Violetta Craft's Arc

Chapter 8 of 65

Three weeks passed and the name list grew longer instead of shorter. Violetta wrote names on the page above her sewing table and crossed most of them out by the next morning. Jordie brought her tea and read the list aloud like he was trying on shoes. Nothing fit. The spring showcase was six weeks away and she could not cut a single piece of trim until she knew what she was sewing for. She drove to her parents' house on a Saturday to escape the sewing room. Missy sat on the kitchen floor coloring. Lymber was folding laundry at the table. Paul stood at the counter cutting an apple into slices for Missy. Violetta dropped the folder on the table and said she was sick of her own handwriting. "Read them to me," Lymber said. "All of them. Out loud." Violetta read. Twenty-three names. Lymber shook her head at most of them. Paul said one sounded like a cat. Missy looked up from her crayons and said, "What about Elowen?" Violetta stopped. She asked where Missy had heard that. Missy said it was the name of a girl in her picture book, the one with the fox on the cover. She said it slowly again. Elowen. Violetta wrote it at the bottom of the page and drew a small square around it. She said it under her breath the whole drive home. Elowen Daniels. It matched the shape of the last name without fighting it. In the sewing room she stood in front of the sketch on the wall and said it again to see if the dress changed. The neckline she had redrawn last week suddenly made sense. Soft curve. Pale trim. A name a small girl could grow into and a woman could keep. She called Jordie into the room and told him. He said it twice, then a third time. He said he liked it. He said it did not sound like anyone they knew, and that was the point. Violetta wrote Elowen Daniels across the top of a fresh page and taped it above the sketch. She tore the old list in half and dropped it in the bin with the boy list. One page on the wall now. One name. She picked up her pencil and marked the trim line on the showcase dress in pale yellow. She had lost six weeks arguing with herself about a name. She had four weeks left to finish the dress and no more room to change her mind about anything else. She ordered fabric that night in the shades she had been afraid to commit to. Buttercream. Soft rose. A thread of green for the hem. The puppy scratched at the door and she let him in. He curled under her chair. She worked until midnight and did not cross anything out.