AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"I love it." I can't stop myself from reaching out to finger the material. "It's very light."
His mother's eagerness is evident as she drops the fabric and clasps both hands in front of her. "This is the summer line I'm working on for next year." She moves to one of the many boards, lifting it up and propping it along an armchair, balancing it over the body of a snoring dog. "I want to be comfortable when I'm at home, but I’m simply not a sweatpants and T-shirt kind of woman, and I think there are many women like me." She motions to the board. "Women who want to feel put together and glamorous even when they’re relaxing on the sofa watching television."
I scan the board, looking over the individual drawings and materials. "So it's a line of high end caftans?"
She nods, eyes bright. "Yes." She smooths down her own caftan as she continues explaining. "These used to be referred to as tea gowns, because they were what ladies dressed in for their afternoon tea, but the more modern term for them is caftans." She lets out a little snort. "Which is infinitely more flattering than the term muumuu, which is how many refer to them."
I think for a minute, my brain tripping over information surrounding that word. "I think you might be misunderstanding." I run my tongue over my teeth, both because I can't quite remember the specifics, but also because I'm a little hesitant to tell Fynn's mother her perceptions might be incorrect.
To my surprise she moves forward. "Is it? Tell me what it means then." The question is open and interested. Like the thought of having a misconception is something she's happy to accept and rectify.
"Well, I'm guessing that maybe you thought muumuu was referencing cattle, correct?" It’s a common misconception and I don’t even remember how I discovered the truth, but I’m so happy I can share it. That I can contribute something besides the chaos I’ve brought so far.
She points at me. "Yes. I thought it was a term being used to suggest they were unflattering, when in reality the drape of them is beautiful."
I pull my phone from the pocket of my dress and open the browser. "I can see how you might think that, but the term muumuu is actually Hawaiian." I type it into the search bar and read through the results. “It means ‘cut off’ in Hawaiian and the garment it references was originally made of lightweight solid white cotton fabric and served Hawaiian women as a house dress, nightgown, and swimsuit.”
“Then I owe a huge apology to the Hawaiian people for being a complete arse.” Fynn’s mother doesn’t miss a beat. “I made assumptions I should not have made.”
I stare at her for a beat, a little shocked at how easily she took responsibility for her mistake. How readily she owned up to it without making a single excuse or attempting to transfer blame. That would have never happened if it was one of my parents standing in front of me.
While most of my anger and frustration is generally directed at my father—he is an easy target—I carry an equal amount for my mother. Not necessarily because she’s horrible in the same way my father is horrible, but because she's horrible in a different way. No, she wasn't responsible for directly attempting to marry me off to an asshole, just the way she wasn't directly responsible for any of the bad things that happened to me in my life.
But she was indirectly responsible. Never once did she stand up to my father. Never once did she tell him no. Not a single time did she try to protect me or save me from him and his fucked-up ideas. So not only would she never admit she was wrong, she also would never admit he was wrong.
And any time I tried to bring one of their many mistakes up, she either deflected blame, or shut down, blowing me off long enough to escape whatever accusation I threw her way.
Not Fynn's mother. She listened to me. Heard what I had to say. Took my words to heart and openly accepted that she'd been wrong.
I think I just fell in love with her.
I move closer, eager to get to know her better. "Can you tell me more about what you're working on?"
The next two hours are spent going over every bit of what she's done. From fabric selections to design choices to her marketing plan.
And that's where I start to get really excited.
"Who is your target customer?" I scan everything she's put in front of me, looking for the information.
"Someone like me." Fynn's mother is quick with her answer. "A more mature woman who has expendable income and focuses on quality."
I nod. "Okay. Where does she shop?"
His mother rattles off a number of stores, and I give up looking for what I want on the boards, because it doesn't seem like it’s here. "Okay, how often does she shop?"
I expect another quick answer, so when it doesn't come, I lift my eyes to find her staring at me.
"I should know that, shouldn't I?"
I offer a little shrug. "It’s useful information to have because it will help you come up with targets. Understanding if she's a casual shopper, or one who purchases with purpose, will give you a little more insight into how to handle your marketing as well as your production numbers."
His mother stares at me a second longer before her lips curve into a slow smile. "I don't suppose you're looking for a job, are you, my darling daughter-in-law?"
"Actually—" I don't finish my sentence, because Fynn suddenly jumps up from the chair he's occupied during our discussion, slamming his laptop closed as his eyes come my way, expression sharp.
"I need to talk to you, wife."
I glance at his mother, my stomach dropping. "Oh. Okay." I stand from where I've been sitting next to her on the sofa, smoothing down the front of my dress. "Maybe we can pick this conversation back up later."
