Epilogue Nell
The living room wall where the Rothko used to hang had been empty for four months now.
He'd never said a word about it. Never asked if I minded. Just took it down and put it somewhere else.
In its place, folded over the back of the armchair by the window, was the first blanket off the qualification lot.
Gray. Fourteen stitches per inch. Built to survive two hundred washes.
It had been washed at least a dozen times and it hadn't shrunk or pilled or lost its shape.
The kitchen smelled like something burnt.
Not badly burnt. Just the kind of burnt that meant somebody had tried to cook and gotten distracted halfway through.
I walked in and found a pan in the sink, soaking. Toast crumbs on the counter. The coffee pot was still warm.
Beckett was standing at the stove, looking at a pot of something that might've been soup.
"What happened?" I asked.
"I got distracted," he said.
"By what?"
"The phone."
I looked at the pot.
"Is it salvageable?"
"Probably not."
He turned off the burner. Moved the pot to the back.
"We'll order something," he said.
"Winston and Hazel are coming," I said.
"I know."
"In an hour."
"I know."
He looked at the pot again. Then at me.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Don't be," I said. "You tried."
"I did."
"That's more than you used to do."
He smiled. A small one. The kind that meant he knew I was right but didn't want to admit it.
He'd tried. That was the thing. He kept trying.
And sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn't, and either way he came home at six and we figured it out together.
The shirt I'd made him was hanging over the back of one of the kitchen chairs.
Gray linen. Plain collar. No pockets.
I'd finished it in April. He'd worn it to work the next day.
And now there was a mend in the left sleeve. Just above the cuff. Small and neat and perfectly visible if you knew where to look.
He'd torn it on something and mended it himself.
I ran my thumb along the seam. The stitches were tight and even.
He'd gotten better at a lot of things.
"Nell."
I turned. Hazel was standing in the doorway, holding a bottle of wine she'd brought from Ardis.
"Winston's asking about the lot," she said. "You want to tell him or should I?"
"I'll tell him."
"He's going to ask about the next one."
"I know."
"You have an answer?"
"Same as the first one," I said. "We'll do it if the price is right."
Hazel smiled.
"That's what I told him."
We walked back to the dining room. Winston was already at the table, jacket off, sleeves rolled up. Beckett was pouring water into glasses.
He looked up when I came in. Smiled.
Warm. Certain. The same smile he'd given me six months ago when I'd called his number from ten feet away just to see if it would ring.
I sat down. Hazel sat across from me. Winston raised his glass.
"To Ivester Woolen," he said.
"To the fourteen people who actually did the work," I said.
Beckett set the water pitcher down.
"Four thousand units," he said. "Nineteen days. Tested to two hundred washes. Ten thousand a year, state hospital contract."
I looked at him.
He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at Winston.
"One of the machines went down on day twelve," he said. "Ray had it back up in four hours. Dorcas ran a double shift the last two days to make up the gap. Kiana Boyd had seven months on that floor and she kept pace with people who've been sewing for twenty."
Winston leaned back in his chair.
"How many units did the testing lab pull?" he asked.
"Fifty," Beckett said. "Random sample. Every single one passed."
"What was the failure rate on the first run-through?" Winston asked.
"There wasn't one," Beckett said.
Winston's eyebrows went up.
"Not one unit?"
"Not one."
"That's not normal," Winston said.
"No," Beckett said. "It's not."
He was still looking at Winston. Not at me.
Like he was making sure every word landed.
"The state contract requires two hundred washes," Beckett said. "Nell's floor delivers blankets that go to two-fifty before they show wear. The hospital asked for a standard and she beat it by twenty-five percent."
"It's just good stitching," I said.
"It's not just good stitching," Beckett said.
His voice was level. Not loud. Not soft. Just certain.
"It was exactly that complicated," he said. "And you delivered it on time and under budget, and every single unit passed inspection."
I opened my mouth.
He kept going.
"Fourteen people," he said. "Fourteen dollars an hour. No machinery anybody else wanted. And they beat the deadline by six hours."
Winston was smiling.
"She still trying to make it smaller?" he asked.
"Every time," Beckett said.
