Odette

2

S uccess is a strange creature. Arbitrary and subjective, it's different for everyone. I wonder how many people didn't recognize it once they achieved it. I sure didn't. After all my years of working endless hours to build a business, the moment I'd "made it" passed me by. It went entirely unnoticed. I didn't see the numbers in my bank account for what they were, my friend list being mostly A-listers wasn't impressive, it was part of the job.

The first apartment I bought in Manhattan cost me nearly a million dollars, but that was inexpensive by my peers' standards. It was a two-bedroom housed in an old building where most of the residents had lived there for decades. Small and quirky, but it fit my personality and had a view of the Hudson. Tiny as it was, it was still a substantial upgrade from the fifth-floor walkup studio I had before in Bushwick. I loved it so much I never left it, even when my finances allowed me to purchase a much larger, sleeker place to live.

Perhaps it was because I came from such meager beginnings and something in my subconscious was telling me to be grateful for what I had. My parents were hardworking blue-collar workers. My mother was a hairstylist, my dad an insurance adjuster. We lived humbly so that we could enjoy the occasional meal out or road trip vacation.

When my net worth swelled, I didn't see it as something to use for splurging. I did move my parents into a house eventually. Nothing new and flashy, they wouldn't have liked that. But it was an upgrade that they deserved, and it helped to set them up for a comfortable retirement.

That was success for me. Mom and Dad moving into a home completely paid for by me was the moment I realized I had accomplished what I set out to do. It's also the moment I decided I could ease back on how hard I worked. My fourteen-hour days dropped. At first, it was only a couple hours less a day, but eventually, I quit taking meetings on Sundays. I even started taking vacations, something I'd been very reluctant to do before.

If I traveled, it was for work, shopping all over the world for my clients. Trips to Paris and Milan were plentiful enough, but there wasn't any downtime. Other than a nightcap and possibly a passionate one-night stand with a handsome foreigner. Rest and relaxation haven't been in my vocabulary for the past twenty years.

Now I'm settled in my ridiculous seven-thousand-plus-square-foot Mission-style home on the Seattle historical registry. It's all dark beams and intricately carved woodwork, but with feminine details like gold filigreed wallpaper and pretty green-tiled and copper-hooded fireplaces. It's downright gorgeous and absolutely too fucking large for just me. I couldn't pass it up, though. When Rhonda, my real estate agent, sent me the listing, I knew from the first external snapshot that this would be my new home.

My new schedule as mentor at the Fashion Institute will allow me for much more downtime, now that I've taken a liaison from styling. Well, mostly, anyway. I'm keeping a handful of clients, but the rest have been gently given over to my protégé, Fallon. He's worked with me for years and is more than capable. In fact, he's eager and confident in his abilities. I am, too, otherwise I'd never hand my small empire over to him.

Finding Fallon wasn't easy. Most young ingénues in fashion are only focused on the most talked about, or the most unattainable fashion designers. It's an industry built on expense and excess. But it doesn't have to be. I've maintained my habits of taking something old and making it new and have been lucky enough to find people to work with that share the same drive. There's room in the industry for folks like us now, and more and more sustainable designers are hitting the scene each year. Fallon wants to make responsible fashion waves just as much as I did at his age.

Now, I want to teach that to others. Seattle is a far better place to start than the designer-lined streets of Manhattan. I'd only visited here a couple of times. There's a local designer who got her start thrifting for old designer items and reimagining them into something new. I'd come to her shows when it fit into my schedule. The city was always welcoming with its perpetually laid-back attitude. Seattle embodies the work hard, play hard attitude. Probably because it's knee-deep in the tech industry, a sharp contrast from the world of fashion and celebrities that I've been swimming in.

Here, you put in the hours to get your job done and finish the day with some sort of outdoor activity. Even if it's raining, you'll see people casually outside. No one scurries from place to place to avoid it. When Vanessa Andrews, the director of the Seattle campus, first contacted me about this position, I laughed at moving to Seattle. She told me she'd felt the same when she first considered moving here. All the talk of rain was daunting. But she's now found it to be therapeutic. Cleansing, she called it.

I get it now. It's almost a natural reset, washing the day's grit and grime away. Never in a million years would I have believed I'd be embracing rainy weather. I was never the woman who would walk to the office in tennis shoes and change when I got in. I couldn't afford to be spotted in such a casual manner.

Things change, though, and now I'm planning outfits around Hunter rain boots and Birkenstock sandals. Well, maybe I'm not taking it that far. The point is that I feel like I can without it being career suicide. It's a weight off my shoulders I hadn't realized was even there. I mean, I love fashion, I live and breathe it. That doesn't mean I don't like the occasional moment of just living without worrying about my appearance.

