5. Nell
NELL
I stopped at the mill first.
The break room was empty at five in the morning. I set my bag down and pulled out what I'd brought: butter, eggs, cornmeal, vanilla. I'd made the crust the night before. It had stayed cold in the car.
I turned on the old oven and waited.
The break room wasn't much. A table, four chairs, a microwave, a coffee maker nobody cleaned. The oven was older than I was. My mother had used it when the mill still belonged to the Ardis family.
I mixed the filling the way she'd taught me. Sugar first. Then the eggs, one at a time. The butter, melted and warm. The cornmeal. The vanilla.
The smell filled the room.
I poured it into the crust and slid it into the oven. Set the timer for forty minutes.
Then I sat down and waited.
The door opened behind me. I didn't turn around.
"You're here early," Dorcas said.
"I had something to finish."
She didn't ask what. She just stood in the doorway and watched me. I could feel her looking at the oven, at the bowl on the counter, at the bag by my feet.
"You going somewhere?"
"New York."
"For the weekend?"
"I don't know yet."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "That his favourite?"
"It was."
"Was."
I looked down at my hands. There was flour under my nails. Sugar on my sleeve.
"Does he know you're coming?" she asked.
I didn't answer.
She walked over to the coffee maker. Poured herself a cup. Stood there with her back to me, looking out the window at the parking lot.
"You know," she said. "Your mama used to make this pie in here too."
"I know."
"She made it for my birthday once. Nineteen years ago. I still remember it."
I didn't say anything.
"She was a good woman," Dorcas said. "Best hand I ever worked next to."
"Thank you."
She took a sip. "My husband stopped coming home on time about three years into our marriage. Work, he said. Always work. And I believed him because I wanted to."
"How long did you wait?"
"Fifteen years."
"What happened then?"
"He left anyway. Turned out there was a woman in Greensboro. Had been for most of those fifteen years."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Best thing that ever happened to me." She took another sip. "I just wish I'd figured it out sooner."
"You didn't do anything wrong."
"I know that now." She looked at me. "You think you did?"
"I don't know."
"If you have to ask yourself that question, the answer's no. The person who actually did something wrong? They never ask."
I looked down at my hands.
"You know what I wish I'd done?" she asked.
"What?"
"I wish I'd stopped waiting sooner. Wish I'd walked out the first time he made me feel like I wasn't enough."
"How do you know when it's time?"
"You know. You just don't want to admit it yet."
She set her cup down on the counter.
"You want me to take that out when it's done?" she asked.
"No. I'll wait."
"How long's the timer?"
"Forty minutes."
"That's a long time to sit here thinking."
"I'm not thinking. I'm just waiting."
"Waiting for the pie or waiting to change your mind?"
"The pie."
She nodded. Picked up her cup again.
"You need a ride to the airport?" she asked.
"I called a car."
"What time's it coming?"
"Six."
She looked at the clock on the wall. "You've got time then."
"Yeah."
She didn't say anything else for a moment. Just stood there with her coffee, looking at me.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing."
"Dorcas."
"I just don't want you to do something you'll regret."
"I won't."
"You sure about that?"
"I'm sure."
"And if he calls? Asks you to come home?"
"He won't."
"But if he does?"
I looked at her. "Then I'll tell him I am home."
She nodded slowly. Set her cup down.
"All right then."
She walked to the door. Stopped in the doorway. Looked back at me.
"Nell."
"Yeah?"
"Whatever you're doing, you do it. Don't let him talk you out of it. Don't let him make you feel like you're asking for too much. You're not."
"How do you know?"
"Because if wanting to see your own husband more than six nights a month is too much, then the problem isn't you."
Then she left.
That silence, and those words, were the whole floor telling me what it thought of my marriage.
I sat there until the timer went off. Pulled the pie out, set it on the counter to cool, packed it into the box.
I picked up my bag and left.
I'd never been to New York before.
Beckett came home when he could, and when he couldn't, I waited. That was how it worked.
But I wasn't waiting anymore.
The flight was short. An hour and a half. I didn't sleep. Just sat with the box on my lap and watched the sun come up.
The woman next to me kept looking at it.
"What's in the box?" she finally asked.
"A pie."
"What kind?"
"Chess pie."
"Oh, I love chess pie. My grandmother used to make it. Did you make it yourself?"
"This morning."
"This morning? What time did you have to get up?"
"Five."
"Wow. You're dedicated." She smiled. "You bringing it to someone?"
"My husband."
"That's sweet. Is he from New York?"
"No. He works there."
"What does he do?"
"He's a tailor."
"A tailor in New York. That must be interesting work."
