Chapter 4: Lost and Found

A/N:

Sorry for the wait… I had a bit of a mental block on this one… but once I figured it out, I had lots of fun writing and researching it! Hope you enjoy too!

I want to give grateful acknowledgment to JustineLark who has been enormously helpful through this writing process.

All recognizable characters are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer, no copyright infringement is intended.

Record of Committal to Mississippi State Asylum

Date: August 8, 1938

Case #: 534 X-237

Subject: Mary Alice Brandon

Date of Birth: March 20, 1921

Consulting Doctor: Dr. Stephen Patton

Notes:

Miss Brandon continues to experience episodes, despite all our efforts. Admittedly she is much calmer now, and hardly violent at all after each episode, however it does not bode well for her long-term recovery. The orderly, Mr. Jones, has taken a special interest in Miss Brandon and often spends time with her, which seems to calm her. As I see nothing untoward in his interactions with her, I have allowed his visits with her to continue, despite ending the official sessions with him some time ago.

A new and exciting technique for treating schizophrenia has recently been discussed in the scientific journals that I believe may be the solution to Miss Brandon's illness. It is called "frontal lobotomy" or "leucotomy". I had the honor of speaking with one of the pioneers of this technique, Dr. Walter Freeman, at a lecture in Mississippi State University. He assured me that the procedure, where a hole is drilled in the patients head, and a sharp instrument is used to destroy the frontal lobe of the brain, has an extremely high success rate of curing patients with schizophrenia as well as those with other mental disorders. In fact, he tells me that the vast majority of his patients, including those who were quite violently aggressive are able to be returned to their families in complete peace with the world after the procedure. The Freeman-Watts procedure (as it is known) requires surgery and is therefore a costly option for a state-run Asylum; however Dr. Freeman hopes to one day perfect a technique that can be performed without surgery. Until that time, I believe that Miss Brandon is an ideal subject for this treatment, and is well worth the investment. Dr. Freeman, intrigued by her case, has agreed to perform the operation pro-bono the next time he is in town, in perhaps 4 months time.

It is this doctor's opinion that Miss Brandon may need to remain in the care of the Mississippi state asylum for the remainder of her life unless we can drastically change her current mental state. In that vein, I respectfully request the funds to book an operating theater at the Biloxi General Hospital for when Dr. Freeman returns to Mississippi.

Signed,

Dr. Stephan Patton

May, 1947- May, 1948

One would think it only takes a few days to get from Chicago to Philadelphia by car, a week at the most.

It took a year.

A year!

A long, miserable, hateful YEAR!

Well, actually it wasn't that hateful. And it wasn't even all that miserable. But it WAS painful. Every day the hole inside of me seemed to grow, to consume me. Now that I knew what was missing and knew where to find it, every day that I wasn't with him hurt more than the last.

My only consolation was that the vision never changed… I searched for it five, ten, fifty times a day, and it never wavered.

So what dragged me away from destiny?

What else? Fashion…

I was speeding down route 30 west, not paying any attention to the road ahead of me, focusing instead on cataloging every detail of the vision. The smell of the coffee, the beads of sweat on the line cook's upper lip, the ticking of a large clock over the door, the wisps of hair escaping from the waitress's carefully pinned hair. I had just noticed that the calendar hung by the register said "May" when a new vision interrupted my careful study: Me being manhandled by a human into a police car.

What?

I snapped out of my vision, the senses of the world around me coming back into focus… the sight of the road, trees and houses flying by at rate much faster than the posted speed limit should allow; the smell of the hot rubber tires and asphalt; the feel of the bright sun through the windshield of the car; the sound of the police siren wailing behind me.

Oops.

I couldn't pull over, not with the sun as bright as it was. I was normally much more careful about traveling in the day time, but I was so desperate to fulfill the vision I hadn't even bothered to think about the weather. Luckily the top was up, but that wouldn't make too much of a difference with the morning light shining directly in the windshield.

I gunned the engine, blessing the designers who saw fit to outfit a luxurious vehicle with a motor that could run a truck. I thought I might be able to outrun him. The thought briefly crossed my mind that I could stop in an out of the way place and dispatch the officer when he approached the car, but I immediately dismissed it. Even though the man of my vision had red eyes in the diner, I did not, and I wasn't about to jeopardize the vision. Not to mention that after several years of refraining to take human life, and spending so much time with them I was also simply repulsed by the idea. I had become morally opposed to murder, like the two vampires in my vision and the rest of their coven.

