“You seem nervous,” Daria observed, helping to navigate the rolling rack past a busy food cart and angling it into the staging area.

“What if they love something else more?” Caroline said, eyeing the other hopeful designers waiting to present their styles. She knew most of them, at least in passing. The world of design was a small one, and the pool of talent made for intense competition.

“You can’t think that way,” Daria said.

“Am I awful for wanting this so much?” asked Caroline. The event was renowned in the fashion world, and the stakes couldn’t be higher. She had entered the competition before but had never made the cut. Her collection was not edgy enough. Not tasteful enough. Not bold enough. Too bold. Incoherent. Unmanageable. She’d heard it all.

“Just awful, chérie,” said Angelique.

“This is my sixth attempt,” she said. “If I fail this time . . .”

“You’ll what?” Daria demanded.

Caroline took a deep breath. She remembered advice she’d read somewhere: Don’t ask who is going to let you. Ask who is going to stop you. “I’ll try again.”

“You never give up,” Daria said. “I like that. This is it for you. Sixth time is the charm.” She patted her pregnant belly. “This is our shot, and you’ve worked your ass off. It’s a can’t-miss. What’s this fabric?”

“It’s a silk jersey. Gets its shimmer from copper thread.” Caroline busied herself with the chosen looks on the rolling rack. The samples had to be flawless and pristine. Not a stray thread or fleck of lint. She had poured hours into these designs, and she wanted them to shine on the runway.

While she styled her models in the staging area, she couldn’t help having her doubts. There was so much talent crammed into the space, it was ridiculous. Several of the designers had attended the Fashion Institute of Technology, same as her. Others she knew from jobs at the big design houses. And they were good. She saw spectacular gowns, palazzo pants, dramatic sheaths, hand-painted fabrics, and shapes that draped the models like living sculpture.

She could feel the attention on her as well—for good reason. It wasn’t every day a designer showed up with a pregnant model and someone as well-known as Angelique. But Daria’s pregnancy was key to Caroline’s exhibit. Creating a collection like this was a huge risk. She knew that. She also knew that the biggest achievements of her career so far had resulted from risk-taking. Two years before, she’d landed the contract job with Mick Taylor by showing a collection of rainwear that changed color when it got wet.

Daria and Angelique were behind a folding screen, putting the finishing touches on their looks. Angelique stepped aside for a moment. “I want you to have a token—for luck.” She held out a triple-strand bracelet of small shells expertly strung together. “When I was a girl, I gathered cowrie shells on the beach and made bracelets to sell to tourists. The shell is a symbol of the ocean spirit of wealth and earth, and it offers goddess protection—very powerful, because it is connected with the strength of the ocean.”

Caroline held out her arm so Angelique could tie on the three strands. “You’re going to make me cry,” she said. “What did I do to deserve a friend like you?”

Angelique didn’t answer. Instead, she stepped back and said, “There, you’re fully protected. Now go and show off your hard work.”

Caroline rolled the garment rack into the showroom. The five-judge panel sat at a draped table littered with papers, cameras, smartphones, and coffee cups. The adjudicators were bright lights of the fashion world—a magazine editor, a fashion critic, and three top designers, all eager to find new talent. So many ways to fail, thought Caroline, hoping they couldn’t see her sweat.

She stood in front of her garment rack and unzipped the covering. Maisie Trellis, the critic, perched a pair of reading glasses on her nose and consulted the screen of her tablet. “You’re Caroline Shelby, from Oysterville, Washington.”

Caroline nodded. “That’s where I grew up, yes. It’s about as far west as you can get before falling into the ocean.”

“Tell us a bit about your career so far.”

“I went to the Fashion Institute of Technology and I’ve been doing contract work. My first job out of school was refurbishing vintage couture. I did alterations, piecework, anything that would help me pay the rent.”

“And now you’re designing for Mick Taylor.”

“Just finished working on a ready-to-wear collection.”

“Tell us about this.” Maisie peered over her glasses at the rack.

Caroline paused. Drew a breath. This was her moment. “I call this line Chrysalis.” She unveiled the rack. Fabrics in a palette of earth and sky tones shimmered in the autumn light through the windows. Daria emerged from behind the folding screen, her pregnancy eliciting murmurs from the panel. The fabric draped her ripe belly like a cocoon of gossamer, floating with every step she took. Next, Angelique stepped out, a willow-slim goddess, wearing a similar look.

“My garments won’t be obsolete after the baby comes,” Caroline said, encouraged by the expressions on the people’s faces. “Like a chrysalis, the top transforms.”

With a sweep of drama, Angelique demonstrated the conversion. The gorgeous tunic draped upward, fastening at the shoulders. “It creates a sling for the baby, and a modesty shroud for the nursing mother,” Caroline said. “It’s a piece that will last beyond the pregnancy, and even beyond nursing.”

She showed the rest of the collection, piece by piece. Each garment had a secret conversion achieved by different ways of draping and fastening. The fabrics were all sustainable and organic, with bright accents shot through with mother-of-pearl, a nod to her childhood home by the sea. She had created a signature grace note at the shoulder of each piece, a stylized nautilus shell highlighted with shimmering thread.

“What was your inspiration?” asked one of the judges. “Do you have children?”

“Oh my gosh, no.” In a moment of stark honesty, she added, “I doubt I’ll ever have kids. I’m the middle child of five, and I kind of got lost in my busy family. I do like other people’s kids, but I love my independence. My inspiration comes from people like Angelique and Daria. They’re working moms, and they deserve to wear beautiful things every day, through pregnancy, nursing, and beyond. And it’s also my commitment to sustainable practices. I imagine you hear that a lot. It’s a buzzword—what to do about textile waste created by discarded garments. My maternity tunic can live on as a nursing top and carrier sling, and the fabric source I used was CycleUp for most of the pieces.” It was the industry standard for recycled fabrics.

The panel inspected each garment while she watched, her heart in her mouth. Her craftsmanship was impeccable, every stitch in place, every edge and pleat knife-sharp. She knew this was her finest work. And when the demonstration ended, she felt a wave of pride. “This is the best I’ve got. I hope you like it. Thank you for the opportunity.”

The judges consulted one another, asked more questions, made more notes. Then Maisie dismissed her with an impenetrable look. “We’re intrigued, Caroline Shelby. But we have a long way to go today. We’ll let you know.”

Chapter 3

Caroline bumped her way down the stairs of her apartment, lugging an overstuffed suitcase. She always brought extra supplies to a show—fabric and thread, pins, scissors, touch-up for makeup, towels, a flashlight and double-sided tape, and wipes in case of model meltdowns . . . or designer meltdowns.

She was not going to have a meltdown today. Totally the opposite. Today was going to be a huge leap forward in her career. Finally, after so many abject failures and near misses, her Chrysalis line had been selected for the Emerging Talent program. The collection bearing her name would be showcased on the runway in front of all the fashion elite in the city.

If she impressed the right people, she would get her shot at creating apparel under her own name.

That, she knew, would be life-changing. People back home had never quite understood her aspirations. They had been kind enough. They were quick to say they appreciated her creativity. Yet they’d always been mystified by her life and work. Her entry-level jobs, most of them involving long hours and low pay, had struck them as thankless and unrewarding. Which was quite an indictment, coming from her family of restaurateurs.