"It is."
"Long distance must be hard though."
"It is."
"How often do you see him?"
"Not often enough."
She nodded. "My husband travels for work too. Gone two weeks out of every month. I hate it. But the money's good and the kids need braces, so." She shrugged. "You have kids?"
"No."
"Well, that makes it easier at least. No one at home asking where daddy is all the time. Do you work?"
"I run a sewing mill."
"Oh really? Where?"
"North Carolina."
"That's a long way. And you both work in the same industry. That must be nice. Something to talk about."
"When we talk."
She looked at me for a moment. Then back at the box.
"He must really love pie if you're flying all the way to New York to bring him one," she said.
"He used to."
Something in my voice must have told her to stop asking questions because she went quiet after that. Just smiled and turned back to her magazine.
I looked out the window and waited for the plane to land.
By the time we touched down it was full morning.
I took a car from the airport. Climbed into the back with the box.
"Where to?" he asked.
I gave him the address.
"Garment district. Got it."
He pulled into traffic. I watched the city go by outside the window.
It was nothing like home. Home was quiet. Fields and trees and two-lane roads. This was steel and glass and noise, people everywhere moving like they knew exactly where they were going.
I didn't.
I just held the box and tried not to think about what I was doing.
"First time in New York?" the driver asked.
"Yes."
"What do you think so far?"
"It's loud."
He laughed. "You get used to it. Where you from?"
"North Carolina."
"Yeah? What part?"
"Small town. You wouldn't know it."
"Try me. I used to live in Durham."
"Ardis."
"You're right, I don't know it." He changed lanes. Honked at someone. "Here for work or pleasure?"
"Neither."
He glanced at me in the mirror. "Family?"
"Something like that."
"Visiting your husband? I heard you tell that lady on the plane."
"Yes."
"He know you're coming?"
"No."
"Surprise visit. That's nice."
"Maybe."
"Well, enjoy your visit. City's not so bad once you figure out how to navigate it."
"How long does that take?"
"Couple years." He grinned. "Maybe less if you're quick."
I looked back out the window.
The car stopped in front of a building I'd only seen in photographs.
"This it?" he asked.
"This is it."
I paid him. Got out.
The sign above the door said CROWE in letters as tall as I was.
I went inside.
The lobby was white marble and glass. A woman sat behind the desk, polished and perfect.
I walked up to her. She looked up and smiled.
"Good morning. How can I help you?"
"I'm here to see Beckett Crowe."
She looked at me. Then at the box. Then back at me.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No."
She clicked something on her computer. "I'm sorry, but Mr. Crowe is working with a client this morning. If you'd like to leave your name and number, I can have someone from his team reach out."
"I'm his wife."
Her face changed. The smile got wider. Warmer.
"Oh. Of course. Mrs. Crowe. I'm so sorry, I should have recognized you from the photos."
"What photos?"
"The ones from the gala ten days ago. You looked beautiful."
I hadn't been at the gala last month. I'd been at the mill.
She must have seen something on my face because she stopped smiling.
"I'm sorry. Was that not you?"
"No."
"Oh." She looked down. Then back at me. "I apologize. I must have been thinking of someone else."
"Must have."
She stood. "Please, go right up. Fourth floor. He's in the workroom at the end of the hall."
"Thank you."
"Can I take that for you? Have it sent up?"
"No. I'll bring it."
"Of course. The elevators are just there." She pointed.
I walked away.
She waved me through like it was nothing. Like of course I could go up.
I should have known better.
I took the elevator. Watched the numbers climb. One. Two. Three. Four.
The doors opened.
The hallway was quiet. Bright.
I could smell it before I saw anything. Chalk. Steam. Pressed cloth.
I'd smelled it a thousand times on him when he came home. But I'd never been in the place where it started.
I walked down the hall. Past closed doors. Past framed photographs of gowns I'd seen in magazines. Past fabric swatches in colours I didn't have names for.
The workroom door was open.
I stopped.
I didn't mean to. I just did.
Because I could hear him talking.
Not the two-minute, half-distracted kind of talking he did with me when I called him at the wrong time. Not the I'll try or the I can't or the maybe after.
This was different.
He was explaining something. Patiently. With time. With the kind of attention I hadn't heard in his voice in years.
I should have turned around. Should have walked back to the elevator. Should have left before I heard another word.
But I didn't.
I stepped closer. Stood in the doorway.
There was a mirror on the far wall. Floor to ceiling. In it I saw everything.
The workroom. The cutting table. Bolts of fabric stacked along the wall. A dress form with a gown on it, white and perfect and still half-pinned.
And Talia.