As I rounded a curve I swerved to pass a motorist with much more respect for the laws of the nation than I. The left rear tire, overheated and under serviced, gave out with the increased pressure. It popped with a loud BANG! The steering wheel jerked in my hands, and even my vampire strength was unable to hold the car on the road. It hit the edge of the pavement and flipped, rolling down an embankment. I was thrown about inside the cab, my carefully packed parcels and garment bags bouncing with me like balls in a bingo spinner. I could smell it when the gas line blew, and I didn't need a vision to tell me that was serious trouble. As the car came to rest at the bottom of the embankment I used my strength to force open the door and flung myself away from the car just as it exploded in a huge fireball. I picked myself up and sped to a nearby grove of trees, sure that the policeman, his car stopped now on the road above, would see me but needing to get away from the terrifying flames. I hunkered down in the cool shadow of the trees and checked my visions; he must not have seen me as I had no indication of anyone searching the trees.

I stayed in the trees till nightfall, watching warily as my car and all my beautiful clothes burned down to nothingness. The fire truck was a long time coming, and when it did there was little they could do except stamp out the last of the flames. Men in coveralls shoveled what was left into wheelbarrows that they dumped into a truck waiting above. They made depressingly few trips back and forth before all that remained was a patch of scorched earth.

I was now car-less, and clothes-less other than the single outfit I was wearing. I had even lost the key to the safe deposit box in Chicago that held my stock certificates. I had a few dollars pinned in the hem of my skirt as well as a pretty gold necklace with a diamond pendant that I could pawn for cash and easily transform that into my previous fortune with a day at the races, but I was truly sad about the loss of my clothes, including the purple dress.

I mourned for the better part of the night before mentally slapping myself in the face. Those are only CLOTHES, I told myself, you have much more important things in life. I thought of the face, the kind, golden-eyed face rather than the care-worn red eyed face in my vision. I would find him, and I vowed that once I did, I would never put as much stock in clothing again. Of course I would keep BUYING clothing, it would be silly not to, and of course I would keep buying the very best clothing. I simply would never again put as much sentiment into it. Besides, if you only wear things once, you have to buy more. I smiled.

***

I crept into Pittsburgh on foot three days later. I was still rattled by my close call with the police so I avoided the smaller towns I passed until I reached the anonymity of the city. I needed a car, to replenish my cash and to shop for a few outfits. Unfortunately replenishing the cash would take a bit of time, as horse racing was still illegal in Pennsylvania. There was a new auto race track being built, but it wasn't scheduled to open until 1948.

I could simply steal a car and drive on, but I would need cash to refuel it, and the small amount I had wouldn't get me very far. As I walked the predawn streets, contemplating my options, I was distracted by a truck dropping off a pile of papers at a nearby news stand. I crossed the street to get a paper, perhaps there was a Steelers game later on I could bet on, though I admit I knew very little about sports and their seasons, I preferred to bet my money on quick returns, like 2 minute horse races, or a spin of the roulette wheel. As I bent to pick up a copy something on the magazine rack caught my eye. It was the May edition of Harper's Bazaar… the magazine that, along with Vogue, had quickly become my bible in my new found love for fashion. I had neglected to pick up a copy in my intense search for the man in my vision, and I plucked a copy off the rack in addition to the newspaper. I handed the newsboy a dollar, telling him to keep the change, and headed off in search of a bookie.

It was early still, so once I located an appropriate bookie, who hid out in the back of a dingy little pawn shop, I passed the time by walking out by the rivers, pausing on one of the many bridges. Pittsburgh, despite the gray iron of the buildings and the choking smoke from the steel mills was located in a beautiful spot. I found that the gentle bend of the rivers as they came to join together and the natural crags of the surrounding mountains brought a pleasing contrast to the sharp lines and heavy weight of the mills, especially in the soft morning light.

I finally settled myself on a bench and opened the paper. The Steelers weren't playing, football apparently is only played in the fall, but the Pittsburgh Pirates Baseball team was scheduled for a game that afternoon. It was a home game, against the St. Louis Cardinals, by all accounts a much stronger team. The Pirates were on a losing streak, and according to the paper they would need a miracle to win. However, a quick vision revealed a 3-0 win for the Pirates.

At about 10 o'clock I stepped into the bookmaker's shop, pretending to look at the dust-covered items that were his front. After a few minutes a man slipped out of the back room, giving me a furtive glance before ducking out the door. He was followed seconds later by a large man with a pencil shoved behind his ear. His eyes narrowed on spotting me.

