Chapter 8 Wrenley #2
I turn and see Beryl step inside. The features on Audrey that seem so familiar now make sense.
Beryl, I say, surprised and delighted.
Well, hello, child. She beams. It’s good to see you again. Beryl shuffles deeper into the shop. I’m glad you’re here. It saves me from having to call Ruger later.
Because retirement has you so busy, Mom, Audrey teases.
Beryl swats at her daughter over the partition, and it’s impossible to miss the easy, lifelong love between the two.
Anyway, I kept thinking about your wedding colours, Beryl says to me.
I keep my face straight despite wanting to wince.
I see, I manage, summoning a smile and swallowing the cringe.
Well, I asked about it for a reason. Can I steal you for a moment? she asks.
Sure.
Come, child, she says, taking my hand.
She leads me through the shop, past bolts of colourful fabric and shelves full of possibility. We turn down a narrow hallway into a room that’s pitch-black until she flips on the lights.
My eyes adjust slowly, and when they do, I almost gasp.
The room is a treasure trove. There are mannequins both clothed and bare, walls stacked high with ribbon, thread, and fabric, corkboards filled with design sketches and swatches.
But what takes my breath away is the sewing machine near the back.
It’s black, detailed with golden floral designs, perched on a worn wooden table that’s clearly seen decades of use.
Do you sew? Beryl asks.
A little, I say, because I’m having a sexual awakening at the sight of this machine feels like too much.
She steps forward and places her hands on it. Her fingers are bent and knobby with arthritis, and her hands shake a little.
This was my mother’s machine. She saved up for it herself.
She taught me everything I know. Her eyes sparkle with pride.
She passed it on to me, and I passed on what I could to Audrey, though she never caught the bug quite the same.
Still, she’s always loved my little shop.
She started working here keeping the books.
Her husband, Jack, is the only accountant in town, so it worked out.
There’s a pause, and Beryl looks lost in thought.
But things changed? I asked,
Beryl nods, the light dimming just a bit in her expression.
Cancer changed everything. I thought I’d have to shut the doors, but Audrey stepped up.
Turns out I taught her more than I thought.
The pride returns in full force. She discovered she likes making quilts.
Now she makes one for every baby in Alpine Harbor.
My heart swells. No one does that in Vancouver. There, you’re lucky if your neighbours don’t call bylaw on you for your front porch light being too bright.
You can try the machine if you’d like, Beryl offers.
Really? My voice cracks a little.
Of course. Let me set it up.
She moves slowly but deliberately, her gnarled fingers curling around a spool of thread.
It looks like it pains her, but the pain doesn’t seem to dampen her determination.
She pulls open a drawer built into the old oak cabinet, fingers trembling just slightly as she retrieves a dusty tomato pincushion.
These hands don’t move like they used to, she says, not looking up. But they remember.
I watch her thread the machine, guiding it through the upper tension, the take-up lever, and finally down the needle with a patience only decades of practice could teach.
She reaches under the cabinet and unlocks the treadle with a soft click.
She’s old, she says, smiling. No electricity. Just rhythm. See if you can find yours.
I sit, nervous. It’s nothing like the machines I’ve used before.
She nudges the flywheel. There. Let it carry you.
The second Beryl steps back, giving me space, I feel the weight of her gesture settle in my chest. She didn’t just offer me a seat at her machine; she handed over a piece of her family history.
I press the treadle gently, feeling the rhythm catch and the needle begin its dance.
There’s something meditative about it being just me, the fabric, and the up-and-down motion of the treadle.
My hands move instinctively, guiding the fabric beneath the presser foot as I feed it through.
I don’t even realize I’m smiling until I hear the soft chuckle behind me.
So, what do you think? Beryl asks, pride stitched into every word.
It’s different, I say, barely above a whisper.
But in a good way. It’s like… I trail off, unsure how to put it into words.
It’s like the machine and I are having a conversation.
I don’t always know what to say, but it doesn’t rush me, and yet it doesn’t forgive poor conversation either.
It expects me to be present and tuned in.
Beryl nods in understanding. But not in a demanding way, right?
I chuckle. No. It’s very gentle.
I guide the fabric through a long, clean seam, and for a moment, everything else fades—the fake engagement, the unfamiliar town, the worry of my increasingly confusing feelings for Ruger. All that exists is the cotton beneath my fingertips and the quiet clatter of the treadle in motion.
