she said gently, “though perhaps not as well as you thought.”
Margaret’s gaze darted between them. “I don’t understand,” she said, and for once, it wasn’t a performance. It was real confusion.
Elena laughed softly. “Catherine and I were roommates at university before I moved back to Milan,” she said. “She was the first American to model for our early collections.”
Margaret’s head snapped toward my mother. “Model?” she repeated, stunned.
My mother smiled modestly. “Just for a few years,” she said. “Before I met Sarah’s father and decided to move back home. But Elena and I remained close.”