Chapter 2
Giovanni
I sit in front of the large, wooden, tabletop tambour frame, which is angled perfectly for my body. The sheer tulle is already mounted drum-tight so the stitches won’t pucker. Coaxing the hook through the back side of the fabric, I focus on the rhythm of the stitch and think of Nonno.
Embroidery is a dance of the hands, Tesoro.
Catching my pre-strung thread, I pull a loop back up to the top.
Every bead is a moment, a breath, in the story of the thread.
The scent of steam and leather brings me back to those evenings playing with scraps of fabric on Nonno’s studio floor.
Growing up, I was mesmerized by his ability to change the soul of garments. What started as a flat, plain fabric at sunrise would shapeshift into something with a sense of history by sundown.
Ten years ago, I made him a promise the day before he died: to carry his legacy with me as I grow his label beyond Italy’s borders into something he’d be proud of today.
I miss Italy, but I still feel that sense of home in my shop.
Leaning back, I examine my work, pleased with how the beads sit snugly against the delicate tulle.
Controlled tension, accuracy, and balance comprise the precision needed for the vision he would’ve wanted for this appliqué—the last piece he worked on before he fell too ill to continue.
Brushing my fingertips across the tulle, I admire the white opal Miyuki beads.
Nonno left it unfinished next to a note addressed to me.
You’ll know what to do with this, Tesoro.
But I didn’t know what to do with it. I still don’t.
It sat for three years, nearly eighty percent finished, until I decided to pick it up.
Working on it little by little over time, savoring it in a way, has given me a new sense of purpose.
When I sew the final bead on, the appliqué will be finished, but the memory of his hands guiding mine will linger.
“Wow. That’s actually perfect. Where did it come from?”
I flinch at the unexpected voice carrying over my shoulder and quickly block the tambour frame with my arms.
“Where did you come from?”
Tessa wasn’t supposed to be here until tomorrow morning. I know, because I embroidered it on a swatch.
The scent of pears drifts around me as she brushes her hair off her shoulders, the movement revealing more of her heart shaped face.
She cranes her neck, trying to get a better look at the appliqué. “Why are you always hiding your work from me? Are you weaving the location of Atlantis into the fabric or something?” A glint of humor flickers in her eye as her lips twitch at her own joke.
If anyone else spoke to me like Tessa does, they’d probably be banned from my shop, but when the dimple in her left cheek appears, I’m just happy she’s talking to me.
There was a time when conversation between us was effortless.
We’d talk about our shared love for fashion, our least favorite trends, and Lamont’s latest demands.
Hectic workdays somehow slowed when she entered my shop.
It felt like we mattered to each other in small, silent ways.
But then she suddenly pulled back, and the distance between us became fraught with a bitterness I don’t understand. Now, when glimpses of the old Tessa sneak up on me, the Tessa who speaks her mind with abandon, it hits me right in my chest.
My jaw ticks. “This isn’t for your design.”
She blinks at me. “Giovanni.”
“Tessa.” Her name rolls off my tongue draped in an accent that only announces itself when my emotions are strong. And they’re always strongest around her.
She huffs. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I assure you I—”
“This is exactly—”
“Scusa, did the middle of my sentence interrupt the beginning of yours?” I stand up, and she tilts her chin to meet my gaze. Her dark brown eyes pull me in, and I shake my head to avoid hypnotization. “This is a personal project.”
“But it’s exactly what the dress needs. We won’t have to start from scratch. You can finish beading it on the illusion tulle using the white opals, adapt the shape to my design, and then we can integrate it as a panel across the open back. When the model turns around, it’ll be magic.”
My lips turn up at her attempt to convince me.
How quickly our interactions shift from polite to passionate.
I love when she gets fired up like this in front of me.
I’ve seen her downcast eyes when she talks to Lamont, how easily she folds to his demands, shrinking herself.
Not like how she looks in my shop. Tall. Regal. Take-no-shit attitude.
Tessa bites her lip. “I didn’t want to resort to this. But… please, Giovanni. I really need this gown to be well-received. I will…” She trails off and sighs. “I’ll do anything.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Anything?”
“Well, not anything. I won’t join a cult or lick a subway pole.”
She reaches up to tighten the loose bow of her plum colored blouse, which sits perfectly in between her breasts. I try—and fail miserably—not to let my eyes linger.
A memory flickers in my mind, one of Tessa chatting with me about her career goals on one of her shop visits, back when we were friendly.
I’d do just about anything to attend an international fashion show, she said, eyes alight with enthusiasm.
Her skin glowed from within as she excitedly twisted and untwisted the cap of her lip gloss—a habit of hers when she’s excited, or nervous, or deep in thought.
