Page 14 of Laced With Secrets
“Good morning,” Penny and I said in unison. Then, the attic then plunged into quiet. I watched as dust motes danced through the beam of light in front of me, suspended in the stillness like tiny constellations frozen in time.
Sebastian suddenly clapped his hands together. “Right! So I thought we could organize by era, with each of us focusing on our area of expertise. Penny, perhaps you could assess the condition and historical significance of the clothing? Leo, there are several trunks of shoes and accessories that would benefit from your professional eye. Victor and I will work on cataloguing those marked for culling and those to keep, respectively.”
It was a reasonable plan that would keep us all productively busy for hours. It was also clearly designed to allow Sebastian to work near Penny, which Victor’s subtle shift in posture suggested he’d noticed.
“Sounds good,” I said, already eyeing a stack of trunks that might contain shoes. “Where should I start?”
“Those along the far wall.” Victor gestured. “Be careful opening them. Some of the hinges might be fragile.”
As we dispersed, I caught Penny shooting me a look that clearly said:This is going to be interesting.
The first trunk I opened contained pristine men’s dress shoes from the 1940s—oxfords and brogues in rich leathers that had held up remarkably well. I carefully lifted each pair, examining the construction and maker’s marks, scribbling notes in my journal.
Behind me, I could hear Penny exclaiming over various garments, his enthusiasm genuine and infectious. “The silk on this is in remarkable condition! The way the draping was constructed—you can see the influence of Parisian couture but adapted for American manufacturing.”
“You have an excellent eye.” Sebastian’s voice was warm, genuinely impressed. “Have you considered working professionally in the industry?”
“You mean in the fashion world?”
“Oui.” Sebastian’s French accent caressed the simple word.
“I’ve thought about it,” Penny admitted. “But Vintage Vogue keeps me pretty busy. Although working with pieces like these…” His voice took on a wistful quality.
“Perhaps we could discuss opportunities for collaboration,” Sebastian suggested, his accent growing more pronounced. “Our newest line is expanding into historical-inspired pieces. Someone with your knowledge and passion would be invaluable.”
“Sebastian.” Victor’s voice was quiet but sharp, carrying an edge of warning. “We should focus on the inventory.”
The temperature in the attic seemed to drop.
I bent back over my trunk, pretending absorption in examining vintage pumps while the tension crackled behind me. The hairon the back of my neck prickled with secondhand discomfort from the territorial undercurrents.
The morning wore on with careful cataloguing punctuated by moments of exuberant discovery and increasing awkwardness. Sebastian’s natural warmth and Penny’s genuine excitement kept pulling them into conversation despite Victor’s subtle but persistent attempts to redirect Sebastian’s attention elsewhere.
Victor, I noticed, didn’t interrupt directly or make dramatic gestures. His interference was subtler—a comment about needing Sebastian’s opinion on something across the room, a question about inventory methods that required collaboration, a reminder about timing for the exhibit. Each interruption was perfectly reasonable on its surface but clearly territorial in intent.
Around eleven, my pregnancy symptoms started making themselves known with more urgency. The musty attic air combined with physical exertion was creating a perfect storm of nausea and fatigue. I’d been taking frequent “water breaks” and had halted my rooting through trunks to step over to the dormer windows for fresh air a couple of times.
“Leo?” Penny’s voice cut through my concentration as I stared at a pair of men’s loafers without really seeing them. “You okay?”
I looked up to find him watching me with concern. Sebastian and Victor had moved to the far end of the attic, Victor’s voice was low and tense while Sebastian responded with barely controlled frustration.
Their voices drifted across the attic as indistinct murmurs, too far away for me to catch any actual words.
“Fine,” I said automatically. “Just dusty up here.”
“You’ve been saying that for the last hour.” He moved closer, lowering his voice. “Your scent is off.”
Before I could answer, my attention snagged on something in the trunk I’d just opened. Nestled among tissue paper were tiny shoes—infant shoes, handmade with delicate stitching and soft leather, probably from the 1940s or early 1950s.
They were beautiful in their simplicity. Clearly made with love and care for someone’s baby.
Something in my chest cracked open.
I was hiding my condition from everyone except Penny, terrified of what it meant. And here were these tiny shoes, made by someone’s loving hands for a baby who had probably grown up and had children of their own by now.
These were probably Richard’s.
They could have just as easily been Adelaide’s, but my brain had immediately summoned Richard.