"Excuse me sir, are you the man that takes money for bets?" I purposely lowered and roughened my voice. I knew my dress was too fine for the role I was trying to play, but hoped he wouldn't look past the dirt and smudges I'd accumulated in escaping from the car and spending three days in the woods.

"Betting's illegal here, miss. Even a little thing like yourself should know that." His voice was deep and gruff.

"I'm sorry sir, but my husband, he's real sick see… and we just don't have money for the doctor. My husband loves baseball and last night he had a dream that the Pirates are going to win today. He woke up this morning, looking like death warmed over and he reached under the mattress and he pulled out what little money we have left." I held out the wad of cash and waved it, the bookies eyes grew sharp at the sight. I continued with my story, "'Alice,' he says, 'you go down to Mr. Grove at Grove's pawn and you put every penny of this money on the Pirates to win, three zip.' 'three zip?' I says. 'three zip,' he tells me. 'The good Lord sent me a vision last night to give us a way out of this mess. Now get on down there now.' So here I am, sir."

"Alice? You wouldn't be Jason Hopper's wife would you?" He asked, still suspicious. I checked my vision of his reaction before nodding. "I haven't seen him in an age, didn't realize he was sick." His eyes grew sly. "Well, I suppose I can do something to help you out, seeing as how Jason is an old… friend." He rubbed his hands together. "Though I have to warn you, the odds aren't really in your favor, the Pirates being the home town team, and all."

"Why Mr. Grove, I know that can't be true. It said in the paper just this morning that the Pirates were expected to lose." I waved the paper at him. "My Jason, he told me to make sure I go with you into your back room so I can see the odds myself." The big man grunted and narrowed his eyes again, but he led me to the back door. The office was extremely cramped, really no more than a closet, filled with a desk piled with papers. A board on the wall behind the desk listed the odds for the various events one could bet on. The Pirates-Cardinals game for today was down at 10 to 1 in favor of the Cardinals. Not the worst odds I'd ever bet on, but not quite enough. Betting on the exact outcome would raise the odds significantly. I haggled with the man some, and then finally came to an agreement of a 40 to 1 payout for the Pirates 3, Cardinals 0 outcome. I wasn't normally so blatant, but I was a bit desperate. Mr. Grove was a bit smug as I left the shop, convinced that I would lose.

The game wasn't until the afternoon, but I went ahead to the ballpark and bought a ticket. I had never been to a baseball game before, and figured I might as well enjoy the spectacle.

It was May 10th, a Saturday. I thought about the vision of the diner and decided it must have been a weekday, as there were so few patrons. I sighed. I would get there soon enough. I opened up my Harper's Bazaar and began scanning through it. There was a translation of a short story by the Russian author Vladimir Nabokov called Spring in Fialta, which I enjoyed, but when I flipped the page the world stood still. It was a full page photograph of a woman a quiet Parisian street, her white jacket contrasting sharply with her dark full skirt and black gloves, a white bowl shaped hat completed the outfit. The jacket was tapered in almost severely at the waist but flared out at the hips, an alluring v of black from the skirt visible from where it opened in the front. But the skirt! The skirt! It was long, down to her calves- revealing only the thin turn of her ankles and so full as to be obscene! The amount of fabric that must have gone into that one skirt! It boggled the mind! Throughout the War, fabric was rationed, styles were simple and streamline to minimize waste and had remained so even as rationing was slowly letting up. But this skirt was an affront to that entire fashion sensibility! It was a breath of fresh air! I devoured the article. The entire outfit was the work of a Frenchman named Christian Dior, who had just opened a fashion house outside of Paris. He debuted his line in February in Europe and was taking the world by storm. The Editor of Harper's Bazaar, Carmel Snow, closed the article by saying "It's quite a revelation, dear Christian. Your dresses have such a New Look."

