Chapter 7
Tessa
When I wasn’t busy shuttling myself between his shop and the house or ticking off items on Lamont’s checklist for Milan, Giovanni and I were even more socially unwell than normal, communicating exclusively through brief glances and muttered requests.
It’s like we used up our allotment of words when he comforted me after the Daniel incident.
Neither of us has acknowledged the offer on the table, and now the awkwardness between us has its own sewing machine.
But temporary salvation is near, because he’s almost done.
I hold my breath as Giovanni positions the hook against the fabric.
This stitch, his last in the appliqué, feels more deliberate somehow.
He guides the hook through the tulle with familiar precision, but there’s an unusual tremor in his left hand, beneath the frame, as he feeds the thread through and anchors the final opal in place.
After so much beading, he must be exhausted.
When I tear my eyes from the spell his hands cast on me and study his face, he looks emotional, wistful almost. I’ve never seen him wear this particular expression before.
His lips curve into the faintest smile, seeing something in the appliqué that I don’t understand.
There’s peace in his eyes as he faces me, like being here, together, is the most natural, calming experience.
“It’s done.”
I nod. “It is.”
Flexing his fingers, Giovanni stands up and stretches, giving me a good look at the frame.
It’s stunning. The curved top, the intricate combination of beads and crystal clusters, the illusion of the tulle.
Picturing it integrated into the back of the dress on the model, an idea forms in my brain.
I pause, trying to work out the feasibility.
He finished the appliqué a little earlier than expected, which means we still have a few days until Milan.
But Giovanni hates being rushed, and it’s a last-minute ask.
After a few moments of indecision, I decide not to say anything.
“You’re not pleased?”
Shit.
“No, I love it. The appliqué is perfect.”
His stare tightens, pinning me in place. “What is it?”
How can he even tell? I’m almost positive my expression hasn’t changed.
“It’s just, I had a small idea. But I’m not sure.” I stand up, giving my nervous energy an outlet.
“Tell me,” Giovanni commands.
“I know this is a risk,” I hedge, “but I think a headpiece would add allure.”
“What are you envisioning?”
My eyebrows lift before I can stop them. He actually wants to hear more?
“I’m thinking of a halo pearl. An iridescent studded hair net, like—”
“Rocha. For Dior S/S ‘21.”
The corner of my mouth kicks up at how quickly he understood the reference. “Exactly. But slightly more ethereal, with the daintiest pearls we can find. I know we’d have to call in a favor from the supplier, but even with the time constraints, I think it’d be worth it.”
Giovanni blinks at me in silence.
“Or not,” I say, uncertain in the face of his passivity. “I know your preference is traditional, and I guess the halo can lean maximalist. We don’t have to explore it.”
“I’ll call Maja. I think she already has something that might work.” He pauses. “It’s a good idea.”
I tilt my head, searching his eyes. “Are you making fun of me?”
His eyebrows knit together. “Making fun of you?”
“Yeah. Are you seriously considering it, or are you being sarcastic?”
I can’t read the expression in his eyes. For a moment, I think I see a flicker of disappointment.
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.” He pivots on his feet. “I’ll make the call.”
I shift on my feet. “Oh. Thanks. I’m going to go and get ready, then. For tonight.”
Giovanni’s back straightens, but he doesn’t turn around. “Tonight.” He walks toward his office, and his door closes at the same time the front bell chimes.
Lucia bursts into the shop, breathing heavily. “Tessa! Hey!”
I grin. “Hey, Lucia, thanks again for inviting me tonight.”
“It’s our pleasure. Listen, I—” She cuts herself off on a gasp, dropping her purse to the ground. I track her line of sight to the tambour frame. “Oh my God. He finished?”
Her reaction seems a bit over the top, considering Giovanni’s completed hundreds of different appliqués over the course of his career, but I agree this oversized one is extra special.
“It’s stunning, right? It’s going to show beautifully in Milan.”
Her neck swivels toward me. “Milan? He’s showing this in Milan?”
My eyebrow quirks at the way she phrased her question. “Yes… It’s on the dress I designed? The one we’ve been working on together?”
Her eyes slowly widen as she comes to some sort of realization. “He didn’t tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“This was his nonno’s final piece. The last thing he worked on before his death. He left it unfinished. Gi’s been saving it for something special.”
