5. Nell #2
She was standing on the platform in front of the mirror, wearing the gown. It wasn't finished. I could see pins along the hem, basting stitches holding the bodice together. But even unfinished it was beautiful.
Beckett was beside her. Not touching her. Just standing with his hands in his pockets, looking at the gown the way I'd seen him look at his work a hundred times before.
But he was talking.
"The line here," he said, gesturing to the seam that ran from her shoulder to her waist. "It's based on a jacket my grandfather made in 1947. He called it the single best thing he ever cut. I've been trying to get it right for ten years."
"What makes it different?" Talia asked.
"The angle. Most people cut the princess seam straight down from the armhole. But he set it back three degrees. Just three. It changes everything. The way the fabric falls. The way it moves when you walk. The way the light catches it."
He stepped closer to her. Pointed to the seam without touching it.
"See how it follows the curve of your body but doesn't cling? That's the cut. That's all the cut."
"It's beautiful."
"It's honest. That's better than beautiful."
"Can't it be both?"
"Sometimes. When you get it right."
She looked at him in the mirror. "You sound like him. When you talk about it. Your grandfather."
"I never met him. He died before I was born."
"But you learned from him anyway."
"I learned from what he left behind. His notebooks. His patterns. A coat he made in 1953 that my father kept in a closet for forty years."
"That's all you needed?"
"That and time."
"And talent."
"Talent is just patience by another name."
"I don't believe that. Not everyone could do what you do."
"No. But not everyone wants to."
She turned to look at the gown in the mirror. Ran her hand down the seam.
"How long did it take you to get this right?" she asked.
"Ten years."
"That's a long time to work on one thing."
"It's worth it when you care about it."
"Do you always care this much?"
"About the work? Yes."
"What about the people who wear it?"
"That depends on the person."
She smiled at that. "And me? Do you care about me?"
"I care that you understand what you're wearing. That you know what it means."
"Tell me what it means."
"It means that every choice matters. Every seam. Every stitch. Nothing is arbitrary and nothing is for show. When you wear this, you're carrying a hundred years of work. My grandfather's. Mine. Everyone who taught us what we know."
"That's a lot of weight."
"It's the good kind."
She turned back to the mirror. "And now you have it."
"And now I have," Beckett said.
She turned. Looked at him. Then she reached out and caught his wrist.
"It's perfect," she said.
He didn't pull back.
She drew him in beside her. Slowly. Like she had all the time in the world. Like she knew he wouldn't stop her.
And he didn't.
She pulled him close enough that the two of them were standing together in front of the mirror. Side by side. Her in the gown. Him in his coat and his perfectly pressed shirt.
She smiled.
"Look at us," she said. "A princess and her artist. When this is all said and done, the world will talk about Crowe in the same breath as Chanel, Dior and Louis Vuitton."
He pulled away then. Not fast. Just steady. Like he was going back to work.
"We have a long way to go before that," he said.
"But we'll get there. I know we will."
"If the work holds."
"It will. You don't make mistakes, Beckett."
"Everyone makes mistakes."
"Not you. Not with this."
"That's because I check everything twice. Three times when it matters."
"When does it not matter?"
"Never. That's the problem."
She laughed. Soft. Like they'd shared something. "Is that why you work so much? Because nothing's allowed to be less than perfect?"
"I work this much because I have to."
"You don't have to. You choose to."
"It's the same thing."
"Is it?"
He didn't answer. Just moved to the cutting table. Picked up a piece of chalk. Started marking something on a length of fabric I recognized.
My fabric.
Ivester cloth. Ten thousand blankets a year. Bought from my mill so his story would be true.
And that was when Talia's eyes found mine in the mirror.
She didn't flinch. Didn't look away. Didn't pretend she hadn't seen me.
She just held my gaze. And smirked.
I stood there. Didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just let it settle.
He would say nothing happened.
He would say it and it would be true, and I would have nothing to hold against it. Because what I had just watched was a man being patient about a hem. A craftsman explaining his work. A designer standing beside his client.
Nothing happened.
He would be right.
He gave that woman the part of himself I'd been asking for since March, and he never once had to take his coat off to do it.
I made you something. I've been working on it since March. It's not finished and I don't want to finish it alone.
And his answer had been I can't. Maybe after.
