Free Dress Me in Wildflowers by Trish Milburn

the Romans and the Spartans.
    But the third degree never came, which illustrated even further how much Tammie and their relationship had changed. Though Tammie posed no questions, she did shoot Farrin a quizzical look as they both exited the car into the crisp night air. And then Tammie turned and headed inside with Kurt. Farrin waited a few seconds before following.
    Faye, who had been getting up before the sun for as long as Farrin had known her, sat in her recliner dressed in her gown, robe and house slippers when they entered the front door.
    “I didn’t expect you all back so soon,” she said.
    “Farrin was tired,” Tammie said, the barest hint of a bite in her words. She paused for a moment. “We’re all tired.”
    “All three of you work too hard. No wonder you’re exhausted all the time.”
    “You’re a fine one to talk,” Tammie said, her voice softening.
    Faye waved her hand in dismissal, then rose from the chair. “It’s past my bedtime. I’ll see you in the morning.”
    Tammie gave her mother a hug. “You know, you don’t have to stay up for us anymore. We’re big girls now.”
    Faye patted Tammie’s face. “That I know, dear. But some old habits can’t be broken.”
    Farrin accepted a hug from Faye and felt tears sting her eyes. This, she missed. The full squeeze of a hug from someone who really cared about her, not the little barely-there hugs she’d grown accustomed to at parties and fashion shows. Even Mark’s hugs hadn’t been the same. Still restrained, as if pressing someone too close simply wasn’t done.
    Kurt disappeared down the hall on Faye’s heels. Farrin didn’t move as she heard first Faye’s door, then the distinctive squeak of the door to Tammie’s room.
    Farrin smiled. “I can’t believe that door still squeaks.”
    Tammie looked at her. “She’s sprayed it, oiled it, everything. The squeak keeps coming back.”
    They stood in awkward silence for a few seconds.
    “Well, I really am tired,” Tammie said. “Goodnight.”
    “Goodnight. See you in the morning.”
    They sounded like strangers. Farrin guessed they were.
    Instead of going to bed herself, Farrin stayed in the living room, walking around the edges looking at the pictures lining the walls and all available surfaces. As expected, Grandma Faye had plenty of photos of her grandchildren. But what surprised Farrin was how many pictures included her. Even after all these years away, her teenage face still stared out at Faye every day. School pictures, dressed-up shots before homecomings and dances, she and Tammie covered head to toe in mud after going four-wheeling on Tammie’s cousins’ farm, the two of them beaming in their caps and gowns at graduation.
    Shame filled her. Of all the photos in her New York home, not a one displayed the faces of the people who’d meant so much to her. Not Faye, not Tammie, not even her mother.
    When she spotted a thick scrapbook on the bottom shelf of the coffee table, she pulled it out and sat down on the couch. She leaned back and opened the cover. Oh my. She scanned the pages of magazine photos, articles, even some of her early sketches done while in high school. It was a diary of her career from even before it could have been pegged as such. A lump formed in her throat.
    Farrin swallowed and swiped away a tear. She ran her fingers over the photos of her first People profile, written after she’d been literally plucked from obscurity to design a dress for a Golden Globe-nominated actress. She still loved that pearly pink creation.
    By the time she finished looking through the scrapbook, an hour had passed. She closed the book and held it against her chest. Memories of the days when her college classmates had asked her to design dresses for sorority formals and then their weddings entwined with those of how floored she’d been by the requests of increasingly famous clients. Of how the more successful she became, the more she forgot how she’d gotten there.
    A long sigh