There were many pros and cons to moving to Seattle. I weighed each one carefully. The cons were far fewer but heavier. One nearly stopped me from accepting the position. However, the pros were too great to pass up. The work-life balance is too appealing. Especially given my recent diagnosis.

About a month before Vanessa called me, I found out I have an autoimmune disease. Supposedly, Hashimoto's is manageable with the proper medication, but I'm not there yet. It's still too new and I'm trying to find the right combination of medications, supplements, and life changes to make a difference.

Basically, I'm tired. Physically and mentally. Vanessa had given me two months to ponder the decision. Unfortunately, those months were filled with red carpets and after parties. I was swamped and riddled with flare-ups that made me erratic, and honestly, a little frightened. I was losing hair in clumps, and it was impossible to feel any sort of calm. Not to mention that I couldn't get warm even if I planted my ass in front of a raging bonfire.

After several frantic calls to my doctor and my therapist, it was clear I needed major changes in my life. A successful career isn't a replacement for a healthy life. Or so everyone tells me. It's not easy to hang up workaholic habits or tell clients that you've worked with for years that you can no longer be at their beck and call twenty-four-seven.

So. Seattle.

After only two weeks here, I already feel better. As I walk into my new office space in perhaps the most nondescript building on the block, I consider how ordinary it feels compared to all the sleekness I've known.

I almost feel overdressed in my vintage blue and cream Claire McCardell dress. But Vanessa greets me just inside the doors, dressed in equal style. Because of course she is like me—the woman who lives and breathes fashion.

"I have that same dress in my closet," I tell her, gesturing to her black mini Stine Goya dress. "We'll need to coordinate from here on out."

"I'm so glad you're here," she greets with a laugh. "I've missed you, my friend."

Vanessa and I met in college. She was the posh to my eccentric. Though our backgrounds couldn't have been more opposite, we became fast friends. Our paths have rarely crossed these past twenty years, but we've always maintained our friendship.

"I'm glad to be here, it's already feeling like home."

"Well, with that amazing mansion you just bought, it ought to."

"It's a big place, but mansion," I ask, skeptical.

", that place is huge and you're coming from that tiny apartment that couldn't even fit your wardrobe."

"True." I laugh. "That's not a problem anymore. I converted two spare rooms into my closets."

"I'd expect nothing less." She grins. "Come on, I'll show you around, then let you settle in before your first meeting."

The group I'm mentoring comprises of twenty-two freshmen students. This week, I'll be meeting with each of them to talk about aspirations and look over their portfolios. Vanessa sent over their applications to me, but I didn't look through them. They're in the most exciting time of their lives and I want to live that with them. Besides, it's good experience for pitching themselves.

Nothing about the interior of the institute fits the bland exterior. It's bright, natural light seeping in from windows, along with thoughtful lighting conducive to the large open workspaces. No expense has been spared on the sewing equipment or the computers that students will be able to use to design and fabricate their own textiles. Everything is clean and bare now, but I know it won't take long before it's covered in swatches, scraps, and spools of thread.

I can't wait for it. As stressful as it can be, there's something endlessly exciting about the newness of it. I haven't been offered the chance to experience cutting-edge fashion from its infancy since I, too, was a student.

"Your office is upstairs." Vanessa points up to a bank of windows that overlook the workspace. "Come on."

We ascend a set of stairs to a lobby containing a small reception area and a large coffee bar. Priorities. Down the hall, we pass several offices. Vanessa introduces me to my new peers, a few professors and a couple of admin. Mostly women, but one professor, Jake, reminds me of a younger Tim Gunn with his three-piece, perfectly tailored, suit. The other two, Feng and Jolene, are equally as pleasant.

My office is at the end of the hall, sitting on a corner with dual aspect windows that overlook the mountain in the distance.

"Well," I muse, dropping my handbag onto the large desk, "a lady could get used to this."

"That's the idea, anyway," Vanessa responds. She had tried to get me to sign a five-year contract. I refused, not knowing if this was the right move or not. We haggled and settled at two. From there…who knows. I should have known she'd continue trying to tempt me in any way she could. This view does that, for certain.

My house sits on a lake but it's at the wrong angle to get a mountain view. Looks like I'm being spoiled with that, too. I'm not complaining.

"You're starting off strong," I tell her. "This place is great."

"It is," she agrees. "It's the start of something great, I think."

"I can feel that."

"Again, I'm glad you're here, Ode. I'll let you get settled, but we're doing drinks this Friday."

"That sounds divine, Vanessa."

"Great! Everything you need to log in is in the folder on your desk. I'm just across the hall, holler if you need anything."

"Thank you," I say. "I mean it."

"You're welcome," she tells me with a knowing smile. "Don't go easy on the newbies today."

She laughs as she leaves me, but after meeting the first three students, it's clear I can't go hard. So far, they're all amazing with endless potential oozing from every pore.

