3. Beckett
BECKETT
The problem with the heritage line wasn't the design. It was the story.
I stood at the cutting table at eleven at night with the drape already pinned and half the seams marked. The work was good. Clean lines, perfect weight. That wasn't the problem.
The problem was that Crowe's entire heritage relaunch was pegged to a Carolina mill story that wasn't quite true yet.
I'd told the press we were rooted in Southern textile tradition, and it was true — my grandfather had worked in mills before he opened his shop — but the connection to an actual working floor wasn't there yet.
The Sauveterre state visit to Washington ran the 12th through the 16th. Five days. The state dinner was the 13th, and Talia would wear this gown, and the photograph would carry the entire campaign.
I needed the heritage claim to be true.
So I made it true.
I called Winston at midnight.
"It's late," he said when he picked up.
"I need blanket cloth from Ivester Woolen," I said. "Priority shipping."
There was a pause. Then he said, "What for?"
"The Washington gown. Lining and hem facing."
"You're using Nell's mill."
"I'm using a Carolina mill," I said. "That's the point. The heritage line has to come from somewhere real."
"And you're putting it where nobody will see it."
"Structural cloth," I said. "It doesn't need to be visible. It needs to be there. The story has to be true."
"Does Nell know?"
"Not yet."
"You're going to tell her."
"Of course I'm going to tell her," I said. "She'll love it. It's her work in the gown. Her floor, her people."
"Right," Winston said.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. I'll set it up."
"I need it here by Thursday."
"I said I'll handle it."
"Good," I said.
"Beckett."
"What."
"When's the last time you talked to her?"
"I'll see her this weekend," I said.
"That wasn't the question."
"Set up the order, Winston."
"Fine," he said.
I hung up.
I hung up and went back to the table.
My hands ached from the night before — fitting Talia's travel coat until two in the morning. I took something for it and forgot about it.
The lining would carry Nell's mill. When the photograph went out, the story would be true. I was looking forward to her hearing about it.
I worked until the city went quiet.
It was after two when the tray arrived.
I hadn't ordered anything. I looked up and saw one of the night staff standing in the doorway with a covered plate and a pot of tea.
"I didn't call for anything," I said.
"I know, sir. Miss de Valois sent it."
I looked at the tray. Rice, vegetables, nothing heavy. And tea, not coffee.
"Who told her I was still here?"
"She called the desk around one," the girl said. "Asked if you were still working. I said you were."
"And she ordered this."
"She said you'd want it about now. She said you always forget to eat when you're working late."
I looked at the tray. She was right. I did.
"Thank you," I said.
"She said to tell you not to work too late," the girl added. "She said you need to sleep."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Should I tell her you got it?"
"No. It's late. She's probably asleep."
"She said to call her when it arrived."
"Don't," I said. "She needs to rest."
"Yes sir," the girl said.
She left.
I ate standing up, one hand still on the drape. Talia paid attention. She noticed things, anticipated what I needed. That was the kind of client she was. Demanding, but professional.
It wasn't personal. It was consideration.
Winston came by around three. He didn't knock. He just walked in, looked at the gown on the table, looked at me, and said, "She's not a client. Clients want the clothes."
I set the chalk down.
"What does that mean," I said.
"It means clients want the clothes. She wants you to make them."
I looked at him. "That's the same thing."
"It's not."
"She's a client," I said. "An extremely valuable one. She has a five-year exclusive with us and she's spending more per year than anyone else on the list. That makes her a client."
"A client comes in, tells you what they need, and leaves you alone to make it," Winston said. "She doesn't leave you alone."
"She's involved," I said. "That's not a crime."
"She's here at four in the morning."
"So are you."
"I work here. She doesn't."
"She has fittings," I said. "She has a schedule."
"At four in the morning."
"We work around her calendar. You know that."
Winston didn't say anything for a second. Then he said, "She sent you supper."
"So?"
"When's the last time you thought about what Nell ate for supper?"
I stared at him.
"You're being provincial," I said.
"Am I."
"Yes. You are. Talia operates at a different level and you're uncomfortable with it."
"I'm uncomfortable with a lot of things," Winston said. "That's not one of them."
"Then what's the problem?"
"The problem," he said, "is that you're here more than you're home."
"The work is here."
"Nell's not."
I looked at him. "What do you want me to say?"
"Nothing," Winston said. "I don't want you to say anything."
He shook his head and walked out.
I went back to the table.
