9. Beckett
BECKETT
I'd been in the glass house for sixteen hours and I hadn't moved.
Not to the shower. Not to the kitchen. I was still in the same clothes I'd worn to Ardis, and the light had gone from afternoon to dusk to dark and I was sitting in the same chair in the same room looking at the same wall.
She'd closed the mill door on me yesterday and I'd driven back here and I hadn't spoken to anyone since.
Winston had called twice. I hadn't answered.
The phone had gone dark hours ago. I didn't pick it up.
I couldn't think of a single thing to say to anyone that wouldn't be a lie.
I said it out loud instead.
"The gala."
My voice sounded wrong in the empty house. Too loud. Too clear.
I kept going anyway.
"She told Talia the coat was her mother's. She told her that her mother sewed on a floor like that one for thirty-one years for a company that never put her name on anything."
I'd been standing right there. Three feet away. Close enough to hear every word.
Talia had looked at my wife and smiled.
"What a shame there isn't a more worthy tradition for you to honour. But of course, we work with what we have."
Nell hadn't said anything back. She'd just stood there.
And then in the car I'd turned to her and I'd said it.
"This is exactly the kind of tradition I'm building for the Crowe name."
I'd said it to my wife while she was still wearing her mother's coat.
While the words were still in the air between us.
I'd thought I was explaining something to her. I'd thought I was being kind.
I put my head in my hands.
"March."
The night before we were married I'd made her a promise.
Every March. Every year. No matter what.
The month her mother died.
I'd kept it for five years. I'd cleared the schedule. I'd come home. I'd been there.
This year I'd been in New York.
I hadn't come home. I hadn't called.
I hadn't remembered until she'd called me.
She'd asked where I was and I'd told her I was working and she'd gone quiet on the line and I'd heard it then. The date. What it meant.
I'd apologized. I'd told her I'd make it up to her.
She'd said it was fine.
It wasn't fine.
I said the last one.
"The thing she made."
She'd written to me in September. Two messages, one right after the other.
"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."
I'd been in the studio. Talia's first fitting was in an hour and the bodice wasn't right and I was fixing it.
I'd written back without looking up from the table.
"I can't. Maybe after."
I'd never asked what it was.
I'd never asked.
I sat there.
She'd put three things in front of me in the mill doorway and I had no answer for any of them.
Not one.
I'd driven five hours to see her. I'd brought the deed to her building. I'd thought I was bringing her proof.
And she'd named three things back to me and closed the door.
She'd been right about every single one.
The sound of a car in the driveway brought my head up.
I wasn't expecting anyone. Nobody knew I was here.
I got to my feet. Went to the window.
A black sedan. Rental plates.
The driver's door opened and Talia got out.
No security. No staff. No assistant with a garment bag.
Hair down. Jeans and a sweater I'd never seen before.
I'd never seen her like that in my life.
She came up the front steps and I heard the door open downstairs.
Not a knock. Not a call ahead.
She'd let herself in.
I stood there.
Footsteps on the stairs. Then she was in the doorway.
"Beckett."
I didn't say anything.
She looked around the room. Took in the state of me. The rumpled shirt. The fact that I hadn't shaved. The chair I'd been sitting in for sixteen hours.
Her face shifted into something soft. Concerned.
"I came as soon as I could," she said. "I've been so worried."
"How did you know I was here."
"Winston told me you'd left the city. I thought you might need someone."
I stayed where I was.
"I don't."
She smiled. Walked closer.
"You shouldn't be alone right now."
"I want to be alone."
"No, you don't. Not really."
"Talia."
"Have you eaten anything? I can make you something."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine. When was the last time you slept?"
"That's not your concern."
She moved past me into the room. Picked up a glass from the side table. Looked at it.
"How long have you been sitting here?"
"Talia—"
"It's all right. You don't have to explain." She set the glass down. Turned to face me. "I understand what you're going through."
I doubted that.
"You don't have to pretend with me," she said. "We're friends, aren't we?"
"You're a client."
"I'm more than that. You know I am. After everything we've been through this year?—"
"No. You're not."
She looked at me for a moment. Then she sat down on the sofa. Folded her legs under her like she was settling in for the night.
"We've spent a lot of time together this year," she said. "More than most friends do."
I didn't answer that.
"Has she contacted you?" she asked.
"No."
"Nothing at all?"
"No."
"Have you tried calling her?"
