2. Nell
NELL
The workroom was the only space in the house that felt like mine.
It wasn't much. A converted bedroom on the first floor with white walls and good light, a cutting table I'd built myself, and my mother's sewing machine set up by the window.
The machine was older than I was, a Bernina she'd saved for two years to buy, and I kept it running the way she'd taught me.
The motor still hummed the same way it had when I was eight years old, watching her work at the kitchen table.
I'd been working on the shirt for six months.
It was spread out on the table now, not finished.
Gray linen, good weight, the kind that got softer with every wash.
I'd cut a hidden placket down the front and finished the shoulders with French seams, the way you did when you wanted the inside to look as clean as the outside.
The cuffs were pinned to the sleeves but not sewn. The collar was pinned but not set.
I'd cut it to his measurements without writing them down first. I knew them by heart. Neck sixteen and a half. Sleeve thirty-four. The shoulder that sat a quarter inch lower than the other. The way his collar pulled left if you didn't account for the turn of his neck.
I'd done the buttonholes by hand. Six of them, stitched through in silk thread that matched the cloth exactly. It had taken me an entire evening to get them right.
Dinner was supposed to be at eight.
I'd set the table in the dining room two hours ago.
Good plates, the ones we never used. Linen napkins I'd pressed that morning.
I'd made the pasta from scratch, the cacio e pepe he'd mentioned once, maybe twice, the first year we were married.
The wine was open on the counter, breathing.
A Barolo. He'd talked about it three months ago after a dinner in the city, said it was the best thing he'd had all year.
He was due back from Chicago at six thirty. It was the one evening this month he was supposed to be home for dinner.
My phone rang at seven forty-five.
I picked it up and saw his name on the screen.
"I'm still on the ground," he said when I answered. His voice was clear, unbothered. "Weather delay out of O'Hare. They're saying wheels up by nine, so I'll be there by eleven."
I looked through the doorway at the dining room. The candles I hadn't lit yet. The napkins folded the way his mother used to fold them, the way he'd shown me once when we still lived in the apartment above the shop.
"Eleven," I said.
"I know," he said. "I'm sorry. You knew the window might move, though. I put it on the calendar as tentative."
"I know you did."
"That's one of the things I've always admired about you," he said. Warm. Genuine. "You can handle that kind of thing. You don't fall apart when plans change."
"What plans?" I said.
"Whatever you had for tonight," he said. "Dinner, I assume? You usually make something when I'm coming home."
"I did."
"That's what I thought," he said. "We can do it tomorrow. Or the weekend. Whenever works."
"You're leaving again Friday," I said.
"Right," he said. "London fitting. I'll be back Monday, though. We'll do it then."
I didn't say anything.
"Nell?"
"I'm here."
"I'll be there as soon as I can," he said. "You don't have to wait up."
"All right."
"I mean it," he said. "Get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning."
The line went quiet for a second, and I thought maybe he'd ask what I'd made. What I'd been planning. But he didn't.
"I'll see you when you get here," I said.
"Perfect," he said. "Love you."
He hung up before I could say it back.
I sat down at the cutting table and looked at the shirt.
The placket caught the light, the stitches small and perfect.
I picked it up and threaded a needle with thread that matched the cloth.
Then I started the next buttonhole, the stitches small and even, the way my mother had taught me when I was eight years old and learning to make something last.
He came through the door at eleven thirty.
I heard the car first, the sound of tires on the gravel drive, then the garage door opening below.
Then his footsteps on the stairs, steady and unhurried, the sound of a man who had all the time in the world.
He set his bag down in the entry and came into the living room, where I was sitting with a book I hadn't been reading for the last hour.
"You waited up," he said. He was smiling.
"I did."
He crossed to the couch and leaned down to kiss my forehead.
His jacket smelled like the plane, recycled air and something faintly chemical.
He straightened and looked around the room like he was checking that everything was still where he'd left it.
The house had a way of doing that to people.
It looked like something out of a magazine, all clean lines and expensive glass, and it never looked lived in no matter how long you stayed.
"How was Chicago?" I asked.
"Productive," he said. He pulled off his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. "We locked the spring line. Winston's pleased with the numbers."
"That's good."
