“I’ll have to tell the other wives my secret for besting my husband. Now let me get on with your breakfast.”
Taffron gave her bottom a loving tap as she turned to go. Eileen swished her behind from side to side, her flirtatious wink tossed over her shoulder causing his heart to quicken.
She paused at the kitchen door. “Taffron Björk, you are somebody to me. You made a difference in my life. I don’t know where I’d be without you. Isn’t that more enduring and lasting than if you’d designed the most beautiful gowns in Europe?”
Taffron gazed again toward the Hand of God as Eileen’s words cut through him. How selfish to long for what he never achieved while disregarding what he had—a beautiful life with his beautiful wife. But still…
“I’m still here. Use me.”
Despite his speech about letting go of the past, he tripped backward to the time of Princess Louisa. For one glorious season, he’d been a somebody. Or so it seemed. Worthy. The fashion world raved over him. Lords and ladies called upon him.
Then without warning or reason, it all ended. The letters and inquiries stopped. His calling card meant nothing. So he climbed the Hand of God again because it was after his first ascent that Emmanuel came with the opportunity of a lifetime.
But the old man never appeared again.
Now it was too late. While Taffron had his sight and his teeth and a full head of hair, arthritis and tremors gripped his fingers, preventing a steady grip on his scissors and needle. If Emmanuel somehow appeared today, Taffron would have to turn him aside.
In the distance, a horn bellowed, signaling a ferry leaving the dock, headed toward England. From inside, Eileen called him to the table.
He’d just picked his cup up from its saucer when the shop doorbell chimed. Taffron glanced toward the passageway leading from the seaside cottage kitchen into his workshop and storefront.
“Are you expecting someone?” He regarded his wife. Had she planned some sort of birthday tomfoolery?
“I bet it’s Mrs. Gunter. She inquired of your birthday last week, hinting she had something for you.” Eileen motioned for him to sit. “I hope it’s not cake. I’m making your favorite.”
“Chocolate caramel? You do love me, don’t you?” Taffron snapped his napkin over his lap and took up his utensils. A chocolate caramel cake. Well then, he’d welcome eighty-two with open arms. No one bested his Eileen in baking.
But first, he’d take his wife out to dinner, celebrate like a man who’d lived a good long while. Drink a pint or two andthencome home for cake.
He’d just cracked open his three-minute egg when Eileen reappeared, her eyes wide, her face pale.
Taffron was on his feet. “What is it?”
“He’shere,” she whispered. “In the workshop.” She pointed toward the doorway, her words rushed and breathless. “My goodness, he doesn’t look a day older. How can that be?”
“Who’s here?”
“Him.Emmanuel.”
“What?” Taffron toppled his chair as he moved around the table. “Surely not. He was an old man forty years ago.”
“He’s the same old man. Exact same. And in our shop.”
Taffron took a wobbly step then steadied himself on the adjacent chair. “What do you think he wants?”
“I’ve no idea. Perhaps another glorious assignment.” Eileen glanced toward the exit then at her husband. “He is as kind as ever too.”
“What assignment? There are no princesses to be married. Why me? I’m nothing more than a common tailor.”
“Perhaps there’s a duchess or a marchioness marrying? Didn’t I read in the paper that the prime minister’s daughter was engaged?”
“I can’t,” Taffron whispered more to himself than Eileen, rubbing his crooked sewing fingers with this thumb. “The last time I looked at fashions, theTitanichad just sailed.”
“Go.” Eileen urged him forward. “What if he just wants to wish you a happy birthday?”
“How would he know it’s my birthday?”
“Everyone in the hamlet knows it’s your birthday. Now go.”
