Chapter 33
AVERY
The box of art supplies is heavier than it looks.
I hip-check the front door of the Elizabeth Xavier Center and slip through before it can swing closed on me, the cardboard edge digging into my forearm where I've been balancing it from my parking spot in the lot behind the rec center.
"Morning, Ms. Ross." Jason—I think that's what Carla called him last week—a lanky nineteen-year-old with braces on his teeth, greets me as I walk inside. He's new, but then the staff has been growing a lot since the center opened. He starts to rush toward me. "Want me to get that for you?"
"I've got it, thanks. Just dropping this off with Carla for Lita for today's art classes."
The hallway to the art program space is quiet, just muffled conversations drifting out from a couple of the classrooms, my footsteps echoing softly on the smooth floor as I head for Carla's office.
Along the way, I pass the mural the summer kids painted, smiling at the tangle of imperfectly rendered hands and faces and abstract shapes in colors, magenta bleeding into chartreuse.
A grinning sun exploding with orange and yellow rays, each one a different length. A rocket ship soaring across the sky.
I spot Carla, the art center manager, in the open supply room, bent over a bin of tempera paints with reading glasses pushed up into her graying hair. A retired high school art teacher, she's got the patient, calming demeanor of someone who's been doing this work for decades.
She looks up when my shadow crosses the doorway.
"Avery." Her face creases into a smile. "Wasn't expecting you today."
"I come bearing gifts." I set the box on the nearest table, wincing at the reminder that these should have been here days ago. "These were supposed to arrive last week. I'm so sorry—I had them in my trunk and completely forgot."
Carla waves a hand, the gesture cutting off my apology before it can build momentum.
"Honey, it's no problem at all." She crosses to the box, lifts the lid, and her eyebrows rise at what's inside.
Sketchbooks of quality paper, heavy enough to take charcoal without tearing, smooth enough for graphite to glide. Drawing pencils in varying grades.
I source these for the kids myself. Nick writes the big checks, handles the center's finances, but this part—knowing what materials make a kid feel like their work matters—this is mine.
"Oh, these are lovely. The kids are going to feel like real artists with these."
"That's the idea."
Carla closes the lid, pats it once. "Thank you for bothering, especially with everything else on your plate."
"It's no bother at all." The words carry weight I don't try to explain.
This center. Nick's mother's name above the door.
What we've built here together, and what it means that we get to keep building it.
As much as my painting fulfills me, visits to this community center hold a special, tender place in my heart.
"Let me know if you need anything else before Saturday. "
"I'll do no such thing. You've got a wedding to get ready for this week. Don't you worry about us." Carla's eyes crinkle at the corners. "In a few more days you'll be Mrs. Baine."
I smile along with her, enjoying the little thrill that always accompanies the realization that I already am Mrs. Baine. My thumb brushes the bare space on my ring finger, almost out of habit now. "I'll get out of your hair now, Carla. See you at the wedding."
"Wouldn't miss it for anything."
I squeeze her arm before I turn and head back toward the entrance. My errand is done. I can check this box and move on to the next one, the endless list that seems to regenerate faster than I can work through it.
But I'm not in a hurry to leave. The center has a way of slowing me down, drawing me back into the reason we built it.
The children's art display catches me as I pass.
This wall of color, paintings and drawings tacked up with careful attention, each one labeled with a name and an age in a staff member's neat handwriting.
A purple elephant with six legs. A house that's almost entirely windows, light streaming through every one.
A self-portrait where the artist—Maya, age 7—gave herself butterfly wings in iridescent blue.
I slow without meaning to, pulled by what unselfconscious creation looks like.
That's what I love about this place. The permission it gives for kids to express themselves and their world however they like.
These kids don't worry about composition or color theory or whether their work will sell.
They just make things because making things feels good.
Movement down the hall draws my eye. I glance that way and see two figures standing near the end of the display.
A woman, one tall and contained, and a small boy beside her pressed close against her leg.