"She doesn't want to hear from me."
"Do you have a lawyer yet?"
I looked at her.
"That's not your concern."
"Of course it is. We're partners. If this affects the line?—"
"It doesn't."
"Are you sure? Because if there's going to be a settlement, or if she makes claims?—"
"Talia."
She stopped.
"I said it doesn't affect the line."
She tilted her head. Studied me.
"All right. I'm sorry. I'm just trying to help."
I didn't answer.
She waited. When I didn't say anything, she shifted tactics.
"Have you told anyone what happened?" she asked.
"No."
"Not even Winston?"
"No."
"Good. That's good. The fewer people who know, the easier it is to manage."
I felt something cold settle in my chest.
"There's nothing to manage."
"Beckett." Her voice went softer. "You can talk to me. I'm here for you."
I didn't want to talk to her.
I didn't want her here at all.
She stood up. Came toward me.
"I know this is hard," she said. "But you can't let her hold you hostage like this."
"She's not holding me hostage."
"She walked away. She left you." She gestured around the room. "And now you're sitting alone in the dark in an empty house."
I didn't say anything.
She reached out. Put her hand on my arm.
"You don't have to do this alone."
I stepped back.
Her hand dropped.
"I think you should go," I said.
"I flew here to see you."
"I didn't ask you to."
She stayed exactly where she was.
"You're upset. I understand that. But when you've had time to think?—"
"I don't need time to think."
"She doesn't understand what you've built," Talia said. Her voice was quiet now. Gentle. "She doesn't see it."
I went very still.
"What."
"I'm not being cruel. I'm being honest." She looked at me. "A woman who makes hospital blankets was never going to stand in those rooms. You were always going to outgrow her."
I stared at her.
"What did you say."
"She's been holding you at the level of your grandfather. The coat mill. The heritage work." She moved closer. "It's small, Beckett. You're not small."
"Get out."
She didn't move.
"When was the last time she came to New York?"
"That's none of your business."
"When was the last time she attended an event with you? A showing? Anything?"
I didn't answer.
"She doesn't fit in your world anymore. You know that. You've known it for a while."
"You don't know anything about my wife."
"I know she makes you choose. The work or her. Every single time."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it? How many times have you cancelled on her this year? How many times have you told her you'd be home and then stayed in the city instead?"
I felt my jaw tighten.
"I know you. I know what you need." She took another step. "You need someone who can match you. Someone who understands the scale of what you're building. Someone who can stand next to you and not diminish what you've made."
"Get out of my house."
"Someone who can be seen with you."
She smiled.
"Who did you think it was for?"
The question landed like a blow.
I stared at her.
"What."
"The wedding wardrobe." She said it slowly. Clearly. "Who did you think it was for?"
Everything stopped.
The commission.
The fittings that had run every other week since November.
The samples. The revisions. The schedule that had eaten the last eleven months.
A wedding wardrobe for a bride with no groom named.
In public.
Announced in the press.
Reported as an honour.
She'd been saying it since the first day.
A princess commissioning her wedding wardrobe from a New York house.
And not one person had believed her.
Not the press. Not Winston. Not anyone in the studio.
Including me.
Including in rooms where I'd laughed about it.
I'd stood there with a measuring tape around my neck and listened to her talk about the wedding and I'd smiled and nodded and I'd thought she was performing. Playing a role.
I'd been so sure.
I couldn't breathe.
She stepped closer. Put her hand on my chest.
"It was always for me, Beckett. From the first day. The gown. The coat. The going-away dress. All of it."
I shoved her off.
Hard.
She stumbled back. Caught herself on the arm of the sofa.
The revulsion was physical. I felt it in my hands. In my throat. In every part of me that had touched her.
I wanted her out of my house.
I wanted her gone.
"You need to leave," I said.
She straightened. Smoothed her sweater down.
"You're upset. I understand. But when you've had time to think about what I'm offering?—"
"Get out of my house."
"You have an arrangement. You have a woman in a mill town who?—"
"I have a wife."
My voice cut through the room.
She stopped.
I said it again.
Quieter this time.
Not really to her at all.
"She married a man who owed forty thousand dollars and owned one machine. She's the only person alive who's ever met him."
Talia's face changed.
All the softness went out of it.
"That man doesn't exist anymore."
"He's the only one who does."
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then she picked up her bag.
"You'll regret this," she said.
"No. I won't."