A "New Look" indeed!!! I noticed a note at the end of the article saying that Mr. Dior would be coming to New York on May 12 for a show at the Plaza Hotel, the same location of the yearly "Press Week" which showcased American fashion designers for the press. I did some quick calculating in my head. If I stole a car tonight after gathering my winnings, I could easily be in New York for the show, and then back to Philadelphia the next day. It would still be May, right? I was paralyzed by indecision. There was no way I would miss my opportunity to find my other half, the ragged hole in my soul burned at the thought. But at the same time…

I stayed undecided through the whole game, not noticing a single pitch or play. Finally I realized I could test my decision. I thought, I'm going to go see this New Look for myself! Then searched for the vision. It was completely unchanged. I sighed in relief. I would go, see the show, and return to wait on the stool at the bar until he came through the door. I leapt to my feet, startling the people around me who had been waiting breathlessly as the pitcher wound up. I glanced at the scoreboard- it was 3-0, in favor of the Pirates, and the Cardinals were at bat with two outs, two strikes. I didn't wait for the end, I scrambled over the knees and feet of the people on the row, ignoring their curses. I did hear the smack of the ball against a glove, and the woosh of the bat passing through the air followed by the umpire's yell: "Yerrrrrr Out!" but I didn't stop.

Mr. Groves wanted to hassle me about my miracle win, but I had fashion on the brain, and I glared at him. He gulped and backed down, handing over the money. I had still planned on stealing a car, but then decided to take a bus. My visions showed that the weather would remain cloudy for the next few days, as it had that day, so I would be safe. I didn't like taking public transportation. Too many bodies with too little fresh air to diffuse the scent, but this way I could read and re-read the magazine and focus on my vision without worrying about running off the road or attracting unwanted attention. I purchased a ticket at the bus terminal and stepped on board, choosing a seat towards the back. I cracked a window and glared at anyone foolish enough to think about sitting near me, and was left alone.

Once I arrived in New York late on Sunday I tried to look up Sonya, but she had apparently moved on. I spent some money on a decent hotel room so I could bathe and I went to Macy's to purchase a new dress for the show. It was not couture, but it would do. For now.

I paced my room, quivering in excitement, waiting for the show to start. I arrived quiet early and easily talked my way in, despite my lack of press or fashion credentials. Madame Mimi was there, of course, and I carefully avoided her, but I did see her in deep conversation with Eleanor Lambert, the "Empress of Seventh Avenue" and the grand dame of Press Week. I found a seat a little ways away from them, in the second row, which bothered me because I wouldn't be able to see as clearly over the heads of the people in front of me, but I didn't want to be noticed. As the room filled up I focused on not breathing so as to not be overwhelmed by the scent of the tightly packed humans. This was worse than the bus, but worth it for the show.

"Is this seat taken?" A soft masculine voice spoke in my ear, the French accent lifting up the end of his words. I looked up at a well dressed but unassuming man, in his early 40's, and shook my head, smiling at him. "Merci." He said, softly again. Without vampire hearing it would have been hard to hear him over the buzz of the crowd. As he sat a man stepped out from behind the curtain set at the end of the ballroom.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, but mostly Ladies," he said, to laughter from the audience, his voice was nasal and his accent very, very French. "I am pleased to present… The New Look!" He gestured broadly, and a line of models appeared.

"Is that Monsieur Dior?" I asked the man next to me.

"Non, that is Jacques Rouett, the manager. He is a much better show man than Monsieur Dior." He whispered back. But then the models started walking down the catwalk, and everything else left my mind. I was entranced by the shape, the use of fabric, the simple colors. It was all breathtaking.

When it was all over I clapped and clapped along with the rest of the crowd. If I could, I would have had tears running down my face.

"Did the clothes move you, ma cherie?" the man next to me asked.

"Oh yes!" I replied.

"Why?"

That simple question unlocked the floodgates. I poured out my feelings on cut and color, I waxed eloquent on the use of fabrics and stitching, and I espoused the virtues of design and fit. I spoke at length on how it was time for the old to be put away in favor of new, post-war designs. I was quivering in my passion, and the man gave me a broad smile in return.

"I am glad you like my clothes so much, Cherie, we are very much of the same mind."

Wait... What?

"Excuse me, sir, are YOU Christian Dior?" I was shocked… not something that happens often to a psychic vampire. He wasn't exactly how I pictured him. I guess I'd expected someone more like Monsieur Rouett, young, thin, sharp and outgoing, not this kind gentlemanly man beside me.

"Oui, but I would ask that you not say it so loudly, I am not one for the spotlight and would not like to draw attention to myself. I would prefer for the focus to be on the clothes, and not the man." He smiled again. "I have to go meet with several fashion editors and socialites now, but would you mind meeting me here tomorrow? Rouett says the American market is ripe for plucking, and has been encouraging me to find an assistant to start our empire here. I would like to discuss making you that assistant."

I gulped, at a loss for words for the first time. Christian Dior was a God, despite the fact his fashion house only opened just a few months before. He wanted ME to work for him? The fluttering in my stomach matched the wobbling of my knees.

