2. Nell #2
Beckett shifted the phone slightly. "We're sourcing blanket cloth from Ivester for the heritage line. Winston needs a capacity number. How many do you make in a year?"
It took me a second to understand he was asking me. That he'd called me over to answer a question about my own mill.
"Ten thousand a year," I said. "Built to survive two hundred washes."
There was a pause. Talia's smile didn't change but something in her eyes did, just for a second, like she'd been handed a gift she hadn't expected.
"How many of them do you make?" she said. Her voice was warm, curious, the way you'd ask someone about a hobby. "In a year, I mean. Not that it matters."
I'd already answered. I didn't say it again.
Winston's voice came through, dry and exact, from somewhere off camera. "That's right, actually."
It was the first time in months anyone in that house had agreed with me out loud. I felt something shift in my chest. Relief, maybe. Or recognition.
Then Beckett started talking, his voice rising over both of ours, something about yardage per blanket and lead time for the order, and the moment closed.
He kept going, listing numbers I already knew, explaining things to Winston that Winston had probably already calculated.
I stood there for another beat, still in frame, and then I stepped back.
Nobody looked up.
I stepped back out of the frame and sat down on the couch where I could still be seen. I picked up the sewing kit I'd left on the side table earlier and pulled out the shirt. Two buttonholes left to work.
I threaded the needle and bent my head and started stitching.
The call went on.
They talked about the gown. About the way the beading caught the light and whether it would photograph well under the chandeliers in Geneva.
About an event in Monte Carlo the week after, something with the ambassador and a reception line.
About a photograph that had run in Paris Match, the one with the headline I'd seen three times now on newsstands in the city.
"They're calling you the princess and the tailor," Talia said. "It's a good headline."
"It's accurate," Beckett said.
She laughed. It was a light sound, easy and unguarded. "You should see the letters I've been getting. Half of them want to know where you studied. The other half want to marry you."
"And which half are you in?" he asked.
"I'm the client," she said. "I get both."
He laughed. I kept my eyes on the stitches, small and even, pulling the hem closed one thread at a time.
"Winston's gone," she said after a moment. "It's just us now."
"All right," Beckett said. "Let's talk about the neckline."
"I thought you'd never ask."
They went back and forth about the shape of it, the way it sat against her collarbone, whether it needed to come down a quarter inch or stay where it was.
"Turn for me," he said.
I heard her move.
"There," he said. "Do you see the way it catches the light?"
"I do."
"That's what we want," he said. "That's the whole point of the cut."
"It's beautiful, Beckett."
"It will be," he said. "When it's finished."
"Lift your chin," he said after a moment.
She did.
"Higher. Good. Hold that."
There was a pause.
"Perfect," he said. "That's exactly the line I wanted."
His voice was patient, focused, the way it got when he was working on something that mattered.
I finished one buttonhole and started the next.
"You're sure about the colour?" she asked.
"I'm sure," he said.
"It's not too plain? Everyone else will be in jewel tones. Emerald, sapphire, that sort of thing."
"Everyone else will look like everyone else," he said. "You'll look like you."
"And that's a good thing?" she asked. She was smiling. I could hear it.
"It's the only thing," he said.
"You're very certain."
"I'm always certain," he said. "It's a character flaw."
She laughed.
"Trust me," he said.
"I do," she said. Her voice was soft. "I always do."
I tied off the thread and bit it clean. I set the shirt down in my lap and folded my hands over it, the fabric smooth and cool under my palms. I didn't look up. I just sat there, my hands still, while the call went on around me.
Ten more minutes. Fifteen. Twenty.
Finally, Talia said something about an appointment she couldn't miss.
"I have to go," she said. "The ambassador is expecting me at noon."
"Go," Beckett said. "We're done here anyway."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure," he said. "I'll send the revised measurements by the end of the day."
"You're wonderful," she said.
"I know."
She laughed. "Goodbye, Beckett."
"Goodbye."
They said something else in French, something I didn't catch, and the call ended.
He set the phone down and looked at me. I was still sitting on the couch with the shirt in my lap, the needle still in my hand.
"Sorry about that," he said. "It couldn't wait."
I set the shirt aside carefully, smoothing it flat on the cushion next to me. I folded my hands in my lap.
"You talked over me," I said.
He blinked. "When?"
"When Winston agreed with me. About the capacity number."
He tilted his head slightly, like he was trying to remember. "Nell, I was answering Talia's question. She needed the yardage calculation."
"She asked how many we make," I said. My voice was quiet. Steady. "I told her. Ten thousand a year. Winston confirmed it. And then you started talking."
"Nell," he said. He crossed back to the chair and sat down, leaning forward slightly, the way he did when he wanted me to understand something. "I didn't talk over you. I was answering Talia's question."
"I already answered it."
"About the yardage," he said. "She needed the calculation for the order."
"She asked how many blankets we make," I said. "Not how much fabric. I gave her the number. Winston said I was right. And then you started explaining things I already said."
"I was clarifying," he said. His voice was patient. Kind. "You're imagining things."
I looked at him. His face was open. Concerned. He believed what he was saying.
"All right," I said.
"You're tired," he said. He reached across the space between us and touched my knee, just once, a small gesture meant to reassure. "It's late. I know the timing tonight wasn't ideal."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine," he said. "I should've called earlier. Given you more warning. That's on me."
"You said the window might move."
"I did," he said. "But I should've updated you when I knew for sure. That's my fault."
I didn't say anything.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"It's all right."
"It's not," he said. "But I appreciate you understanding."
He sat back. "Actually," he said, and his voice shifted, brightened, the way it did when he'd solved something, "I've been thinking about this for a while. About the schedule. About how little we see each other. I have a solution."
I waited.
"What if you came to New York?" he said.
"To visit?"
"To stay," he said. "There's an apartment two blocks from the office. Corner unit, good light, south-facing windows. It's been empty since March. I could have it set up for you by the end of the month."
I stared at him.