I can’t imagine what that kind of exposure would do for my career, she said.
And suddenly, saying “no” to her disappears as an option in my brain. In its place, a soft idea grows. One I’m not sure of yet.
For now, I reply, “A favor, then.”
Tessa tilts her head. “And if I give you this favor, you’ll use the appliqué on my design?”
I adjust the watch on my wrist. “With some restrictions on the alterations, but yes.”
She nods, sitting in my chair. “Okay.”
I immediately wonder if she’s ill. Tessa, agreeing so easily?
“Don’t you want to know what the favor is?”
“Is it licking a subway pole?”
“Why would I want you to lick a subway pole?”
Tessa shrugs in response. “I don’t know what kind of stuff you’re into. Licking—”
“Stop talking.”
Tessa repeatedly saying “licking” is not a message my body can afford to hear right now.
She stands and glares at me. “Do you have a scar?”
I raise an eyebrow. “What?”
“I’m just looking for signs of where your manners were surgically removed.”
I press my tongue to the inside of my cheek to prevent myself from laughing, not wanting to give her the satisfaction.
A beam of light shines through the side window, and Tessa holds her hand up to her forehead like a visor. The beads of the appliqué catch the sun, reflecting off her cheekbones. As she bends over the frame, her eyes widen.
“The details are magnificent,” she murmurs, fingertips hovering over the fabric, like she’s afraid a single touch might damage it. Tracing the lines of the appliqué with her gaze, she lingers at the cluster of crystals near the bottom.
Something in me warms at her obvious admiration of Nonno’s work. Working on this appliqué, it almost feels like he’s in the shop with us, like I can hear him snickering at her jabs.
Straightening, she turns to face me. “It’ll need some editing up top to blend seamlessly with my design.”
“No.”
Tessa sighs. “There’s no use fighting me on every detail, Giovanni. Even if you’d prefer to work with a different designer, Lamont chose my gown. We need to make sure the beading complements the dress.”
Offering the appliqué is one thing, changing the original vision is another. But I stay silent, waiting for her proposal.
“The top of the panel needs to be scalloped. The straight line doesn’t work for the expressive style of the dress.” She pulls a copy of her rendering from her bag and hands it to me. “Here. See for yourself.”
My lips part slightly as I hold a copy of her sketch for the first time.
Her talent is even more overwhelming in person, where I can really study the pencil strokes, the lines she drew herself.
The design is ethereal, yet demanding. Without a screen in front of it, the dress asks for attention in an effortless way, giving me no choice but to admire the smoky blue chiffon waves cascading down the skirt.
The modest train doesn’t distract from the silhouette, and the classic mock neck balances the drama of the look. Even her signature looks beautiful.
I get lost in the deep admiration I have for her work, and when I lift my gaze from the sketch, she’s looking at me with an unreadable expression. A flicker of uncertainty flashes in her eyes. What does she have to be nervous about? Lamont chose her design for a reason.
I study her. “You’re thinking that the scalloped edge would give it a seashell effect.”
She wordlessly nods, grabbing her own elbow. “But, um, on second thought… If you like the straight edge, we should probably go with that. Lamont’ll like whatever you like. He trusts your opinion.”
The sight of Tessa minimizing herself in my shop maddens me. I want her overly opinionated, intoxicating stubbornness back, not this careful imitation of her. Not here, and never in front of me.
Daring her, I lean forward. “Don’t tell me you’re already second-guessing yourself. If you don’t care about your ideas, why should I?”
She pauses, then meets my gaze. Fury coats her face, and I can’t look away.
“You know what, Giovanni? Fine. A straight edge would cheapen the entire look.”
The corner of my mouth twitches with delight. There she is.
“The straight edge doesn’t work for this gown,” I agree. It’s a matter of fact, not opinion.
Her nose scrunches. “You don’t like the straight edge? But you said you didn’t want to do the scalloped.”
“I want to alter the appliqué as little as possible.”
Tessa mulls it over, chewing on her glossy lower lip. “What about an arc?”
“An arc?”
“Yeah. We’d soften the line to a curve, almost like a fan shape. You wouldn’t lose as much as you would with a scallop.”
Brilliant. “Fine.”
Tessa gives me a small, gentle smile. One I’m not used to receiving, and I immediately crave a bigger one.
She pulls a lip gloss out of her pocket, and I catch a whiff of the sugary scent. Cherry flavored.
“So… What do we do now?”
“I sit there.” I point to the seat in front of the tambour frame. “And you sit there.” I point to the chair about an arm’s length away from the frame.
“And do what?”
I smirk. “Wait for a whim.”