3. Beckett #2
I looked at the message. I looked at the gown. I looked at the time. Four in the morning, and I still had the first sample to cut, and after that the courier to arrange, and after that three calls I'd promised to make by nine.
I typed back.
Beckett: I'll try.
I sent it. I put the phone down.
The guilt arrived, the way it always did when I thought about her too long.
She'd asked if I was coming home. She was alone in the house I'd built her and she didn't want to be.
I'd told her I'd try.
That was the truth. I would try. I always tried.
And if I didn't make it tonight I'd make it next week.
She had everything she needed. The house.
The mill. Hazel and fourteen people who depended on her.
I'd given her a life that didn't require me standing in it every day. Independence. Work that mattered.
And if she was feeling left out, the apartment would fix it. Two blocks from the office. She'd see me every day.
The apartment was the answer.
I picked up the phone and called the broker. It rang once. Twice.
"Mr. Crowe," he said. He sounded awake. He always sounded awake. I paid him enough to always sound awake.
"The apartment on Eleventh," I said. "I want it shown to my wife this week. Set it up."
"Of course. When would she like to see it?"
"She'll let you know," I said. "Send her the details. The photos, the floor plan, everything. Make sure she has it by tomorrow."
"Should I call her directly, or would you prefer to?—"
"Email is fine. She'll reach out when she's ready."
"Understood," he said. "And if she has questions? About the lease terms, the timeline?"
"Answer them."
"Of course. Should I mention you've already approved the terms?"
"Yes."
"And the deposit?"
"I'll handle it," I said. "Just get her the information."
"Will do. Anything else you'd like me to include? Neighborhood information, nearby amenities?"
"All of it. Make it easy for her to say yes."
"Understood," he said. "I'll have everything arranged by morning. She'll have it in her inbox by nine."
"Good," I said.
"Congratulations, by the way. It's a beautiful space. She'll love it."
"She will," I said.
I hung up.
I stood there with the phone in my hand and felt the guilt settle and smooth and go quiet.
There. I'd handled it. She'd get the email, she'd see the apartment, she'd realize I'd been thinking about her, planning for her, making space for her in my life here.
She'd take it. And then she'd be close, and I'd see her every day, and the problem would be solved.
I felt better.
The guilt was gone. I'd fixed it.
I put the phone down and turned back to the gown.
Then I stopped.
I needed my grandfather's shears.
They were in Nell's workroom, in the glass house, where they'd been since the wedding.
I'd given them to her the day we married — the only thing I'd ever given her that had belonged to my grandfather, the only thing I'd ever given her that meant anything.
Carbon steel, ten inches, balanced for a tailor's hand.
She'd understood what they meant. She'd kept them on the bench by the window in her workroom for six years, and she'd kept them perfect.
She'd locked that door nearly a week ago.
I'd noticed it when I was home. The brass lock turned, the key gone from the plate.
I'd registered it the way you register a door being closed instead of open, and I hadn't thought about it again.
She'd never locked that door before. Not once in six years.
But she'd locked it then, and now I needed the shears and the door was locked and I was a thousand miles away.
I called the house.
Maris answered on the second ring. "Mr. Crowe."
"The workroom door is locked," I said. "I need you to open it."
"Mrs. Crowe's workroom?"
"Yes."
"She locked it a few days ago," Maris said. "I noticed when I was cleaning."
"I know. I need you to open it."
"Of course. What do you need?"
"There's a pair of shears on the bench by the window. Old ones, carbon steel, about ten inches. Have them couriered to the studio. I need them here by morning."
"I'll take care of it," she said.
"Don't go in," I said. "Just open the door and have someone get the shears. Don't touch anything else. I don't want anything disturbed."
"Should I lock it again after?"
"Yes."
"And if Mrs. Crowe asks?"
"She won't," I said. "She's probably asleep."
"Of course," Maris said. "I'll have them sent tonight."
"Thank you," I said.
"Will you be home soon?"
"Not tonight."
"She asked earlier if you were coming."
I stopped. "When?"
"Around nine, I think. She was in the kitchen."
"What did you tell her?"
"I said I didn't know."
"Good," I said. "That's fine."
"Yes sir," Maris said.
I hung up.
Maris would handle it. The shears would be here by morning.
I stood at the table and waited.
The courier arrived at six. One of the night staff brought him up.
"Package for you, Mr. Crowe," she said.
"Thank you."
The courier handed me the case. "Sign here, please."
I signed. He left. I opened the case — my grandfather's shears, the ones he'd used for forty years, the ones I'd given to Nell when we married.
She'd kept them perfect.
I picked them up and felt the weight and the balance. The steel was clean. The edge sharp. She'd been taking care of them. Of course she had. That was Nell.
The night staff was still standing in the doorway.
"Do you need anything else, Mr. Crowe?"
"No," I said. "Thank you."
"Coffee?"
"I'm fine."
"You've been here all night."
"I know."
She nodded and left.
I stood there with the shears in my hand and thought about calling Nell. Just to tell her I'd borrowed them. Just to say thank you.
I looked at the phone on the table.
I looked at the gown.
I didn't call.
I had work to do.
I laid out the cloth. The silk for the Washington gown.
I picked up the shears. They felt right in my hand. The way they always had.
I started cutting.
By seven the pattern team was arriving. One of them came to the doorway.
"Mr. Crowe?"
"What."
"Do you need anything?"
"No."
"Winston said you've been here all night."
"I'm fine."
"Can I bring you coffee?"
"I'm fine."
She hesitated. "The Washington gown. It's beautiful."
I looked up. Junior pattern maker, maybe twenty-five.
"It will be," I said.
"Is this the first sample?"
"Yes."
"I've never seen you do one before."
"I do them all. You're usually not here this early."
"Oh. Right."
She left.
I went back to the cutting. I'd been doing this for twenty years — cutting and hand-finishing the first piece of every collection myself, alone, at four in the morning. The only part of the work I never delegated.
I couldn't have told you why.
I just knew that when my hands were on the cloth and the shears were moving, I was doing the thing I was built to do. The most loving thing I knew how to do with my hands.
It didn't cross my mind that I'd never done it for her.
It didn't cross my mind that it was love.
I reached for the shears instead of the phone.