Page 24 of Always Meant for You
There was never a real woman named Chloé—only a dream stitched into silk by Gaby Aghion. In 1952, she founded the house of Chloé in Paris, creating delicate, feminine clothes that didn’t trap women the way stiff haute couture did back then. She designed clothes for women who wanted to move, to live, and to be seen.
I gently remove a Chloé dress from the rack. “Look at this masterpiece. It’s from the two thousand five ready-to-wear collection. I found it last week.”
Lily presses her hand to her heart. “Oh, Mae, it’s perfect.”
The dress is sheer and weightless, a whisper of cream silk that catches the light. Pintuck pleats stitched down the bodice, delicate and old-world, while a slim tie drifts from the neckline. The skirt flutters into layered, crinkled ruffles that brush above my knee.
And I know just the shoes and accessories.
I slip into my pink Dior heels, the soft leather molding to my feet.
Next, I need something new.
Bella Mae loves pairing vintage with fresh, city-sleek finds. I choose a show-stopping pair of glittery sunglasses from Brooklyn’s Indy Sunglasses.
Last but not least, vintage Dior pearl drop earrings.
“Mae, you are a vibe. And your necklace looks perfect with the outfit.” She pauses, then smiles like she solved a riddle.
I check my appearance in the mirror. “What is it? Is something wrong?”
“Everything you wear matches your M necklace.”
I look at my reflection, then study my vintage wardrobe. She’s right.
But I didn’t do it on purpose. It must be Jamie’s influence. I can hear him cheering me on every time I catch a glimpse of the necklace.
I believe in you, Mabel Ruth.
“You wear it in every picture,” Lily adds.
I pick up my crossbody purse, carefully open the flap, slip in my phone, and make sure that my passport is there.
It is.
Do I need it?
No.
Even if this meeting exceeds my expectations, I doubt they’ll be whisking me away to Paris. But I always keep it with me. A girl has to be ready. And Bella Mae is always ready.
I give my look one final check. I’ve kept my hair loose. I let it air dry, so my natural waves brush a few inches below my shoulders. This is the look. Vintage French couture. Lowkey chic. Everything must be perfect. If I don’t convince them to sign Bella Mae, I’m out of time, out of money, and out of options.
“Walk me out,” I say, squeezing Lily’s hand, my nerves starting to get the better of me.
“Can I wear your biker jacket while you’re gone?”
“Keep it for as long as you like,” I answer, locking up.
The creak of an apartment door opening echoes.
“Lily, is that you, honey?”
“Hey, Mom,” Lily calls, “Mae let me borrow her jacket.”
Reba Stromski steps into view, arms crossed. Her wheat-blond hair, the same shade as Lily’s, is pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail. She doesn’t wear makeup, and the tired set of her eyes says she doesn’t have time for it anyway.
“Lily, you need to fold the laundry.”