"Better than good," he said. "We're ahead of schedule for the first time in three years. The sample went to production this morning."
"That's great, Beckett."
"He sends his regards," Beckett said. He sat down in the chair across from me and pulled out his phone, already scrolling through something I couldn't see. "Winston. He said to tell you the numbers on the heritage line are holding. The blanket cloth is performing exactly the way we hoped."
I nodded. I waited for him to ask about dinner, about the evening, about why I was still awake at eleven thirty on a weeknight. But he didn't.
"How's the mill?" he asked, still looking at his phone.
"Fine," I said. "We shipped the hospital order on schedule. Two weeks early, actually."
"Good." He glanced up. "Hazel still managing things well?"
"She is."
"She's been there a long time, hasn't she?" he said.
"Nineteen years," I said. "She worked with my mother."
"Right," he said. "I remember you telling me that."
He smiled at me, warm and easy, and went back to his phone. I watched him scroll, his thumb moving across the screen in that absent way he had when he was already thinking about the next thing.
"Did you eat?" I asked.
"On the plane," he said. "You?"
"Earlier."
"Good," he said. He looked up again, just for a second. "You didn't have to stay up."
"I wanted to."
"That's sweet," he said. His eyes were already back on the screen.
I watched him for a moment. The way his thumb moved across the screen. The way his face stayed smooth and unbothered, the same expression he wore when he was reading the financial reports or answering emails at two in the morning.
"Actually," he said, still looking at the screen, "I'm glad you're still up. Talia's expecting a call. There's a fitting issue I need to settle tonight."
I looked at the clock on the mantel. It was eleven thirty-two.
"Now?" I said.
"She's in Paris. It's morning there." He stood, already moving toward the windows with the phone in his hand. "This won't take long."
He started to dial. I watched him angle the screen away from me as he turned, a small automatic movement, the way you'd tilt a lamp so it didn't shine in someone's eyes. He didn't think about it. He just did it.
The call connected. I heard her voice first, bright and warm, speaking in French. Then his, answering in the same language, easy and focused in a way I hadn't heard all night.
I stayed where I was.
They switched to English after a moment.
"The shoulder is pulling," Talia said. "Right here, do you see?"
"Turn for me," Beckett said.
"Like this?"
"Other way. Slowly."
There was a pause. I heard fabric rustling.
"There," he said. "It's the seam allowance. It needs to be let out a quarter inch."
"Will that change the drape?"
"No," he said. "It'll sit cleaner. Trust me."
"I do," she said. "Always."
"How's the beading?" he asked.
"Heavy," she said. "Beautiful, but heavy. I'm not sure the silk can take it."
"It can," he said. "We tested it at twice the weight you're wearing."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
She laughed, light and easy. "You're always sure."
"That's why you hired me," he said.
"That's why I hired you," she agreed.
There was a pause, and then she said something I couldn't quite hear. Her voice had dropped, gone softer. Beckett answered in the same tone, something about the neckline and the way it would photograph.
"The sample arrived this morning," she said, louder now. "The one you sent from New York. It's perfect. You were right about the weight."
"I usually am," Beckett said. He was smiling. I could hear it in his voice.
"Modest, too," she said.
"One of my best qualities."
She laughed again.
"Winston wants to talk about the yardage," she said after a moment. "He's here now. One moment."
There was a pause. I heard her say something in French, then Winston's voice, steady and measured.
"Beckett," he said. "The heritage line. We need to finalize the sourcing on the blanket cloth."
"Right," Beckett said. "What's the issue?"
"No issue. I just need the capacity number confirmed. We're committing to the fabric in the contract, and I want to make sure we're not overpromising."
Beckett turned his head slightly, and I saw him glance back toward me.
"Nell," he said. "Come here a second."
I stood and crossed to where he was standing by the windows.
The city lights were spread out below us, distant and cold.
He angled the screen toward me and I saw her.
Talia. Backlit in a bright room somewhere, wearing something ivory and unfinished, the fabric pinned at the shoulders.
Her hair was pulled back and she looked like she'd just woken up, fresh and easy in a way I'd never managed at any hour.
"Talia, you remember my wife," Beckett said.
"Of course," she said. Her smile was warm. Genuine. "Hello, Nell."
"Hello."