The woman's posture is familiar. The contained way she holds herself, spine straight, shoulders precise.
Brunette hair swept into a smooth chignon.
Modestly dressed, in a long blouse and loose pants, with an autumn shawl draped around her shoulders.
Nadiyah?
She turns her head at that same moment, her dark eyes finding me across the distance. That reserved smile she wears like armor, the one that warmed almost imperceptibly yesterday when she offered to come on the wedding day, curves her mouth now.
What is she doing here?
Curiosity pulls me across the hallway before I've consciously decided to approach. The boy at her side is small, no more than four years old. He’s got dark curly hair and eyes the color of strong coffee, watchful and serious.
He holds her hand with both of his, pressed against her leg the way children do when the world feels too big.
"Hi, Nadiyah."
She pivots toward me as I approach them. There's a fleeting beat of awkwardness, then her reserved expression shifts into a kind of warmth I haven’t seen in her at the atelier. Maybe because she's outside of work. Outside of the professional context where we've always existed to each other.
"Ms. Ross." She sounds surprised, although her expression gives away nothing. "What a lovely coincidence."
I tilt my head, glancing from her to the boy, who's staring up at me in cautious silence. "Do you live around here?"
"Yes. Just around the corner." Her hand settles on the boy's shoulder, gentle.
"This is my son, Sami. My mother usually watches him while I work, but since I have the day off, I thought I'd bring him to see the children's art.
" She glances down at him, her expression softly maternal, unguarded in a way I haven't seen from her.
"He's at that age. Always wanting to do things, make things. "
I crouch down, bringing myself to his level. "Hi, Sami." I keep my voice soft, unthreatening. "I'm Avery."
He presses closer to his mother's leg, those shy, dark eyes studying me with an intensity that seems too old for his face.
"It's all right, mon coeur," Nadiyah murmurs. French, gentle, encouraging.
His grip on her hand loosens slightly. "Hello," he says, barely above a whisper. His voice carries a faint French accent, his words carefully pronounced.
I smile, staying where I am, giving him space. "Do you like the pictures?"
He responds with a small nod.
"Which one is your favorite?"
He hesitates, glancing up at his mother for permission.
She inclines her head in approval, and he turns back to the wall, considering with the seriousness of a gallery critic evaluating a retrospective.
Then his free hand rises, pointing to a painting that depicts an explosion of orange and gold that might be a sunset or might be a fire, bold strokes laid down with obvious joy.
"That one," he says. Stronger now. More certain.
"I like that one too." I study it with him, the way the orange deepens into crimson at the edges. "All that color. It makes you feel something, doesn't it? Like warmth, or excitement."
His eyes widen slightly.
"Do you like to draw?" I ask.
Another nod, more emphatic this time. He leans forward on his toes, his grip on Nadiyah's hand loosening another degree.
"What do you like to draw?"
"Animals." The word comes out with more confidence now. "Birds. And boats. I like boats."
"Boats are wonderful to draw. All those lines and curves.
" I'm instantly charmed by this solemn little boy with his serious eyes and his careful English, warming up degree by degree.
He's guarded too, like his mother. "We have art classes here, you know.
For kids your age. Painting and drawing, all kinds of fun projects. "
I look up at Nadiyah. "If you're ever interested, I'd love to have him in the program. He seems like he'd fit right in."
Sami's face transforms. His mouth falls open, his whole body turning toward his mother, tugging her hand. "Maman? S'il te pla?t?"
Nadiyah's smile tightens at the corners. Her hand moves from his shoulder to cup the back of his head, drawing him against her side in a gesture that reads as tender but lands as protective. Containing him.
"That's very kind, Ms. Ross." Her voice is pleasant, measured. "We'll have to think about it."
Sami looks down at his shoes, his small shoulders curling inward. He doesn't argue. Well-behaved. Accustomed to accepting no without protest.
"I hope you'll say yes." I straighten carefully, my hand moving instinctively to my abdomen. Nadiyah notices, her gaze following every movement I make. "Please, call me Avery. And the offer about the art classes stands whenever you're ready."
