Chapter 10: Ink and Affidavit
The local print shop in town smelled of warm toner, fresh newsprint, and industrial coffee. It was housed in a converted brick warehouse near the old railway station, run by a retired pressman named Thomas whose family had lived in the county for generations. The bell above the door chimed softly as Maya and I stepped inside out of the crisp autumn air, carrying a heavy canvas tote bag filled with original vellum drafts, legal affidavits, and my mother’s personal correspondence.
Thomas looked up from behind the high laminate counter, his weathered face breaking into a cautious, respectful smile when he recognized me. "Clara? Good grief, it's been a coons' age since I saw you in town. You and Julian usually stay down in the city with the fancy gallery crowd."
"Things change, Thomas," I said, setting the canvas bag down on the counter with a soft thud. I unzipped the top and pulled out the thick stack of documents, sliding them across the worn wood toward him. "I need certified copies of these patterns made immediately. And I need you to put me in touch with Sarah Lin, the investigative arts reporter for the regional gazette."
Thomas adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, leaning down to examine the topmost sheet of vellum. Even under the harsh fluorescent lights of the print shop, my mother's graphite annotations and signature were unmistakable. His expression shifted instantly from casual neighborly warmth to professional gravity. He didn't ask questions; in a small town, people knew when a heavy truth was finally coming home to roost.
"Sarah was in the ballroom last night as a guest of the foundation," Thomas said quietly, his finger tracing the edge of the embossed foundation seal on one of the letters. "She called me twenty minutes ago asking if I knew anything about the family history behind the runway disruption. Word travels fast when a billionaire designer gets called out by a teenager with an envelope."
"She has the right envelope," Maya said proudly, leaning against the counter beside me.
Thomas looked up from the documents, meeting my eyes with a firm, supportive nod. He reached out and placed his hand over the stack of papers as if to anchor them against the wind. "Give me twenty minutes to run these through the flatbed scanner and verify the watermarks for the legal record. Then I'll dial Sarah directly from the office back room. You ready for what comes after this, Clara?"
May you like
I looked down at the canvas bag, then over at my daughter, who stood beside me with her head held high and her shoulders unburdened by the secrets we had carried for so long. The fear that had gripped my chest in the ballroom banquet hall was completely gone, replaced by the steady, unbreakable rhythm of the lake outside and the quiet truth of my mother's hands.
"I've been ready for twenty years, Thomas," I said. "Let's make copies."
