Chapter 12 - The Trouble With Going Viral
By the time they returned to Asheville, Abigail Morgan Studio had received more than three thousand inquiries, and Ryan had learned that excitement could feel remarkably similar to panic.
Some messages came from people who wanted an heirloom transformed. Others wanted the ready-to-wear collection. Independent stores asked for wholesale catalogs. A museum shop in New York requested samples. A television producer wanted Abigail to participate in a reality competition that would require leaving the studio for six weeks. Ryan sorted them into categories while June rebuilt the website's ordering system and posted clear waiting times. Abigail refused to let publicity determine the speed of her needle.
"People have trusted us with things that cannot be replaced," she reminded him. "We are not going to rush them because a stranger in Los Angeles wants overnight shipping."
They temporarily closed new heirloom commissions and introduced a waiting list. For ready-to-wear orders, June arranged production batches small enough to inspect properly. The studio hired two experienced stitchers, Marisol Vega and Evelyn Carter, after paid skills tests and honest conversations about working conditions. Ada helped train them on Abigail's construction standards. Ryan also made sure everyone received written job descriptions and breaks, something Abigail had rarely granted herself during the years she worked alone.
Success was expensive. Fabric had to be purchased before customers received clothing. Shipping materials filled a storeroom. The website needed better security, accessible design, and dependable customer support. One vendor sent a pallet of mislabeled buttons. Another delivered thread in the wrong shade. The studio's bank balance looked wonderful one week and frightening the next as wages and invoices came due.
Then the first wave of complaints appeared. Some customers had misunderstood the difference between a limited ready-to-wear garment and a custom piece made with a family heirloom. Others were disappointed that the colors on their screens didn't match the actual cloth. Ryan had been so eager to welcome every order that he'd buried important explanations beneath beautiful photographs.
June called a staff meeting. "We need to fix what we're telling people," she said. "A misunderstanding is still our problem when we could have made it clearer."
They rewrote product descriptions, improved photographs, published accurate measurements, and offered reasonable exchanges or refunds. Ryan personally called customers whose orders had been delayed. It was uncomfortable work, but several thanked him for being candid. One woman in Denver told him, "I can wait for a good jacket. I just need to know when it's coming."
A more painful problem arrived in a plain white envelope from Clara. The apron-inspired dress had been admired at the showcase, but she was worried that strangers were assuming the tiny antique panel was merely a decorative trend. She asked that future versions use new fabric and that photographs of her family's original piece not appear on product listings.
Ryan realized their storytelling policy still had holes. The customers owned their personal histories, and permission for a runway appearance did not mean permanent permission for advertising. He called Clara to apologize, removed the images she identified, and worked with Priya to create clearer, limited consent agreements. Abigail then redesigned the dress using an original print based on abstract kitchen-table shapes, so no customer's private keepsake would become mass-market decoration.
"Your grandmother would probably like the pockets," Abigail told Clara when she visited.
Clara laughed. "She'd like that you listened."
By late autumn, the legal dispute with Bellamy had narrowed further. Priya and Bellamy's attorney agreed that neither business owned the broad concept of sentimental clothing. Bellamy agreed to correct certain promotional statements and remove an image using Abigail's original photograph without permission, while the studio clarified language that could confuse customers about the two collections. No one had to pretend the other company had invented fabric or memory. Ryan didn't get the grand public apology he'd once imagined. But their name and creative work remained theirs, and the distraction had stopped consuming their days.
He discovered another truth about attention when a major retailer requested a meeting. Its buyer loved the clothes, praised the Charlotte presentation, and proposed a wholesale order ten times larger than anything they'd produced. The price, however, would have forced Abigail's team to cut labor costs so severely that fair wages and careful finishing would become impossible.
Ryan asked whether the retailer could accept a higher wholesale price for a smaller premium run. The buyer declined. The deal died on a conference call.
That evening Ryan sat at his desk looking at the canceled order. It would have put Abigail's name in dozens of stores. He wondered whether he was turning away opportunities out of fear.
Dr. Porter, now an informal adviser, listened without interrupting. "There is nothing noble about going out of business," she told him. "But there is nothing successful about selling a product at a loss and asking workers to pay the difference. Build the operation your values can support."
He wrote that sentence above his desk.
Then a very different opportunity arrived. A New York organization called the American Craft & Clothing Council invited Abigail to participate in its annual Hands of America exhibition, a curated event featuring independent designers and skilled makers. The invitation included a modest honorarium, documented travel expenses, and a chance to present the collection to international museum and retail buyers. No ownership transfer. No impossible production promise.
Abigail read the invitation twice. "New York," she said, almost to herself.
Ryan remembered the apprenticeship letter hidden in her old sketchbook, the one she had received at nineteen and never used. "You always wanted to go," he said.
"I wanted to learn there. That was different."
"Maybe you've learned enough to have something to teach."
For a long time she stared at the signature at the bottom of the invitation. Then she laughed, not with surprise but with the delighted disbelief of a woman opening a door she'd assumed had vanished.
"All right," she said. "But I'm not wearing heels."
May you like
The next day, Ryan took the battered suitcase down from a high shelf. He cleaned the brass latches and repaired the wheel properly this time. When Abigail asked why, he said, "I think there's one piece of luggage we ought to bring."
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