Before I can stop myself, I reach out and touch Sami's arm. Brief, gentle. "It was really nice to meet you, Sami. I hope I see you again."
He looks up at me, and his expression eases. It’s not quite a smile, but the reticence around his eyes and mouth loosens.
Nadiyah's hand tightens on his shoulder. She pulls him closer, a small but definite motion, and when I glance at her face, her expression has smoothed into a look I can't read.
"Actually… I’m glad I ran into you today."
“Oh?” I wait, curious.
"I received a special shipment yesterday." She adjusts Sami against her side, one hand resting on his head. "South Sea pearls. They are of exceptional quality. I thought of your veil immediately."
"Aren't you nearly finished with it?"
She nods, a look of hesitancy in her expression.
"Yes, but there is still a little time for something truly special.
If you approve, that is." She smiles, growing more animated as she talks about the masterwork she's been crafting over the past many weeks.
"I could sew the pearls into some additional embroidery around the crown and the border.
The effect would be stunning." Her dark eyes hold mine, steady and professional.
"But if you want them, I need to begin today.
With the wedding in three days, there is no time to waste. "
"I don't know." I hesitate, thinking of my schedule. The calls I need to return. The thousand small decisions still waiting for answers between now and Saturday.
"My apartment is very close by." Nadiyah indicates the direction of the exit. "It would only take a few minutes. I can show you the pearls, explain the modification, and you can decide."
The practical voice in my head ticks through the afternoon.
I have calls to return. A seating chart to finalize.
Nick is expecting me at his office around lunchtime.
But the veil is Nadiyah's masterpiece, and if there's a way to make it even more beautiful than it already is, I want to see what she has in mind.
And maybe some part of me doesn't want to say no to this woman who has been quietly pouring herself into my wedding for months. The woman who, for the first time since I've known her, is offering something that feels personal rather than purely professional.
I exhale, feeling the competing pulls release their grip. "All right. A few minutes. Just to look."
Nadiyah's smile warms. "Come. We can walk. It's just this way."
We walk out together, and Sami gets a smile and a wave from Jason behind the front desk.
The October air is crisp when we push through the doors, carrying the scent of New York in autumn—fallen leaves and distant exhaust and woodsmoke from somewhere blocks away.
My car stays parked in the lot. I'll come back for it after.
"How long have you lived in this neighborhood?" The question comes naturally as we walk, filling the silence.
"Not long, a few months." Nadiyah keeps Sami close to her side, his small hand wrapped in hers. "It's affordable enough for a single mother. Good schools nearby for when he's older."
I nod. Chelsea has changed, gentrified in waves, but pockets of the old neighborhood remain. It’s the kind of community where people actually know each other's names.
We round a corner, and Nadiyah nods ahead. "Just here."
The building rises before us, six stories of old red brick, gray window air conditioning units jutting out at irregular intervals.
It's modest. Not dilapidated, but clearly not luxury either.
The kind of building that's housed working families for generations, rent-stabilized apartments passed down through decades.
Nothing like the penthouse where Nick and I live, where our child will grow up. Nothing like the world of House of Delaire either, where Nadiyah works, surrounded by custom gowns and wealthy brides and astronomical price tags.
I wonder if that has anything to do with her reticence, her guarded demeanor that she seems to carry around her like a shield—or a mask.
"It's not much," Nadiyah says quietly, catching me looking at the building. "But it's home."
I follow her toward the entrance, Sami already quickening his pace. His small feet know these steps. This is his world. When we reach the building's entrance, Nadiyah opens the door and holds it for me.
Sami slips past us both and starts racing up the main stairs of the gloomy foyer, comfortable. Home.
I step through the doorway, past Nadiyah into the musty-smelling vestibule. The door closes behind me with a squeal of metal hinges.
"This way… Avery," Nadiyah says with a pleasant smile, directing me toward the steps.