But what about my vision?! I couldn't abandon that! He smiled at my obvious shock and confusion. "No decisions now." He patted my cheek. "Oh! But you are freezing! Go outside into the warm May sunshine and think about it. Come to me tomorrow at 10 am sharp, we will meet in the lobby, and discuss more. What is your name, by the way?"

"Alice… Alice, uh, Nuveau." I had learned a bit of French from all the fashion magazines, and it was the first thing that popped into my head.

He laughed. "Well, my 'New' Alice, I will see you tomorrow. Au revoir." He walked away. I stared after him and then stumbled outside. It was warm, but still not sunny, and I headed directly into the park, to clear my head.

On the one hand was the man in Philadelphia, the other half of my soul, the face that was the first thing I saw in this existence of mine, and still saw every day, every second, since.

On the other was my absolute dream job… if I could sleep and dream.

Why could I not have them both? Was fate so cruel to offer this to me now that I was so close to finding my soulmate? Was I being tested?

I sought out the vision again, comforted by the fact it still remained unchanged. My wavering decision had not altered the outcome… yet.

I sat in the park all night, wrestling with my decision. There was something I was missing, I was sure of it.

As dawn broke over the skyline, I pulled up the vision for the hundredth time that night, becoming more certain that there was something I just wasn't seeing.

Everything was the same: the coffee in the pot, the fly on the wall, the waitress's nametag, "Doris." I watched myself fidget, watched him pause outside on the street corner. I glanced around, frantic. The vision always ended with me meeting him, I couldn't make it go any farther, and I still hadn't figured out what I was missing. There was the clock on the wall, the cook at the griddle, the patrons at the counter, the calendar by the register.

The calendar by the register.

I had noticed that it said "May" before, but I hadn't noticed the date. As the vision faded out I saw the smaller type at the bottom of the page. The year: 1948.

A wave of relief washed over me as well as a wave of sadness. I had a whole other year to wait to heal the hole inside of me? To meet the man behind the face that haunted my every thought for the first time? But… I also had a whole year to work for Monsieur Dior! I clapped my hands together in glee. At least if I had a year before I could find Him, I could spend it immersed up to my eyeballs in the greatest fashion of the era!

I skipped up out of the park, startling a mounted police officer, and back to the Plaza. I paused before entering. I was much too early, and besides, I was still wearing the same dress as yesterday.

I remembered my promise to myself. Well, I hadn't found Him yet, but I could go ahead and hold up my end of the bargain… no reason to wear the same clothes twice!

I went back to Macy's, as I was still on a budget and couldn't purchase the couture I was dying to wear until I hit the track. I was bouncing on the balls of my feet as they finally unlocked the front doors and I darted inside and up to the fine woman's fashion. I was disappointed with my choices after seeing the marvelous dresses in the show the day before, but I did manage to pull something together I thought would work. The shopgirl looked a bit scandalized by my selections, but she didn't say a word as she wrapped up my purchases. I snatched the bag out of her hands and flew down to the ladies' room on the ground floor. No one was there yet due to the early hour, so I changed in the lounge area. I touched up my makeup and fluffed my hair. It was still unfashionably short, but I would just have to act edgy and snobby, and I could get away with anything.

I put the old dress in the bag, and handed it to a woman outside the store asking for charity for some orphanage. I wasn't sure what the orphans would do with a fashionable dress from Macy's, but I was sure they'd figure something out.

I presented myself in the lobby of the Plaza Hotel at 10 am sharp. Monsieurs Dior and Rouett stepped out of the elevator at the same time. Christian smiled at me, and beckoned me over.

"Alice, I would like to introduce you to Monsieur Jacques Rouett, my business manager. Jacques, this is Alice Nuveau." He offered his hand and I took it, nervous he would comment about my cold touch. He didn't say a thing, even when he touched his lips to my cold, hard skin and muttered, "Enchanté."

We got right to business. They asked my background and I admitted little except great enthusiasm and a love for fine fashion. Christian vouched for my good fashion sense. I mentioned my time working in the clothing mill during the war, which surprised them, but Rouett thought that was a good thing for me to have that sort of experience with the mass production side of the industry. I was nervous of Rouett at first; he was quite different from Christian, who was soft spoken with an artistic temperament. Jacques Rouett was the consummate business man, sharp and no nonsense. But he clearly cared for Christian and supported him in his decisions.

