Elena studied her for a moment. “Good,” she said simply.
As we walked through the gallery, I watched Margaret’s face shift. She recognized certain designs, certain signatures in the tailoring. She paused longer than she meant to near a gown with a dramatic collar—one from the late eighties, the era my mother had modeled.
“I remember that one,” Margaret murmured before she could stop herself.
My mother turned, surprised. “You do?”
Margaret’s cheeks colored. “It was in a magazine,” she admitted. “I… I studied those magazines.”
My mother’s expression softened, not mocking, not triumphant. Just understanding.
Elena glanced between them. “Catherine and Maggie,” she said thoughtfully. “Two women who built new lives by trying to become acceptable.”
Margaret’s jaw tightened. “I became acceptable,” she said automatically.
Elena smiled. “Yes,” she said. “But did you become free?”
Margaret went still.
Later, at a small private reception in the back of the gallery, Elena raised a glass and introduced Catherine as part of the early history of the Richie brand. People approached my mother with admiration and curiosity.
Then Elena introduced Margaret.