She walked to the door. Stopped with her hand on the frame.
"I gave you everything you asked for. I made you visible. I made you credible. I put you on the international stage. You'd still be dressing boutique brides if it wasn't for me."
"Get out."
She looked back at me.
"She left you, Beckett. She's not coming back. And when you realize that, when you're ready to move forward, you'll remember this conversation."
"No. I won't."
"You will."
She left.
I stood there until I heard her on the stairs.
Until I heard the front door open and close.
Until I heard her car start.
Until the sound of it faded down the drive and there was nothing left but silence.
Then I went to my phone.
Winston answered on the first ring.
"It's two in the morning," he said.
His voice was rough. I'd woken him up.
I didn't care.
"I need you to do something," I said.
"What."
"End the Sauveterre contract. All of it. The wedding line, the multi-year arrangement, everything."
Silence on the other end.
Then:
"Beckett—"
"Revoke her access. Studio, showroom, pattern library, everything. I want it done before she's back in the city."
"What happened."
"Just do it."
"You're sure about this?"
"Yes."
"The relaunch is in two weeks. The Geneva gala?—"
"Cancel it. All of it."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
"This is going to cost us," Winston said.
"I don't care."
"The partnership was worth?—"
"I know what it was worth. End it anyway."
"All right," Winston said.
No questions after that. No argument.
Just that.
"Consider it done," he said.
I hung up.
The house was silent.
I sat down on the edge of the sofa.
Put my head in my hands.
She'd told me no calls. No deliveries. Nothing with my name on it.
She'd been clear.
I could fix this.
I could get in the car right now. I could drive back down to Ardis. I could stand in front of that mill door and I could tell her everything.
I could tell her about the wedding wardrobe. About Talia. About what had just happened in this room.
I could make her understand.
But she'd told me not to.
No calls. No deliveries. Nothing with my name on it.
She'd said it standing in the mill doorway with her arms folded and her voice level and I'd heard exactly what she meant.
Stay away.
I'd spent six years not listening to her.
Not really.
I'd heard the words. I'd answered her. But I hadn't stopped to think about what she was actually saying underneath them.
What she needed.
What she wanted.
I'd been so sure I knew.
And I'd been wrong about all of it.
So I was going to listen now.
She'd told me to stay away.
And for the first time in six years I was going to do exactly what she asked.
I sat there in the dark and I didn't move.
The supper sent up at two in the morning.
I'd thought I was being thoughtful. Making sure she ate.
I'd thought I was taking care of her.
The summonses.
Talia calling at eleven at night with a question about the bodice and me telling Nell I'd be home late. Again.
The fittings.
Every other week for eleven months.
Talia's schedule never moved. Mine always did. And when mine moved, Nell's moved with it.
Dinner postponed. Plans cancelled. Weekends cut short.
I'd thought I was being efficient.
I'd thought I was managing it.
The messages.
The calls at all hours. In all time zones.
Talia in Paris at three in the morning my time, asking about the sleeve.
Talia in Geneva, wanting to know if I'd received the fabric samples.
Talia in Washington, needing me to confirm the fitting for the next day.
And every single time I'd picked up.
Every single time I'd answered.
Because she was the client. Because the line mattered. Because this was what building something looked like.
I'd told myself that for eleven months.
I'd believed it.
The requests.
Talia wanting to see the sketch one more time.
Talia needing the fitting moved up by a day.
Talia asking if I could come to Geneva, just for the weekend, just to oversee the final alterations in person.
And I'd gone.
I'd cleared the schedule. I'd moved everything else. I'd told Nell I'd make it up to her.
I'd said it so many times I'd stopped hearing the words.
The press release.
Posted at two fifty-two, forty minutes after Nell sent me those messages.
"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."
Forty minutes later the entire world knew about the Sauveterre partnership.
I'd thought the timing was a coincidence.
It wasn't.
Nothing about it had been a coincidence.
I'd thought I was building something.
I'd been used.
That was new.
I'd been used and I'd deserved it.
That was newer.
Every single thing that had looked like efficiency was invasion.
Every single thing that had looked like professional respect was trespass.
I'd let her into my marriage and I'd called it business.
I'd pushed my wife to the edge of my life and I'd called it temporary.
I'd thought she'd wait.
I'd thought six years was enough.
I looked down at my hands.
They were shaking.
And then my legs went.
I slid out of the chair onto the floor and I stayed there.