I realized I'd been calling him Christian in my head and even in conversation since he emerged from the elevator, though he had never corrected me. I felt like we were already very old friends.

They asked when I would be ready to leave New York, and I told them, "Immediately. I can honestly say there is nothing holding me here."

"Excellent!" Christian said. "You will accompany us back to Paris and learn that end of the business; once you are ready we will send you back to America to represent us here!" I grinned in response.

"There is one thing," Rouett said, "Do you speak French? It will be difficult for you at House Dior if you do not."

"No, but I think you'll find, my dear Jacques, that I am an extremely quick study!" I lifted my nose, and winked at Christian, who burst into delighted laughter. Jacques raised an eyebrow, but his lips lifted in a small smile as well.

We were to leave the next day, and they sent me off to "pack and say your farewells." As I didn't have much of either to do, I went instead back to Macy's to purchase a few more clothes and some luggage, after a detour to the racetrack to replenish my dwindling cash flow. I loved the track, with its anonymous betting. So long as I placed my bets at different windows, no one noticed I was winning big at every race. With each race lasting as little as 2 minutes, with only 15 minutes between races, it was quick earnings as well. I never got near the paddock, the one time I did, the horses, already high strung with the excitement of the race, all began bucking and squealing, throwing riders and trampling handlers. So I kept to the stands and enjoyed people watching instead.

The next morning I met the two Frenchmen and their gaggle of leggy models at the airport.

"Have you ever been on a plane before?" Christian asked me.

"No." I told him. I was a bit apprehensive about it – being stuck in a small space with so many humans for so many hours. It would be worse than the bus since there was no way to open a window, and besides, I would be expected to make small talk with my new employer.

I had hunted the night before, but as I couldn't take the time to get very far out of town, I was only able to catch a single scrawny deer. I hoped it would be enough.

Christian saw the nerves in my eyes. "Not to worry, ma Cherie. It is quite safe. Though I admit I too get butterflies in my stomach every time we take off."

Luckily once we were on board and in the air I was mostly left alone. They seemed to respect my "fear of flying" and no one got too close to see I wasn't breathing very much. I passed the time by replaying the vision in my head, comforting myself with the fact that it wasn't changing, even though I was headed thousands of miles from Philadelphia. I also listened to the models chattering in French. My sharp ears and vampire memory made learning the language quite easy. I made a mental note to not become too good too quickly, as I didn't want to arouse suspicion.

We finally landed in Paris, and I took a deep breath of European air for the first time. I was disappointed that it didn't smell all that different from New York air. In fact, it probably smelled just a bit worse.

Paris was still in shambles after the years of occupation, but the proud French were staunchly rebuilding their capital. Christian pointed out the sights to me as we rode through the streets in the motor car that met us at the airport. The models had headed off on their own, back to their own lives, with lots of air kisses and calls of "Au Revoir!" Jacques, Christian and I headed to the House of Dior.

I wasn't entirely sure what to expect when I arrived at the step of the House that had made such a name for itself in a few short months. The House itself was a modest mansion on Avenue Montaigne, decorated in Christian's signature grays and white. "We have 85 employees." Jacques explained to me, "mostly seamstresses, though there are a few shopgirls at the front of the house, and several accountants. We may be new, but we plan to be a powerhouse, and put Paris back on the map of fashion! I have big plans for the name of Dior," he confided, "while we don't want to lose the exclusivity of the name, both Christian and I want to reach as many people as possible. Of course, Christian wants to do it to spread good taste in clothing to the world, and I want to do it to bring in the revenue!" He laughed at his joke. I laughed along with him, for though I was more on Christian's side of the line – I thought every woman deserved to be clothed in the New Look – I could tell that Jacques cared deeply about him, and his business, and took great pride in the successes.

My role was to stick close to Christian over the next few months. I reveled in the opportunity. I learned so much from him- how to cut fabric so that it draped just so when stitched, how to match textures, how to sew a seam so it was completely hidden. We had come back from New York with a mountain of orders, and it felt like more came in every day. Christian would walk the floor in the morning, overseeing the seamstresses, offering a comment or kind word here or there. The seamstresses were managed by one of Christian's 'muses': Marguerite Carré, a woman with an iron backbone. Clients often came to the house, but he never waited on them himself, preferring his privacy and to leave that to Suzanne Luling, the sales director and her shop girls. In the afternoons he would retreat to his design studio and work on sketches for the new line. There would be a big show in the fall, followed by a series of private shows. We had even been contracted by the King of England to do a private show for several of the royals in London, though not the princesses, as Christian's designs were deemed too controversial in a land where rationing was still in place for two young fashion plates to wear.