Benji was first up, aspiring to be a ready-to-wear designer like Ralph Lauren or Michael Kors. He has an eye for color and comes up with unexpected combinations that somehow work beautifully.

Celine was next and is edgier. She'll easily have a career in haute couture. Her pieces were works of art and she's leaning into unconventional material choices.

Jun-Li was my third student and the first one to proudly admit she only works with neutrals, no color whatsoever. A bold move, as it can lend to the finer details of a garment not carrying over so well to the runway or magazine layouts. But she had talent in spades.

The knock on my office door signals my fourth student's arrival.

"Miss Quinn?"

"Hello," I call, waving her in. She's tall with dark hair and darker eyes. She could model, honestly. As I scan her style, I don't recognize a single item on her, though it clearly isn't an ensemble she picked up at the local shopping mall, either. "Call me , please."

"," she tries out. "Okay. Hi, I'm Tori."

"Have a seat, Tori." I wait for her to sit in the chair opposite me. She nervously places her hands in a few different positions before laying them on her thighs with a soft sigh. "You're nervous."

"Yeah, sorry. You're just…well, sort of my idol." The olive skin darkens on the apples of her cheeks.

"Oh? Do you want to take the styling route?"

She shakes her head. "I want to design my own line, but more like how you design."

It's no secret that I design many of my own outfits and some for a few selected clients. But I never did take it as far as starting my own fashion house. That may have been my dream at the young age of eighteen, but the more jobs I acquired as a stylist, the more I fell in love with it.

"Seldomly?" I tease the question.

"No," she laughs, some tension leaving her shoulders. "I want to design full-time, but I want to do it as responsibly as possible. No fast fashion, no overseas child labor, and no waste."

"A lofty goal. Do you have a plan for it?"

"The beginnings of one. I need to learn more about the industry before I hammer out the finer details, but I believe I can accomplish it."

"I like your confidence, Tori. Show me what you've got," I say, nodding toward the portfolio set in the chair next to her. She hands it to me, and I flip it open to the first page. It's a collage of photos, not drawings like the students before her. "Tell me about these."

"These are all fits I put together using thrifted items that had seen better days and giving them new life. Most garments are a combination of three or four thrifted ones."

"Your use of patterns is exceptional," I compliment. Again, it's a display of unexpected combinations, florals mixed with geometrics or stripes. Her use of color is bold but softened by feminine touches of lace or bows. It's almost coquettish at times, but without the girlish aspect. I can see women of all ages in the clothes. Hell, I'd wear several of them. "Where did your inspiration come from?"

"When I was eight, I saw my first episode of Project Runway . I was a goner from there. My mom bought me a sewing machine and some fabric. But my dad told me about a friend they'd had when they were younger. She'd gone to secondhand shops and redesigned the items she found into her own style," she says. "I fell in love with the idea and never really looked back."

"Their friend sounds a lot like me," I say, flipping the page. I stop when I notice the name embossed on the inside of the cover. Victoria Vaughn. I pause and get a better look at her face. Holy shit. "Vaughn? Daughter of Caroline and Gavin?"

"Yes," she says, her eyes widening in surprise.

"I grew up with your parents," I tell her, leaning back in my chair. "I probably am that friend your dad spoke of."

Gavin Vaughn was at the top of my cons list. I'd convinced myself that this city was big enough for the two of us and I wasn't likely to run into him at all. Who would have expected his daughter to be sitting in my office on my first day at work? Not me, surely.

Tori looks like them both, now that I take a moment to consider it. She has Gavin's eyes and Caroline's high cheek bones and petite nose.

"Oh my god," Tori whispers. "That's so badass."

Badass? I'm not sure. Fortuitous? I sure hope not. Just my luck? Fucking probably. Tori seems as shocked by this revelation as I am. I guess her parents never mentioned they knew me. Why would they, though? Who was I to them? To Caroline, I would have been one of the artsy girls that never rated her attention as part of the elite high school student body. To Gavin…well, I was probably only a mistake he made that one summer. The girl he slummed it with while on a break from the girl he really loved.

It's all water under the bridge, now, and thoughts that Tori never needs to hear. She's not her parents and I won't treat her any differently due to the pain they caused me all those years ago. My job is to nurture her talent and this young woman has that in spades.

"Why Seattle," I ask her, knowing her roots match mine in New York state. With this portfolio, she could have gotten into Parsons.

"I missed my dad," she says with an easy shrug. "He's here, so I am, too. Besides, I don't think the evolution of sustainable fashion will start in New York."

I've avoided run-ins with Gavin and Caroline for damn near twenty years, but now, it may be inevitable. For the first time since I deplaned at SeaTac airport, I'm questioning my decisions.