Winston was wrong. Provincial was the right word. Talia was a client, an extremely demanding one, and that was what made her valuable. What she wanted was exactly what every other client wanted — to look the way she needed to look. The fact that it took more work didn't make it something else.
And Nell wasn't part of this. Nell had her own work, her own building. I'd made sure of that.
I marked the last seam and stepped back.
The gown would hold.
One of the pattern makers came by an hour later with fabric samples.
"Mr. Crowe? Do you have a minute?"
"What is it."
"The lining samples. For the heritage line."
"Leave them on the desk."
"Which one do you want for the production run?"
"I'll look at them later," I said.
"Winston said the mill shipment arrives Thursday."
"I know."
"From Ivester Woolen."
"Yes."
"That's Mrs. Crowe's mill, isn't it."
I looked up. "It is."
"That's nice. Using her work."
"It is," I said.
She nodded and left the samples.
It was nearly four when Talia came down. I heard her on the stairs and looked up as she came into the workroom, wrapped in a dressing gown, her hair down. She stopped in the doorway.
"You're still working," she said.
"I'm nearly done."
She came closer, careful not to touch anything, and looked at the drape. She'd learned enough in eleven months to see what was good and what wasn't.
"It's beautiful," she said.
"It will be."
"The fall is perfect. And the neckline."
"That's the point."
She glanced at me. "Did you eat?"
"I did. Thank you for sending it."
"I thought you might forget," she said. "You always do when you're working late."
She was right. I did.
"You need to take care of yourself," she said.
"I'm fine."
"Are you? You look exhausted."
"I'm fine," I said.
"How long have you been working?"
"Since eleven."
"Beckett."
"I know."
"You can't keep doing this."
"The dinner is in five days," I said.
"And you'll make it. You always do. But you need to sleep."
"I will. After this."
She looked at me for a long moment, then nodded.
She looked back at the gown. "Will Nell want to come to Washington? To the dinner."
"No," I said. "She doesn't like that kind of thing."
"I thought not. She'd hate all that standing around, wouldn't she. All those people watching."
"She would," I said. "She'd rather be working."
"She's happiest in the building."
"She is," I said.
Talia nodded slowly. "You're lucky. It must be nice, knowing she's happy where she is. That she doesn't need all this." She gestured at the gown, the studio, the city outside.
"It is," I said.
"Some wives would want to be involved," she said. "They'd want to come to everything, see everything. They'd call all the time, asking when you're coming home."
"Nell's not like that."
"No," Talia said. "She's not. She understands. She knows how important the work is."
"She does."
"I'm glad," Talia said. She smiled. "I'd hate to think she felt left out. That she was sitting there in that beautiful house feeling lonely."
I looked at her.
"That's thoughtful of you," I said.
She shrugged. "I just want everyone to be happy. And she is happy, isn't she. In Ardis, with her mill, with her people."
"She is," I said.
"Does she ever come to the city?"
"Not often."
"She must miss you."
"She has her work," I said.
"Of course. And you have yours."
"Yes."
"It's perfect, really," she said. "You're both doing what you love. Both exactly where you should be."
"We are."
She looked at me for a moment. "Do you ever think about bringing her to New York? Full time, I mean."
"I offered her an apartment. Two blocks from here."
"Did she take it?"
"She's thinking about it."
"I hope she does," Talia said. "It would be nice for you. To see her more."
"It would," I said.
She looked back at the gown. "I should let you finish."
"Thank you for the supper," I said.
"Of course," she said. "Anytime."
She left a few minutes later. I stood at the table and looked at the gown. Talia was right — Nell was happiest in the building, in Ardis, with her work. I'd built her exactly the life she'd wanted.
She had her work and I had mine. It fit.
Except it didn't used to feel like this.
I remembered it suddenly. One night in the first year, before the money.
A small apartment, the kitchen table covered in my drawings, Nell mending my coat while I worked.
She'd talked the entire time. About her mother, about the mill in Ardis, about a jacket she'd seen on the subway that was cut wrong and how she'd fix it.
She'd asked me what I was drawing and why I was doing it that way instead of another way.
We'd talked for three hours. I'd finished two designs and she'd finished the sleeve and we'd gone to bed at two in the morning and I'd felt like the richest man alive.
She used to talk to me constantly.
She didn't anymore.
I stood there and felt something settle in my chest. Guilt, maybe. The feeling that I'd let something slip and didn't know how to get it back.
Then my phone buzzed.
I picked it up.
Nell: Are you coming home tonight?