Chapter Fifteen #3
I hesitate, knowing the clothes are delicate, but I don’t hesitate for long.
If Dylan, Trish, and Naomi are offering up their skills and crowd appeal to help fix my boat, the least I can do is let them use some of Grams’s antiques.
So I lead Trish up to the attic, with the plastic tarps tacked to the ceiling and the remaining valuables stowed on pallets in a dry corner.
It’s hard to believe this space was packed tight a few months ago.
Even the mice and spiders seem to have relocated.
Getting rid of so much still feels like a betrayal sometimes, but I know my grandmother would think it’s worth it if it means holding on to the house and making it feel like home.
May it always provide her safe harbor, she put in her will.
It does, Grams, I think. It still does. And I hope it will for many years to come.
While sorting through trunks for usable clothing, I share information Trish can tell potential donors regarding the ship’s history and my grandmother’s decision to commission its initial renovation when she bought it twenty years ago.
She loved telling people about the films it appeared in and how the man who owned it before her completed several transatlantic crossings with a crew of four and a pair of intrepid terriers.
Trish listens with interest, though she’s more excited about the clothes.
People were smaller in the eighteenth century, so I don’t have anything Dylan’s or Trish’s size, but fabrics were woven more tightly, and hand-sewn stitches were often tiny and strong, making the garments far more durable than what today’s fast fashion offers.
We find a beautiful linen shirt that might fit Dylan, with the collar open and the sleeves rolled up, and a sweet, cotton print gown that laces under its pleated back, allowing some flexibility in size.
We also unpack a bum roll that can tie around Trish’s waist, giving the gown’s skirt a period shape, and an engraved cutlass Dylan might find useful.
Trish is elated, and she promises to be gentle with everything, treating the items with the respect they deserve.
We carry everything down to the dock, along with some original shipbuilding blueprints that might be fun for the videos and also useful for potential repairs.
Dylan appears to be giving Naomi a tour of the boat, pointing out where the masts and shrouds would be if they hadn’t been struck down by lightning.
Trish introduces Naomi and me, and Dylan joins them in discussing possible shots.
I listen with enthusiasm and appreciation, chiming in when my input’s requested, though I can’t fully hide the curiosity that still simmers inside me while the word wife plays on repeat in my mind.
Trish and Naomi don’t know me well enough to recognize my preoccupation for what it is, but at several points, Dylan catches my eye, and I know he knows something’s up.
Everything okay? his eyes ask.
I don’t know, mine say back. You tell me.
But we leave the matter there.
Stepping into the gallery with the door ajar to provide some light, I help Trish into her gown, reiterating the need to treat it with care when she takes two sets of gel cutlets from her handbag and uses them to create Euphoria Belladonna’s signature heaving bosom, straining the bodice’s neckline.
The purist in me doesn’t love that the gown is more than a foot too short and lacks the layers of undergarments that would make the look at least remotely authentic, but I know today’s shoot is all in fun and this is not the time to obsess.
By the time we step onto the main deck, Dylan is in the billowing linen shirt, with the hem tucked into his jeans and the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
He looks even less authentic than Trish, and he must be cold in the chilly autumn air, but he seems to be having a blast practicing poses with the cutlass.
Sure, he’s not twenty-five anymore. He’s a little softer, and his hair has some salt in the pepper, but he still looks wildly sexy.
A good shot with the cutlass at his side and his beloved in his arms will likely crowdsource us at least one mast. Maybe even two.
“Don’t go too crazy,” I tell him as he drops into a lunge with the cutlass thrust toward an imaginary enemy. “That shirt is over two hundred years old.”
He immediately stands upright, lowering the cutlass to his side.
“Sorry,” he says through a sheepish, hint-of-dimples smile. “It’s beautiful. Thanks for the sword, too. Definitely helps me get into character. You know me too well.”
“Do I?” I challenge before I can think better of it. Before I can even temper my tone.
Dylan’s smile falls away. His gaze darts to Trish, who’s talking with Naomi, and back to me. In that moment, I swear I can see the walls that’ve taken months to tear down going back up.
I almost tell him I’m sorry, but I don’t.
He opens his mouth, then shuts it without speaking.
We stand there, locked in a look, until I can’t handle the silence anymore, so I turn away and head to the dock, telling everyone to save time for a cup of tea up at the house.
No one asks if I have coffee instead.