Hazel laughed.
"Let her," she said. "She's been doing it for six years. You're not going to stop her now."
"I'm not trying to stop her," Beckett said. "I'm just not agreeing with her."
He looked at me then.
"Not about this," he said.
"How's Kiana working out?" Winston asked.
Hazel took a sip of her wine.
"Fast," she said. "Faster than I expected. She's been there eighteen months now and she's already keeping pace with Ray."
"Ray's been there nine years," I said.
"Exactly," Hazel said.
"She ask for a raise yet?" Winston asked.
"Not yet," I said.
"She will," Winston said. "And you should give it to her."
"I know," I said.
Beckett was watching me again.
"She'll ask in December," he said. "After the hospital renewal comes through."
"How do you know that?" I asked.
"Because that's what I would do," he said.
Hazel smiled.
"You did do that," she said. "Middle of October. Asked for a dollar more and got it."
"I had to ask twice," Beckett said.
"And you'd have done it for nothing," Hazel said.
The divorce had been withdrawn in May.
I'd signed the papers at the kitchen table. Beckett had signed them in his office in New York. Winston had filed them the same day.
Nobody had made a speech about it. Nobody had cried. It was just a thing that didn't need to exist anymore, so we got rid of it.
Like cancelling an insurance policy you didn't need.
Dinner was chicken. Vegetables. Bread from the bakery in Ardis that Winston stopped at every time he drove through.
He'd been finding a lot of reasons to drive through.
Hazel kept letting him.
"Betty says you're shopping at her store now," Hazel said to Beckett.
Beckett looked up from his plate.
"Once a week," he said.
"She told me you bought actual vegetables last Tuesday."
"I did."
"Fresh ones."
"Yes."
"And you cooked them?"
"I tried."
Hazel laughed.
"How'd that go?"
"Not well," I said.
"It went fine," Beckett said.
"You burnt the pan," I said.
"I didn't burn it. I overheated it."
"Same thing."
"It's not the same thing."
Winston was smiling into his wine glass.
"What'd you make?" he asked.
"Green beans," Beckett said.
"How do you burn green beans?" Hazel asked.
"I didn't burn them," Beckett said. "I seared them."
"You charred them," I said.
"Seared."
"Charred."
He looked at me. I looked back.
Then he smiled.
"Fine," he said. "Charred."
"Did you eat them?" Winston asked.
"No," I said.
"Yes," Beckett said.
Winston laughed.
"Which is it?"
"He ate them," I said. "I ordered pizza."
"They weren't that bad," Beckett said.
"They were black."
"They were crispy."
"Black."
"Crispy."
Hazel shook her head.
"Six years ago you couldn't boil water," she said to Beckett.
"I still can't," he said.
"But you're trying."
"Yes."
"That's new," she said.
Beckett looked at me.
"A lot of things are new," he said.
After we cleared the plates, Beckett stood up.
"I need Nell for a minute," he said.
Winston waved him off. Hazel poured herself more wine.
"Take your time," Winston said. "We're not going anywhere."
I followed Beckett upstairs.
His workroom was at the end of the hall. The door was open. The light was on.
Inside, on the cutting table, was a coat.
Navy wool. Three-quarter length. Notched collar.
I stopped in the doorway.
"It's not finished," he said.
I walked closer.
The seams were hand-stitched. Slow work. Careful work. Not perfect, but close.
The collar was pinned but not attached. Chalk marks lined the hem where he'd measured and re-measured.
"When did you start this?" I asked.
"June."
Three months.
I looked at him.
"It's mine?"
"Yes."
"Not my mother's."
"No."
I touched the collar. The wool was soft. Expensive.
"You're making it by hand," I said.
"Yes."
"Why?"
He didn't answer right away.
Then he said, "Because I wanted to."
"It's going to take months."
"I know."
"You don't have months."
"I'll make time," he said.
I ran my hand down the front. The stitches were small and tight. He'd done the whole thing with a running stitch, the way tailors used to do it before machines.
"How long does this take?" I asked.
"Longer than I thought it would," he said.
"How much longer?"
"A lot."
I smiled.
"You could've used a machine."