I loved watching him sketch. Every so often he would ask for my advice on a cut or a line, and it thrilled me to answer him with my opinion. He encouraged me to make my own sketches and designs, and even let me borrow cloth and a seamstress to make a few of them. He critiqued them carefully and honestly, and praised me as my skill grew over time. My designs were considered "edgy" and a lot more daring than Christian's. I'll admit I cheated, using my visions to see trends several years ahead to influence my style. I began exclusively wearing my own creations, to his amusement.

Hunting was a bit of a problem. Paris was even more of a sprawling city than New York, and it was very difficult to get far enough away to find game, and even then it was very small. Every week I would take my one day off to head out to the countryside to catch rabbits. They were very unappealing. The occasional fox was a treat, but it was a rarity, and I never really felt satisfied. It was very tempting to go back to feeding on humans, but I resisted.

I also learned some of Jacques side of the enterprise: the accounting and the expansion of the business. He said I was a natural math whiz, and would often challenge me to complex calculations and problems. At first I cheated and used my visions to give me the answers, but soon began to enjoy the mental challenge and learned quite a bit of higher math along the way. The other part, the expansion of the business, was fascinating as well. Jacques was determined to put the name of Dior into every household, and was very savvy about doing so. I watched as he and Christian hammered out an extremely lucrative deal with an American company to market Dior brand silk stockings that would grace the shelves of department stores across the country.

"This is just the first step into the American Market." Jacques told me. The next was to offer more products and eventually open a boutique in downtown Manhattan that I was to oversee. I was excited for the opportunity, but sad to leave my new friends.

Jacques was also obsessed with the idea of a perfume for the American market. He ranted about Chanel and Jean Patou and their respective perfumes, claiming we could make something far more appealing. What fragrance, though, went unanswered.

One day, while we were relaxing in Jacques office after work he brought up the idea of the perfume again. "If only we could find something appealing, and classic. Like the perfume you wear, Alice."

"Yes, that would be lovely." Christian agreed

"But, I don't wear a perfume," I told them, confused.

"You don't?" Suzanne asked, surprised. "You always smell so nice, like roses and… something else."

"Gardenias. Roses and gardenias with a hint of sage for depth and other green florals for balance." Christian said, inhaling with his eyes closed. "My dear, if that is your natural scent, you are the most lucky woman in the world." If I could blush, I would have. I knew it was simply my natural vampire allure, designed to attract humans to me, but as he described it, it did sound good.

"Would you mind if we copied your personal scent?" Jacques asked, with a smile. "We could call it Alice!"

"Oh no," I cried. "No one would buy it. Alice is such a plain name! Besides, don't you want to keep the Dior name on it?" I deflected.

"Hmmmm… I would still like to name it after you. How about 'Miss Dior'?" Christian asked the group.

"It's perfect!" Jacques was enthusiastic. "I will get the chemists on it right away, we should have samples for you to test next week!" And that was that.

Finally it was time for me to return to the US and take up the mantle of the Dior name in America. I was very sad, but at the same time eager to get back close to Pennsylvania. I bid Jacques and Suzanne a fond "Adieu" and gave Christian a big hug. He hugged me back, tears in his eyes. "Farewell my New Alice. You will do extremely well, I am sure. You are made for bigger and better things in this life, when you find them, do not worry about leaving us behind, we will do fine without you, but even as now, we will miss you." And with that, he pushed me off towards the plane. I turned for one final wave, but the three of them were gone, lost in the crowd.

It was going to be hard working in New York without running across Madame Mimi, but I wore a lot more makeup now, and hoped she wouldn't recognize me, or at least think I looked a bit older. Actually I turned out to be so busy the few times I did see her I was running this way and that. Thank goodness for vampire speed and sleepless nights. Jacques had selected a storefront on Fifth avenue, but the shop itself needed extensive remodeling to suit a fine fashion house from Paris. I oversaw that while holding mini shows for discerning clients with the samples I brought with me from the House, and buzzing back and forth to the West Coast to take orders from Hollywood starlets. As the shop neared completion I hired and trained a slew of new shop girls, including an extremely capable girl who I groomed to be my eventual replacement. We opened our doors in late November, just in time for the Christmas rush.

