Page 111 of Letters From Victor

“Well?” Edith’s voice cut through my daze. I opened my eyes to see her studying me—half curious, half concerned.

“It’s…intense,” I said, folding the letter slowly, deliberately, as if rushing might cause it to explode. I slipped it back into the envelope, which felt lighter than it should in my trembling hands.

I pulled out the second page, and my breath caught in my throat. It was printed on thick, cream-colored stationery with an elegant letterhead: The Ameline Studio, Dallas, Texas. My eyes skimmed over the typewritten lines, disbelief twisting into shock as I took in the words.

Dear Ms. Evans:

We recently had the pleasure of reviewing the dress design Mr. Victor Cardello submitted on your behalf. We are very impressed with your work and believe it has great potential in the current market. Your design’s simplicity and elegance align seamlessly with our brand’s aesthetic.

We would love to discuss the possibility of producing your design as part of our upcoming collection. Please contact us at your earliest convenience to arrange a meeting.

Sincerely,

Vivian DuBois

Creative Director, The Ameline Studio

My hands went numb, and the letter fluttered from my grip as I dropped onto the porch steps. Edith hurried toward me, eyes wide with alarm.

“Babs?” Her voice seemed miles away. “What is it?”

I couldn’t speak. I picked up the letter and handed it to her, my fingers reluctant to let go. She snatched it and read quickly. Her lips formed a silent “O” before breaking into a triumphant smile.

“Can you believe this?” She waved the letter like a winning lottery ticket. “This is amazing! You have to go!”

I stared at the wooden planks beneath my feet, tracing their grain with my eyes. A thousand thoughts collided in my head, tangled and spinning like carnival bumper cars.

Could I really go to Dallas? I’d never been that far away from Frankie. And the money—how would I afford the trip? Would they even take me seriously? Victor had submitted my design, and his name carried weight. Not mine. At least, not my married name. Victor had always believed in me more than I believed in myself. But this—this was something else. This was a future I’d never even dared to dream.

Edith plopped down beside me, her exuberance tempered by my silence. “Babs, this is your big break. Don’t tell me you’re not over the moon.”

“I’m…I don’t know.” Excitement stirred beneath the surface, but I was terrified to acknowledge it. Don’t ask me why. “It’s just so sudden. So unexpected.”

“Opportunity knocks when you least expect it.” Then, softer, “You deserve this.”

Deserve. The word lodged in my mind like a splinter. Did I really deserve any of it? The success, the recognition, the love that Victor still held for me despite everything?

I thought about the night of Kowalski’s ambush—the raw fear in Victor’s eyes, the cold realization that I might lose him. That fear had crystallized something in me—something I wasn’t ready to face then. Something I maybe still wasn’t ready to face now.

A shadow fell across the porch. I looked up at a tall figure walking toward me. My heart knew before my eyes did. Victor moved with his usual swagger, though there was a heaviness in the set of his shoulders. He carried something in his hand, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

“Mama!” Frankie shouted, startling me. “It’s Mister Victor!” He abandoned his blocks and tore across the yard with the unfettered joy only a child can summon. I bit my lip and glanced at Edith. She raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Victor paused and knelt to meet Frankie, ruffling his sandy hair. “Hey there, champ,” he said, his voice warm but subdued. “I brought you something.”

Frankie’s eyes widened as Victor looked up at me. For a moment, we held each other’s gaze, and a thousand unspoken things passed between us. He waited for my nod. I gave it, and Victor handed over the parcel. Frankie ripped into the brown paper, revealing a gleaming red firetruck, complete with a brass bell and ladder. His face lit up as if it had been plugged into an electric socket.

“A firetruck!” he crowed, bouncing on his heels. “Just like the real ones!”

“Only smaller,” Victor said with a tired smile. He stood slowly, his movements deliberate, as if he were conserving energy. I wondered how much sleep he’d been getting.

“What do you say, Frankie?” I prompted.

“Thank you, Mister Victor,” Frankie called over his shoulder, already dashing toward the house to show off his new prize to no one in particular. I watched him go, my heart swelling and breaking all at once.

“Victor—” I began, but he held up a hand.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “I just saw it in a shop window and thought of the boy.”

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