6. Beckett #2
Hazel came through. She was in her sixties, gray hair pulled back, work shirt and jeans. The same face I'd seen at the wedding six years ago. She'd worked beside Nell's mother for nineteen years.
She looked at me. No expression I could read.
"Hazel," I said. "I need to see Nell."
"She's not here."
"The girl said?—"
"She's not here."
I stopped.
Hazel didn't move. Didn't blink. She just stood there on the other side of the desk with her hands at her sides.
"Is she coming back?" I said.
"Not today."
"Tomorrow?"
"I couldn't say."
"Hazel. I need to talk to her."
"I'll let her know you came by."
"Can you call her?"
"I can let her know."
"Now. Can you call her now."
"She's not taking calls."
"Hazel. Please."
"Is there anything else?"
I looked at her. At the expression on her face that wasn't an expression at all.
"I can fix this," I said. "Whatever it is, I can fix it.
I'll cancel the Milan trip. I'll clear my schedule.
I'll come home every weekend. Every week if she wants.
I'll buy her a studio in New York if she wants to be up there.
A bigger one here if she wants to stay. Whatever she needs. Just tell her that."
Hazel looked at me for a long time.
"I'll tell her," she said.
"And tell her I'll move the money. For the expansion she wanted. The new machines. Whatever she needs for the hospital contract. I'll wire it tomorrow."
"Alright."
"And the house. If she wants the house, it's hers. The deed, the mortgage, all of it. I'll have Winston draw it up."
"Alright."
"Just tell her I need to talk to her. That's all. Just five minutes."
Hazel looked at me.
Then she said, "Alright."
And nothing happened.
She didn't move. Didn't turn around. Didn't call for Nell. Didn't pick up the phone.
She just stood there.
I waited.
The machines kept running.
"Hazel," I said.
"I'll let her know you came by," she said.
"You said?—"
"I'll let her know."
I stared at her.
She looked back at me with that same flat expression.
"That's it?" I said.
"That's it."
"I just offered her everything."
"I know."
"And you're not even going to ask her."
"I'll let her know you came by," Hazel said again.
And then she went back through the door.
I stood there.
The girl at the desk was looking at her computer. She didn't look up.
The machines kept running.
I turned around and walked out.
—
I got back to the city just before midnight.
Winston was still in his office. He looked up when I came in.
"You're back."
"Yeah."
"How'd it go?"
I didn't answer.
"That good."
"She blocked my number. Went to the mill. They wouldn't let me past the front desk."
"Jesus."
I sat down. "What do I do."
"I don't know."
"There has to be something."
"Beckett. I don't know."
"You think she's done."
"I think she left her wedding ring on a table and walked away."
"That doesn't mean she's done."
"Doesn't it?"
He turned his laptop toward me. The photograph. Talia at the state dinner.
"It's everywhere," Winston said. "Paris Match. Vogue. Bergdorf wants to double their spring order."
"Good."
"Sauveterre sent over the contract this afternoon."
He put a folder on the desk.
I opened it. The Sauveterre crest. Five-year exclusive for the royal household.
And below that: the wedding wardrobe.
Crowe would provide the full wardrobe for the crown princess's marriage. Gowns, travel pieces, the reception line. Everything.
No groom named. The honor was being extended in anticipation of the future event.
"They want an answer by Monday," Winston said.
"They're calling it an honor."
"They would."
"It is an honor."
"Is it."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He looked at me for a long time.
"She's not a client. Clients want the clothes."
The same thing he'd said three days ago.
"She is a client."
"Then why does she call you at two in the morning? Why does she ask where your wife is every time she sees you?"
"When did she do that."
"Every fitting for the last three months."
"And you didn't think to mention it?"
"I did mention it. Three days ago in this office. You told me I was imagining things."
I didn't answer.
"It's your call," Winston said. "But I think you should know what you're signing."
"I know what I'm signing. It's the biggest contract we've ever had."
"It's a wedding wardrobe for a woman who's not getting married."
"She will be. Eventually."
"And you want to be the one making the dress."
"It's work, Winston. It's a commission."
"Alright."
"You want me to run the numbers?"
"I'll have them Monday."
He poured two cups of coffee. Set one in front of me.
"Go home," he said.
"I am home."
"I mean your actual home."
"She's not there."
"Then find her."
"I tried. She won't see me."
"Try again."
I picked up the folder. Signed it.
Winston watched.
"Send it back to them," I said.
"You sure?"
"Yes."
He took the folder.
"I hope you know what you're doing," he said.
"I'm going to fix it. Clear my schedule. Be there."
"When."
"Soon. Two weeks, maybe three."
"You think she's going to wait two weeks?"
"She'll wait. She's my wife. She loves me. Six years doesn't just disappear."
Winston didn't say anything.
I went to my office. Pulled up the photograph on my phone.
Talia at the state dinner. The gown moving in the wind. The bodice fitted perfectly.
I looked at it for a long time.
And then I saw the cloth.
The blanket wool in the lining. You could just see it at the neckline where the silk pulled back. The tight weave.
Ivester cloth.
Ten thousand hospital blankets a year, built to survive two hundred washes.
I'd lined a state dinner gown with it. Put my wife's work on another woman's body and sent it out in front of the entire world.
I'd thought I was being generous. I'd thought I was honoring her.
I'd been pleased with myself.
I looked at the photograph again. At Talia wearing the gown I'd made with Nell's work in it.
I'd built my name by dressing somebody else in what she made.
And I'd called it a gift.
I said it out loud.
"I took my wife's work and I put it on another woman and I called it a gift."