My stomach twists, a heavy weight settling in my core.
Seeds of guilt sprout inside of me. Giovanni insisting we alter it as little as possible makes more sense now.
My mind flickers back to when I first asked him about the appliqué—what did he say again?
This is a personal project. A pang of regret hits me when I think about how I pressured him into using it.
I hadn’t realized just how personal it was.
I chew on my lower lip. “Oh. Um, no. He didn’t share that with me.”
Lucia nods, but she doesn’t look upset. In fact, she looks quite pleased, a smile spreading on her face. “He must really…” She trails off. “Well, I’m happy he let you use it. Excuse me. I need to talk with Gi. See you tonight!”
Had I known it was his nonno’s last piece, I never would’ve asked for it, let alone forced him to alter the straight edge. My eyes dart to the textile recycling bin, where Giovanni keeps scraps before dropping them at the municipal environmental department every few weeks. I wonder…
I walk over for a closer look, and sure enough, some of the small pieces of fabric we cut from the appliqué for my fan shape sit in the box.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I quickly retrieve the tiny scraps from the bin and carefully set them in my purse.
I don’t know what I’ll do with them, but I can’t let them be tossed. Not when I know what this meant to him.
I’ve experienced a lot of emotions at Giovanni’s shop—anger, embarrassment, frustration—but never the unsteady feeling that’s currently inching up my spine. The idea of spending more time with him tonight lingers, and I’m surprised by how much I’m looking forward to it.
* * *
Looking down at my hostess gift for the millionth time, I try to find fault in the box of gourmet truffles before I press the buzzer for Lucia’s apartment.
I visited three different plant stores before realizing that Lucia already has a whole human to keep alive, and I probably shouldn’t add anything else to that list.
I fidget with the bow on the truffle box, smoothing it down. I want to make a good impression—not for Giovanni of course, but for Michael and Lucia.
It’s not every day that I get invited to dinner.
With Mom and Daniel back in Ohio, Esme’s intramural volleyball league schedule, and Peyton’s regular dates, I barely get invited anywhere at all.
I’m nervous. Not just for the dinner, but also my decision surrounding Giovanni’s offer.
I know what I want to do, and I know what I have to do…
and those are at odds with each other. But I’d rather wear beige for eternity than never see my own goals come to fruition.
This dinner will be a good test for us. Can we make it through without arguing, or will the silverware go airborne before dessert? If everything goes well, maybe we’ll be able to make it work in Italy after all.
I take a deep breath and push the call button.
Lucia’s voice comes through the speaker. “Come on up!”
“Mamma! Is she here? Ziiiiioooo, Tessa’s here!” Michael’s voice comes through loud and clear in the background, followed by the clanging of pots and pans.
A wide smile spreads across my face at the familiar sounds of chaos at home. I need to call my mom—it’s been two days since we last talked, and she’s one of my best friends.
The loud door buzzer startles me. I jog up the three steps and let myself in, then turn left for the stairwell. My stomach lurches at the idea of taking an elevator, so I climb up six flights instead.
The smell of roasted garlic tells me I have the right door, and the scent’s so delicious that my stomach rumbles. Before I have the chance to knock, the door swings open, and Michael eagerly greets me, bouncing on his toes.
“You’re here!” he shouts, grabbing my hand and pulling me inside.
“I am,” I laugh.
The apartment is small and welcoming. The living room walls are covered with a vibrant tapestry, and the furniture looks like you could sink into it and fall asleep. Everything seems so comfortable. I love it.
“I want to show you my room. Let’s go.”
“Let her breathe, Micheletto,” a deep voice calls from the kitchen. I turn to see Giovanni wearing an apron, stirring a big pot of something on the stove.
Giovanni speaks quick Italian to Lucia.
“God, Gi, no I will not poison Tessa, you psycho!” she yells, and Giovanni goes beet red.
“What?” I screech.
Giovanni elbows Lucia in the ribs. “I just asked her which cabinet houses the good olive oil.”
“Oh,” I chuckle.
Giovanni scans my outfit, head to toe, and a strange expression flashes in his eyes, but he hastily turns back to the pot, stirring studiously.
“Can I please take her to see my room now?” Michael begs, widening his eyes in the same adorable way that manipulated me into coming tonight.
“Alright,” his mom acquiesces. “But only for five minutes; dinner’s nearly ready.”