But he had nights for this. Time for this. Patience and explanations and all the attention in the world for a woman who wasn't his wife.
I stopped shaking.
I'd been shaking since I got on the plane. Since I booked the flight. Since I sent those messages and got maybe after back.
But now I wasn't.
Because this wasn't something that was happening to me anymore.
This was something I was doing.
I walked into the room.
Beckett had his back to me. Still at the cutting table, bent over the cloth, marking the next cut. He didn't hear me.
Talia saw me. I know she did. But she didn't say anything. Just stood there on the platform in that perfect gown and watched me cross the room.
I walked past her. Past the mirror. Past the dress form with another gown pinned to it.
I stopped at the cutting table.
The cloth was laid out in front of him. My cloth. The same weave I'd been running for the Crowe order since spring. Two hundred washes. Ten thousand blankets a year.
He'd bought it from me so his story would be true.
I looked at it. Then at my left hand.
The ring had been loose for six years. Since the day he put it on me. I'd never said anything. Just learned to hold my hand a certain way so it wouldn't slide off.
It came off easily now.
I set it down on the cloth. Right in the middle of the piece he was about to cut.
Gold on gray. Small and final.
And I said two words. Not to him. Not to her. To nobody at all.
"It never fit."
Then I turned around and walked out.
My hands were shaking by the time I reached the elevator.
Not the scared kind of shaking. The kind that happens when you've been holding something too tightly for too long and finally let go.
I pressed the button. Waited.
Behind me I could hear voices. Talia's. Then Beckett's, lower, answering.
The elevator opened and I stepped inside.
I pulled out my phone and blocked his number.
Before the elevator reached the ground floor.
I just opened the settings, found his name, and pressed the button.
Block this contact?
Yes.
His name disappeared from my screen.
The elevator chimed. Third floor. Second. First.
The doors opened.
I walked through the lobby. My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the box.
The woman at the desk looked up. Smiled.
"Have a good day, Mrs. Crowe."
I didn't answer.
I kept walking. Past the white marble. Past the photographs on the walls.
I made it to the door. Stopped.
I still had the box.
I looked down at it. My mother's chess pie. Made in the break room at five in the morning because I'd never once cooked in the glass kitchen at home. Because that kitchen wasn't a kitchen. It was a showroom.
My hands were shaking so badly I couldn't hold it anymore.
I set it down on a table by the door. Just left it there.
Nobody who worked in that building would ever know what it was or who left it.
I walked out.
The air was cold. Clean. I took a breath and it didn't hurt.
I got in a car.
"That was quick," the driver said.
"Yes."
"Everything okay?"
"No. But it will be."
He nodded. Didn't ask anything else.
He pulled away and I watched the building get smaller until I couldn't see it anymore.
By the time anyone told Beckett anything, I was at the airport.
I checked in.
"Heading back to Charlotte?" the agent asked.
"Yes."
"How was your visit to New York?"
"Short."
"Safe travels. Gate B6."
I walked to the gate. Sat down.
My phone was in my purse. I didn't look at it. He couldn't call anymore. I'd made sure of that.
They called my row. I stood. Found my seat.
By the time anyone told Beckett anything, I was on the plane.
I didn't cry.
I thought I would. But I didn't.
I just sat. Buckled my seatbelt. Looked out the window.
The flight attendant came by.
"Can I get you anything?"
"No. Thank you."
"Let me know if you change your mind."
The plane pushed back. Started taxiing.
I watched the city go by. The buildings. The people who lived here and belonged here.
I'd never belonged here.
I'd flown a thousand miles to bring him a pie. To tell him I loved him. To ask him to come home.
But he was already home.
The plane turned onto the runway. The engines roared. Then we were moving until the ground dropped away.
I watched the city get smaller until it was gone.
And I felt something I hadn't felt in years.
Relief.
Not the kind from getting what you want. The kind from finally stopping.
Stopping the waiting. Stopping the hoping. Stopping the voice that kept saying just a little longer, just one more day, just give him one more chance.
I'd been holding my breath for six years. Waiting for him to come home. Waiting for him to look at me. Waiting for Are you coming home tonight? to get a different answer than I'll try.
And now I could breathe.
I leaned my head against the window.
Let him find the ring on his cutting table. Let him find the pie in the lobby. Let him pull out his phone and try to call me and hear nothing.
I was done waiting.