"I know."
"So why didn't you?"
He looked at me then.
"Because you would've known," he said.
I looked back at the coat. At the careful stitches. At the chalk marks where he'd measured the hem three times to get it right.
"Where did you learn to do this?" I asked.
"My grandfather taught me."
"I thought he only taught you how to cut."
"He taught me everything," Beckett said. "Cutting. Stitching. Finishing. How to make something that would last."
"And you're doing it all by hand."
"Yes."
"For me."
"Yes."
I touched the collar again. The wool was perfect. The kind of thing that cost more than most people made in a month.
"This is expensive," I said.
"I know."
"Beckett."
"It's for you," he said. "It's supposed to be."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out my tape measure. The small cloth one my mother had given me when I was nineteen.
The one I'd left on his cutting bench in November.
"I need to check something," he said.
I stood still.
He measured my shoulders. My arms. My waist.
Then he stopped.
Did it again.
Waist.
I watched his face.
He was staring at the numbers. Not moving. Not breathing.
Then he measured a third time.
His hands were shaking.
"Beckett."
He didn't answer.
Just stood there with the tape measure pulled tight around my waist, looking at the number like he was trying to make sure he was reading it right.
Then he sat down on the floor.
Not slowly. Not carefully.
Just sat.
The tape measure was still in his hand.
I looked down at him.
He looked up at me.
His face had gone pale.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"Yes."
"How long have you known?"
"Three weeks."
He closed his eyes.
Opened them again.
"Three weeks."
"I wanted to be sure before I said anything," I said.
He was still holding the tape measure.
Still sitting on the floor.
"Beckett."
He didn't say anything.
Just sat there. On the floor of his workroom. At nine o'clock at night. With my tape measure in his hand and a half-finished coat on the table behind him.
Then he said it.
Quiet. Certain. The same words he'd used in the car the night of the gala, when I'd given him the word tradition and he'd thrown it back at me like a weapon.
"This one's going to know whose grandmother sewed on that floor for thirty-one years. That's the tradition, Nell. I'm not building anything."
I sat down next to him.
Put my hand over his.
"I know," I said.
He turned his hand over. Laced his fingers through mine.
We stayed there for a long time.
When we finally went back downstairs, Winston and Hazel were still at the table. Talking low. Laughing about something I didn't catch.
They looked up when we came in.
Winston's eyes went straight to my hand.
"Ring doesn't turn anymore," he said.
I looked down.
The band sat flat against my skin. Snug. Steady.
It had been resized in July. I'd picked it up from the jeweller in Ardis and put it back on in the parking lot.
It hadn't moved since.
"No," I said. "It doesn't."
Hazel smiled.
"About time," she said.
"It only took six years," Winston said.
"Seven," Beckett said.
I looked at him.
He was leaning against the doorframe. Hands in his pockets. Looking at me the way he used to look at me before everything got complicated.
Before the shows and the galas and the woman who thought she could walk into my mill and I'd bow.
"Seven years," he said again.
"You counting?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Since when?"
"Since the beginning."
Winston stood up. Stretched.
"We should go," he said. "Let you two have your evening."
Hazel stood too. Picked up her jacket from the back of the chair.
"Same time next month?" she asked.
"Same time," I said.
Beckett reached for his jacket. There was a loose button on the cuff.
I reached for it at the same time he reached for the torn hem on my sleeve.
We both stopped.
Looked at each other.
Smiled.
Same habit. Same instinct. Same hand moving without thinking.
I fixed his button. He fixed my hem.
Winston and Hazel said their goodbyes at the door. Promised to come back next month. Drove off down the ridge with their headlights cutting through the dark.
Beckett closed the door.
Locked it.
Turned to me.
The house was quiet. Warm.
Ours.
"You should finish the coat before January," I said.
He looked at me.
"Why January?"
"Because I'll need it by then."
"For what?"
"For wearing."
He smiled.
"I'll finish it," he said.
"When?"
"Soon."
"How soon?"
"Soon enough."
I stepped closer.
"You're going to run out of time," I said.
"I know."
"So why are you doing it by hand?"
"Because you're worth the time," he said.
THE END