Jacques remained busy signing new deals all over the place, and as their US representative I had to be on hand whenever one of the new enterprises opened up. I bounced from Chicago, where Marshal Field had exclusive rights to several designs and their own small army of seamstresses to make them up to order for top clients, to shows in California. I couldn't believe that this was all happening within the first year of the House of Dior opening its doors, it had to have been setting records. And it would only get bigger, my visions were firm on that. As the months, then weeks, and now days wore down to May my ragged hole began paining me more and more, and the demon on my back was whipping me to make all haste to Philadelphia.

I wrote Christian a long letter, telling him that I had learned so much from him, and was so grateful to him, but, as he had seemed to understand during our farewell in Paris, the time had come for me to move on. I talked with Jacques briefly on the phone, and though he wished me well, I could sense he was a bit cool towards me for "jumping ship." My replacement was well trained, however, and I knew the House would succeed without me.

***

Finally, on May first, 1948, I took my first step into Suzie's Diner. It was, of course, exactly the same as in my vision. I sat on the bar stool, taking in the sights and smells, staring in amazement at the patrons until they looked away, discomfited by my scrutiny. They weren't the right patrons, yet, but I was willing to wait.

Wait I did.

Every day I showed up, hopped up on my barstool, ordered a cup of coffee which I never touched (Doris would throw me out if I didn't order something), and waited. I wore the same outfit every day, breaking my "never wear anything twice" rule, though I did replace the individual pieces with regularity.

I waited for two weeks before, finally, the stars came together. Eddie, the cook from my vision was working that morning, after the morning rush there was only three other customers at the counter. At 10:15 one of them slapped a bill on the table, nodded to Doris and the other patrons, and headed out. The weather outside was drizzly, with the threat of real rain heavy in the air. Sudden movement from the street caught my eye, and I clutched my hands in anticipation. If my heart could beat, it would be pounding out of my chest. He paused on the street corner, and I drunk him in, his bearing: proud and noble, his face and body picture perfect. He deliberated for a second, looking at the gloomy sky, before turning to the diner. He stepped inside, shaking fine drops from his halo of golden hair. I popped off my stool and walked towards him, reminding myself over and over not to run.

"I've been waiting for you for a long time." I said and grinned broadly, he looked startled and blinked several times.

"Do I know you from somewhere?" He asked. Oh be still my cold dead heart. He had a rich , deep, melodious voice that ignited my soul and a Texas drawl that melted my knees. Up close I could see the scars that marked every visible inch of his skin, something I had not noticed in either my visions or the face that floated in my mind. But to me they did not detract from his perfection. He was undeniably the right one, and my soul was singing to me. "I feel like I know you." He whispered. I reached out a hand and he automatically reached out his to take it, meeting me half way. It was like every volt produced by the Hoover dam ran through me at his touch.

When I could finally find my voice I spoke up: "Come, I want to start our forever right now. We've wasted too much of our lives apart already. I'm Alice, by the way."

"Jasper." he said in return, his eyes not leaving my face.

I didn't let go of his hand as I led him out of the diner into the rain. As the door swung closed behind us I distinctly heard Doris sigh- the happy sigh of a woman watching young love bloom for the first time.

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Author's Note:

Please don't kill me! Next chapter will be ALL Jasper and Alice, I swear!

I got all the information on Lobotomies from Wikipedia, look there for primary sources. Freeman was a real person who started out using surgery, but in the 1940s developed new "non-surgical" techniques for performing lobotomies with an ice pick he took from his kitchen. The guy who did the first lobotomies in the early 1930's, Antonio Moniz, won a Nobel Prize for his work. It wasn't until the late 1940's that people began to question turning patients into zombies as a "treatment". Until that time it was used to treat any manner of psychological problems, including teenage "moodiness" and "youthful defiance"… yikes!!

The procedure damages or even destroys the frontal lobe, the part of the brain that controls personality, facial expressions, higher motor functions and the ability to use language. In many cases a lobotomy merely altered the patient's personality, but in many others it left them without any personality at all, along with the loss of speech, motor control and the ability to take care of themselves, they were complete blank slates.

Information on Christian Dior came from many sources, but the best by far was from the Design Museum (link on profile). He opened The House of Dior and held his first show in February 1947. Despite some outrage, the New Look, as it was known, made Dior a fixture in the fashion world. As far as I know, he didn't come to the US for a show that May, as he does in my story, but he did do several shows around Europe, including a private show for the Royal Family in England, and in the fall famous Americans flocked to Paris to see his new line.

The famous "Fashion Week" in NYC started in 1943 as "Press Week" to garner attention for American designers.