Violetta Craft's Arc

Chapter 57 of 65

Monday morning Violetta drove past her own studio and kept going. The email had come Sunday night from a fashion designer whose name she had known since she was twelve. Intern position. Fifteen dollars an hour. Start Monday if she wanted it. She wanted it. She parked across from the building and looked up at the glass front, the mannequins in the lower window, the second-floor workroom where three people already moved between tables. The owner met her at the door. She was a small woman in flat shoes, tape measure around her neck, pin cushion strapped to her wrist. She looked Violetta over once, stopped at the small curve under her shirt, and did not comment. "You sew your own patterns," the woman said. "I saw the junior showcase piece. The placket." "Yes." "Upstairs. Coat rack is by the stairs. You'll press seams today. If you press well, tomorrow you cut." Violet went upstairs. The workroom smelled like steam and clean cotton. Someone handed her a stack of half-finished bodices and pointed at the iron. She pressed for four hours without stopping. Her back ached. Her feet ached. At noon the owner walked past, lifted one of the pressed bodices, ran a thumb along the seam, and set it down without a word. Violetta took that as passing. At three the owner came back with a rolling rack of muslins. "Bridal client. Fitting Friday. The side seams are wrong. Take them apart and repin. Show me before you sew." Violetta pinned for two hours. The owner checked her work, moved one pin a quarter inch, nodded, and let her sew. When the machine hummed under her hands it was the same machine she used at home, only newer, quieter, threaded by someone else. At six the owner handed her an envelope. Inside was a schedule. Monday through Thursday, nine to six. Fridays off for her own work. A small pink slip clipped to the front listed her rate. Fifteen an hour. Below it, in pen: raise reviewed at ninety days. "You're pregnant," the owner said. "How far." "Ten weeks." "You'll sit when you need to sit. You'll tell me when you can't stand. I don't want a hero. I want a worker." "Yes." "Your own dress. What's it for." "Next showcase. Seven months." The woman thought a moment. "Fridays you use the back table if you want. My fabric account gets you wholesale. That's the offer." Violetta drove home with the schedule on the seat beside her. Jordie was on the porch with Elowen. She held up the envelope before she was out of the car. "I took it," she said. "Good." "Fridays I still get the studio. And wholesale fabric." He took Elowen off his hip and passed her over. "Then the next dress just got cheaper." Inside, Violetta set the schedule on the kitchen counter and pinned it under a magnet. Seven months. Now she had a table in two places.