When I glance up, Beryl is watching me fondly. Like she’s seeing something in me she remembers from herself.
Now, I don’t let just anyone touch this machine, she says, her voice soft and honest.
I swallow around the lump forming in my throat. Thank you for trusting me with it.
Beryl just nods, like it’s no big thing. But it is. I can feel that it is.
When I finish the stitch, I remove it from the machine and examine it.
Let me see. Beryl picks up a magnifying glass as I hand her the fabric.
She studies the stitches closely, and for some reason, I feel more nervous now than during any exam in university.
Not perfect… She looks at me and smiles. But pretty darn close.
I smile as she hands me back the fabric. Thanks.
You’ll come back and practice, she insists.
I light up. Absolutely.
We hold each other’s smiles for a beat, and then Beryl blinks like she’s waking from a dream.
Goodness, this isn’t why I brought you back here. She shuffles past me and starts rummaging through a cubby. I tilt my head as she pulls out some fabric. I squint, unable to determine what it is. Once she moves the fabric around, my mouth drops, and tears prick my eyes as I realize what they are.
Are those… flowers?
She nods, smiling. For your wedding. I made dusty-rose peonies, and this is a sample of the cream-coloured roses.
She’s busy looking around the room, which is probably for the best because what’s happening on my face isn’t so much tears as it is a full-on snot situation. I slap a hand over my nose like that’ll somehow make it classy.
She holds up a string of white beads. And see? I’ll string these pearls throughout. I haven’t quite settled on the lace because I need to know more about your dress and— Suddenly, Beryl stops talking. Child, are you quite alright?
No. Not even a little.
How do I tell this generous, open-hearted woman making flowers by hand, despite pain in every joint, that the wedding she’s pouring time into isn’t real?
I can’t let her do this. But I also can’t not.
If I open my mouth, if I tell her the truth, this whole thing could unravel.
This entire plan could blow up. We could face legal trouble.
Get arrested. I could be deported. Ruger could have criminal charges brought against him for fraud.
This isn’t just a lie—it’s illegal. And the second we let someone in, it stops being safe.
I am the worst kind of fraud. I don’t deserve this.
Are you alright? Beryl asks again.
A tear finally slips down my cheek, and thank God, because I’d rather the tears than the nose waterfall I’ve been battling.
I reach forward, fingers trembling just slightly. Beryl… I start, my voice catching halfway through her name.
She looks at me, a smile soft on her face. Yes?
I panic and chicken out. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
I swallow. It’s just such a kind gesture. Too kind.
I’m so happy for Ruger, she says. It’s clear you’re something special.
Cue more tears.
She squeezes my hand. Now, tell me about your dress so I can match the lace.
It’s just a simple cotton dress, I say.
Simple? she repeats, brows drawing in.
I—getting here cost a lot, I say, sticking as close to the truth as possible. So I’m keeping it minimal.
Beryl doesn’t answer right away. I watch her eyes as something turns behind them, and my stomach twists. This pause isn’t nothing. She’s planning something.
Well, she finally says, slowly. I’ll… find something to go with simple.
I force a smile.
I’ve kept you long enough, she says.
I follow her back into the shop, where the hum of Audrey’s machine fills the silence.
Thank you again for the flowers, I say, and for letting me use your sewing machine.
Beryl takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. I mean it, she says warmly. Come back soon.
My chest softens as I smile at the kind old woman.
Then my phone buzzes.
REMI:
WHERE. ARE. YOU?!?!?
OMG. Big things!
ME:
Fabric Delights.
REMI:
Stay there! Five minutes tops.
I slip my phone back into my pocket.
I better get going, I say. Remi is on her way to me, I guess.
Audrey stands so I can see her behind the partition. I was serious about the costumes, she says. I could really use some help. The school has a budget—they’ll pay you.
I can’t get paid, I explain quickly. Immigration rules and all that. I wave a hand, trying to keep it breezy. But I’d absolutely volunteer some time if you need it. It would be nice to have something to do.
Audrey’s expression brightens.
Really? she asks. You’d come help?
Of course.
You’re an actual angel.
She rushes around the partition and pulls me into a hug, which catches me off guard because I barely know her.
Weirdly, it also feels kind of nice.
Thank you, she says again. Seriously.
It’ll give you more time to catch up on all this mending too, Beryl says, gesturing toward the partition.
Audrey lets out a sigh. The pile back there is becoming sentient.
I laugh.