Chapter 2 - The Stranger in the Shop
Three weeks had passed since Christmas Eve. The jam jar on my kitchen counter was empty again, but the memory of Bellini’s remained like a warm light against the freezing January cold.
I sat in the basement corner of Larkin’s Tailoring & Alterations on 4th Street, where I worked forty hours a week for ten dollars an hour under the table. Mr. Larkin was a crotchety seventy-year-old man who took all the credit for my crisp hems and delicate embroidery while keeping me hidden away in the dark, drafty backroom so customers wouldn't know a twenty-seven-year-old widow was doing his high-end work.
CLINK.
The brass bell above the shop’s front door chimed.
"Larkin!" a sharp, clear female voice called out from the front showroom. "I brought the silk evening gown back. The hem you did for the gallery gala is uneven by a full quarter-inch. It’s dragging on the right side."
"Nonsense!" Mr. Larkin’s raspy voice barked back. "I’ve been a tailor for forty years, young lady! The gown is perfect!"
"The gown is crooked," the woman insisted, her tone cool, firm, and entirely unimpressed. "And if you won't fix it properly, I want my ninety dollars back."
I wiped my hands on my apron, picked up my measuring tape, and stepped out from behind the heavy velvet curtain separating the workshop from the showroom.
"May I see the dress, ma'am?" I asked quietly.
Both of them turned.
Standing by the counter was a tall, elegant woman in her early thirties. She wore an oversized charcoal wool coat, a crimson scarf, and held a stunning emerald-green silk gown over her arm. Her dark hair was pulled up in a loose, artistic bun, and when her sharp green eyes met mine, my heart skipped a beat.
It was Charlotte Hale.
The resemblance to the photograph Edward had shown us at the restaurant was unmistakable. She had the same piercing green eyes, the same sharp jawline, and the same unyielding posture.
"Who are you?" Charlotte asked, eyeing me with sharp curiosity.
"I’m Abby. I do the delicate fabric alterations here," I said softly, stepping around the counter. I took the green gown from her arms and laid it smoothly across the glass fitting table. I pulled out my seamstress gauge and measured the hem.
Sure enough, Mr. Larkin had rushed the job—the right side was three-eighths of an inch lower than the left.
"She’s right, Mr. Larkin," I said, looking back at my boss. "The silk pulled under the blind-hemmer foot. It needs to be hand-stitched."
Mr. Larkin’s face turned bright red. "You shut your mouth, girl! You don't tell my clients—"
"Actually, she just saved your reputation," Charlotte interrupted, stepping forward and laying a slender hand on the silk. She looked at me, her green eyes narrowing with quiet interest. "Hand-stitched silk takes patience and immaculate tension. Can you do it?"
"I can," I replied confidently. "Give me twenty minutes."
Charlotte looked at her wristwatch, then nodded. "I’ll wait."
While Mr. Larkin grumbled in his office, I took the gown to my workbench. Charlotte walked over, standing near the curtain, her eyes scanning my cramped, dimly lit workspace. She noticed the tiny framed photograph of John, Sophia, and Lily I kept near my sewing machine, alongside a small drawing of a star signed by Sophia.
"You have kids?" Charlotte asked, her voice softening slightly.
"Five-year-old twin girls," I smiled, my needle moving with swift, rhythmic precision through the green silk. "Sophia and Lily."
Charlotte went completely still.
"Sophia and Lily?" she repeated, her voice suddenly dropping into a strange, breathy register.
I looked up from my work, puzzled by her reaction. "Yes. Why?"
May you like
Charlotte reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper—a flyer for an upcoming children's art workshop at her gallery. But behind it, tucked into her wallet, I caught a glimpse of something else.
It was a small, torn paper napkin from Bellini’s restaurant, featuring a crude pencil drawing of three stars and a Christmas tree.
