16. Nell #2
"And said what? Your husband's here asking for a job? You want me to send him away or let him help save the contract that's going to determine whether this place is still standing in six months?"
I didn't have an answer for that.
"He's good, Nell," Hazel said. "Real good. Fast hands once he got past the first week. Never complains, never shows up late, never makes excuses. Works doubles when I ask. The kind of worker your mother would've kept."
"Don't."
"Don't what? Tell you the truth? He's been on my floor for three weeks doing honest work for an honest wage, and the only reason you're mad is because nobody told you about it."
"I'm mad because you lied to me."
"I didn't lie. I just didn't tell you something you weren't ready to hear." Hazel picked up the shears again. "You can be mad about that if you want. But the work still needed doing, and he did it."
I looked at her.
Hazel Dunning. Sixty-three years old. Plant manager. The woman who'd sewn beside my mother for nineteen years and taught me how to hold a needle before I could write my name.
Who'd opened the door at five thirty every morning for as long as I could remember.
Who'd looked at my husband when he walked in with a fake name and soft hands, and hired him anyway because her floor needed the help.
"Did he ask you to keep it from me?"
"No," Hazel said. "I offered. He said it was my floor and my call."
"And you thought keeping him hidden was the right call."
"I thought getting the lot finished was the right call." She met my eyes. "Still do."
I wanted to argue with her. Wanted to tell her she'd had no right.
But I couldn't, because she was right about one thing.
If she'd told me three weeks ago, I would've sent him away.
And we'd be short thirty-five hundred units right now with no way to make the deadline.
"We're not done with this," I said quietly.
"I know," Hazel said.
She went back to her cutting.
I walked away before I could say something I'd regret.
I sat in the office until the machines started winding down. Until I heard voices in the hall and footsteps on the stairs.
Then I walked out to the floor.
The night crew was coming in.
Dorcas heading out, her coat already on. Ray stopping to check the manifest one more time. Kiana pulling her bag over her shoulder and waving at someone I couldn't see.
And then he was in the doorway.
Box in his hands. Cutting tools, probably. His coat folded over his arm.
He saw me.
He stopped.
For a second neither of us moved.
Then I walked over.
Up close I could see it. The three weeks on my floor. His hands weren't soft anymore. There was a healing cut on his thumb. His shirt was plain, not tailored. His face looked thinner.
He looked like he belonged here.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
He looked at the floor for a moment. Then at my face.
"Because then you'd have had to decide what to do about me, and you've got four thousand units and five days."
"That's not an answer."
"No." He set the box down. "The answer is I don't have any right to be in your life. I haven't for a while, and I know it. But the cutting still needed doing, and I can do that whether you want me here or not. Those two things aren't connected, Nell. I made sure they weren't."
I stared at him.
He'd made sure they weren't connected.
He hadn't just refused credit. He'd engineered the whole thing so his help couldn't cost me anything. Couldn't oblige me to anything. Couldn't be a gift I'd have to repay or a favor I'd owe.
He'd taken a wage. Cashed the cheques. Made it ordinary work.
So I could say no without it mattering.
I kissed him.
I didn't think about it. Didn't plan it. My hand went to his face and I kissed him, hard and desperate, and for about four seconds I forgot every single reason I'd left.
His hand came up to my waist.
Then I remembered.
I stepped back.
He let me go.
Didn't follow. Didn't reach for me. Didn't say a word.
The old version of him would've taken that opening and run with it. Would've pulled me back and kissed me until I couldn't think and told me we'd figure the rest out later.
This one stood there with his hands at his sides and his mouth shut and waited for me to decide.
"You can't just show up here," I said.
My voice shook. I hated that it shook.
"I know."
"You can't just take a fake name and a wage and expect that to fix anything."
"I don't."
"Then what are you doing, Beckett? What is this?"
He looked at me for a long moment.
"The work," he said quietly. "That's all. I'm doing the work."
"That's not all. Don't stand there and tell me that's all."
"It is."
"No, it's not. You resigned. You gave away your company. Winston said nobody's seen you in three weeks. And you've been here the whole time, on my floor, under a name I wouldn't recognize."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because the lot needed finishing and you were short on hands."
"That's what Hazel said."
"Because it's true."
I wanted to hit him.
I wanted to kiss him again.
I wanted to demand he tell me everything right now, all of it, every single thing he'd done since I walked out.
"You didn't have to do this," I said.
"No," he agreed. "I didn't."
"You could've sent money. You could've sent workers from New York. You could've done a hundred things that didn't involve showing up here and sewing hospital blankets for fifteen dollars an hour."
"I could have."
"So why didn't you?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"Because sending money would've been about me," he said finally. "Sending workers would've been about me. And this needed to not be about me."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I'm not here to fix things, Nell. I'm here to do the work. That's the only part I can control."
I stared at him.
"You don't get to fix this by working here. You don't get to undo everything that happened by showing up and cashing cheques and pretending you're just another hand on my floor."
"I'm not trying to undo anything."
"Then what are you trying to do?"
"Help," he said simply. "That's all. Just help."
I looked at him.
At the man I'd been married to for six years. Who'd built a billion-dollar company and never once asked me what I needed. Who'd bought me a plane and a house and front row seats and never noticed I wanted him, not his money.
Who was standing on my floor with a healing cut on his thumb and a plain shirt and a name I'd had to work out myself.
"Five days," I said.
My voice came out steady this time.
"You finish the lot. You do the work. And then we talk. Not before. After."
He nodded once. "All right."
"I mean it. You don't get to explain. You don't get to apologize. You do the cutting and you stay out of my way and in five days we'll see."
"Understood."
"And Beckett?"
He looked at me.
"If you're doing this to get the mill, or to get me back cheaply, or because you want a story to tell later when it suits you, I will know. And I will make sure you regret it."
Something changed in his face.
Not hurt. Not anger.
Something quieter.
"I'm doing it because the lot needs to ship and you're out of hands," he said. "That's all it is."
"You said that already."
"Because it's true."
I looked at him.
I didn't believe him. Not completely.
But I didn't disbelieve him either.
"Five days," I said again.
"Five days," he said.
"And then we'll see."
"And then we'll see."