TWENTY-ONE stories high, fashion designer Maggie White overlooked the busy streets of Manhattan from her hotel suite. It seemed only yesterday when she was just a small girl and first took hold of the sewing scissors to cut that favorite piece of rose printed fabric. “Don’t cut yourself,” her mother had warned.
Maggie now knew that no physical pain could compare to a wounded heart. Six years had passed since her mother’s death, and she would always remember that dress. She wore it on her first day of school. It was special and one of a kind—both the dress and the love they shared. And with the last thread sewn, her mother spoke the words that she would never forget: “Someday, Maggie dear, you will design clothes for other people to wear.”
Her biggest fan had always been her mother, even when others had their doubts. “What is that?” her father would ask when Maggie would sew something. But her mother would always defend her, proudly announcing her belief that one day Maggie would be a fashion designer.
After losing her mother, Maggie understood heartache. But she had no experience on how to handle her latest grief—the loss of her fiancé whom she thought was her very soul mate. And losing him was not only painful, it was humiliating as well. How did Phillip think he could pull off a one night stand with Jasmine while engaged to her? And how could such a friend betray her trust? Could she ever forgive them? At least she found out. But now she could no longer say, “I do.”
Staring out into the big city, she suddenly felt small—too small to deal with her latest rival, Jasmine. It seemed only prudent to find her life’s fulfillment in her career. She adjusted her watch to the new hour while gazing upon a stone clock embedded within her view. Soon she would meet with her new boss, the highly acclaimed Francis Louis, to prepare for the flaunting of Magnetic Threads, his latest dress line.
It had been a long day—a seven hour flight from London, misplaced luggage guaranteed to “arrive shortly,” a pair of red swollen feet in a pair of tan patent stilettos, and a stomach that wondered why she had not eaten for hours.
With briefcase in hand, she entered the elevator while adjusting her pencil skirt which, after the long flight, felt glued to her buttocks. Sharply dressed in her charcoal grey suit and starchy baby blue blouse, she had just enough time to find something to eat. A caterer, tending to a cart of food, nodded with a friendly smile.
“Hello, madam."
“Could you please tell me where the closest restaurant is?” The pleasant aroma of braised beef and potatoes filled the air.
“Uh, that would be Atrium Cafe, next to the main entrance on the first floor,” he informed.
“Thanks!” Maggie smiled while fixing her chignon.
The elevator came to the first floor where hotel guests were swarming the premises, a child in a stroller was screaming, and bellboys scurried about.
"Excuse me!” She flagged down another member of the hotel staff. “I’m looking for Atrium Cafe.”
“Oh… no…” he said apologetically, speaking broken English, “No here, that in north wing.”
“Oh,” Maggie deliberated, exhausted. “Then where’s the closest restaurant? I’m completely famished.”
“Long trip?” He showed concern.
“Yes, from England—here for the spring fashion show.”
“Ah, you European, I show you Biagio’s! You like, excellente Italiano.”
Where she ate was not a concern. She followed him down a hall to a secluded back entrance where he opened the door and motioned for her to go into the bar area. Immediately, the stress from the day’s events melted away as she stepped into the dim, cozy atmosphere. Classy, inviting, but where was everyone?
