Chapter 14 - Arms Up
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The sleet returned on a Thursday in December.
It ticked against the back window of the shop just as it had a year before.
Sophia stood at her worktable and listened to it.
One year.
Her right hand rested flat on a length of charcoal wool.
The hand was thinner than it had been.
A pale scar curved beneath her right shoulder where the wool would one day cover another man's shoulder.
She flexed her fingers once.
They answered.
Not perfectly.
Honestly.
That would do.
Priya had gone home an hour earlier.
Priya had a key now.
Priya had a small apartment two streets away and a life that was widening in every direction.
She had left a note on the till about a bride coming Saturday.
She had signed it with a small drawn star.
Sophia smiled at the note.
The bell over the door sounded at six.
She looked up.
Declan stood in the doorway with snow and sleet in his dark hair.
He carried no bag.
He carried no parcel for fitting.
He stamped the cold from his shoes the way any other man would.
You are late, she said.
I am not a client tonight, he said.
That was new.
She set down her shears.
No, he said quickly.
Do not stop on my account.
I have stopped, she said.
He closed the door behind him and turned the lock himself at her nod.
The shop settled into its evening quiet.
The steam iron hissed once and fell silent.
Outside, a vehicle passed slowly and kept going.
It was not his.
Nothing followed him anymore.
Jamie was getting married in January.
Jamie Doyle, who had once driven getaway routes he never spoke of now, had fallen entirely and helplessly in love with a schoolteacher named Claire.
Claire laughed at all of Jamie's worst jokes.
Claire had asked Sophia to make Declan's suit for the wedding because, she said, Declan trusted no other hands.
He wants a suit, Declan said.
Jamie wants me standing beside him in a suit that fits.
I am asking if you will make it.
Sophia considered him.
You are asking as what, she said.
As a man who needs a suit for his best friend's wedding.
Not for a meeting.
Not for a negotiation.
Not for any room where men lower their voices when he enters.
For a wedding, in a small hall, where Jamie will cry before the vows even start.
Sophia felt her mouth shift.
Not quite a smile.
After all this time, he knew the difference.
I can fit you Thursday, she said.
It is Thursday, he said.
So it is.
She gestured to the fitting platform.
Stand up there, then.
He removed his coat.
He hung it on the hook by the door without being told.
He stepped onto the platform in his shirtsleeves.
The platform creaked under him as it always had.
Sophia picked up her tape.
The gesture was so ordinary that it steadied them both.
Arms up, she said.
He obeyed.
She measured across his shoulders.
Her right hand held the tape firm.
Two years ago she had paused beneath his left arm.
Two years ago she had found the shape of a different holster ruining his jacket.
She paused there now out of habit.
Her fingers found only the clean line of his ribs under good cotton.
No holster.
No strap.
Nothing hard and hidden ruining anything.
She went still.
Declan looked down.
Sophia looked up.
You checked, he said.
I always check, she said.
There is nothing to find.
No, she said.
There is not.
Her eyes stung without warning.
She lowered the tape.
He lowered his arms slowly, as if sudden movement might break the moment.
Half an inch higher, he said, looking at the trouser length she had chalked.
It was an old joke and a test and a memory all at once.
His voice was gentle with it.
Sophia looked at the chalk line.
She looked at him.
No, she said.
You will look as though you are expecting a flood.
I expect many things, he said.
Then expect me to leave the hem where it belongs.
They both smiled then for real.
The sleet went on ticking.
The shop smelled of hot wool from the day's pressing and the coffee neither of them had remembered to drink.
He stepped down from the platform.
He did not step away.
Sophia, he said.
She waited.
He reached past her, not for her hand, but for the pin cushion on her worktable.
It was her father's pin cushion.
Red wool, worn soft, older than Priya.
Sophia frowned.
What are you doing, she said.
He lifted it with both hands as if it were fragile.
Something has been in here since October, he said.
I asked Priya to hide it.
Priya cannot keep a secret, Sophia said.
Priya kept this one.
He turned the cushion over.
Nestled among the pins, where a pin should have been, was a ring.
It was simple.
Gold, unadorned, sized by someone who had watched her hands work for months.
Beside it, threaded on a pin, was her father's thimble.
The thimble had been cracked the winter before Miguel Reyes died.
Sophia had kept it in a drawer for eleven years because she could not bear to throw it away and could not bear to use it broken.
The crack was gone.
A fine line of silver ran where the break had been, like a scar made beautiful on purpose.
A jeweler on Fifth did it, Declan said.
He said some things are stronger at the mended place.
He would know, Sophia whispered.
She touched the thimble with one fingertip.
Her hand did not tremble.
Declan did not kneel.
He had known her long enough to know she would hate the theater of it in her own shop, on her own platform, where she did her work standing.
He stood in front of her as an equal and held out the cushion.
I am not asking because you stepped in front of anything, he said.
You slipped.
I know you slipped.
You have told me the truth about that night even when the other story would have made us both look braver.
I am asking because of all the ordinary days since.
I am asking because you tell me the truth when it costs you.
I am asking because I want Thursdays, and every other day, for as long as you will have them.
He took a breath.
You are free to say no, he said.
If you say no, I will still be here Thursday for my fitting.
Jamie will still get his best man.
Nothing you have built here depends on your answer.
I need you to know that first.
Sophia looked at the ring among her father's pins.
She looked at the mended thimble.
She looked at the man who had learned to sweep her floor and name the dead aloud and leave every holster in a past he had dismantled piece by piece.
A year ago she had asked for time and honesty, not apologies.
He had given her both, on days when neither was easy.
What occasion is the suit for again, she asked.
He blinked.
Jamie's wedding, he said.
Good, she said.
Then you will need a second suit soon after.
For a wedding in a small hall where you will cry before the vows even start.
He understood slowly.
Then all at once.
Sophia, he said.
Yes, she said.
Yes, freely.
Yes, because I choose it.
Yes.
He laughed, a broken and joyful sound.
He set the cushion down with great care before he touched her.
She lifted her right hand.
He slid the ring onto her finger.
It fit exactly.
Of course it did.
She had taught him, over two years of fittings, what exactly meant.
He held her hand in both of his.
His shoulders shook once.
Not yet, she told him.
Save it for the wedding.
I cannot promise that, he said.
I know, she said.
Arms up, she said, because the moment needed its ordinary shape back.
He raised his arms, laughing through wet eyes.
She picked up her tape and measured him again, carefully, for the suit he would marry her in after the suit he would stand beside Jamie in.
Two suits.
Two ordinary, joyful occasions.
May you like
The sleet ticked against the window.
The hem stayed exactly where it belonged.
