And then her gaze finds me.
The softness in her face vanishes. Her dark eyes widen, her lips part, and for a moment she looks at me with an expression I can't quite name. Surprise? Recognition? Her attention snaps to Nadiyah, and a stream of words pours out in a language I don't understand. Not French. Something with rougher edges and rising cadences. The syllables tumble over each other, urgent and fast.
Nadiyah responds in the same language, her tone clipped. Clearly dismissive.
But the older woman doesn't stop. Her voice rises, hands lifting in sharp gestures. Whatever she's saying, she's upset and vocal about it.
Nadiyah cuts her off with a single curt phrase.
The older woman's mouth presses into a thin line, her jaw tight. In the silence that follows, her shoulders sag. Her eyes drop to the floor. Nadiyah stands perfectly still.
The older woman rises from the sofa. Without looking at me again, she reaches for Sami's hand and practically pulls him along with her. The boy glances back over his shoulder as she draws him toward the hallway, his brow furrowed, but he goes without protest.
A moment later, a door closes somewhere in the back of the apartment. A lock clicks into place.
"My mother." Nadiyah's tone is apologetic, her cheeks still flushed from the argument. "She watches Sami when I'm working. A blessing for a single mother, although we don't always agree on everything." She gestures toward the vacated sofa. "Please. Sit."
I move farther inside, but remain standing, my purse strap slung over my shoulder. The exchange I just witnessed sits oddly in my chest. The grandmother's face when she saw me, the urgency in her voice, the disapproving way she looked at her daughter. But families argue. Mothers and daughters disagree. It doesn't have to mean anything.
Nadiyah tilts her head. "Can I offer you some tea, perhaps?"
"That's very kind, but I really can't stay long. I have more appointments this morning, and Nick is expecting me at his office for lunch. If I could just see the pearls, I'll get out of your way."
"Of course." She bobs her head, a placid expression on her face. "Let me get them for you. One moment."
She disappears through a narrow doorway into what must be the kitchen, and I'm left alone in the quiet apartment.
The space is small, but every inch of it has been considered. Lace curtains filter the soft morning light across walls that could use fresh paint but have been scrubbed clean. The furniture is modest but well-kept. The upholstered sofa, a small wooden end table holding a lamp with a delicate crocheted lace doily beneath it, two cozy chairs that don't quite match but have been arranged to suggest they do.
Near the window, a compact work desk holds the tools of Nadiyah's craft. I drift toward it without thinking, drawn by the meticulous order on display. Spools of thread arranged in precise gradations—cream to ivory to pale gold to deep amber—each one in its designated spot. A magnifying lamp with an articulated arm, positioned just so. Tiny compartments holding seed pearls sorted by size, glass beads organized by color, needles of varying gauges laid out in a row.
They are the instruments of someone who creates beauty with her hands. Someone who finds peace in precision. Who takes pride in the work even when the workspace is cramped, the building is old, and the view from the window is nothing special.
I step closer, and my gaze catches on the beautiful silk scarf draped over the back of one chair—Hermès, unmistakable from the discreet logo near the hand-rolled hem. It's out of place amid the rest of Nadiyah's belongings. But there are other small, expensive items that hint at better times. Porcelain figures on the small fireplace mantel. Silver vases gleaming atop a stunning sideboard that looks like hand-hewn teak.
Things from another life, maybe. Objects that speak of wealth, of taste, of a woman who once had access to finer things than this cramped apartment in Chelsea.
"When did you move to New York?" I ask, curious now.
From the kitchen comes the soft sound of a drawer opening, then a pause. "It will be eight months in November."
Eight months. About as long as she's been at House of Delaire. During one of my early consultations with Serena, not long after I'd commissioned her to make my wedding dress, she mentioned that she'd hired a master embroiderer. I remember thinking how lucky we were to have Nadiyah working on my veil.
I drift toward a small bookcase against the far wall. Framed photographs fill the shelves, clustered together with care. The arrangement itself tells a story. The way certain frames are angled toward each other, the hierarchy of placement. Which images have been given pride of position at eye level, which have been tucked to the sides.
The first photograph catches my attention immediately.
Nadiyah. Perhaps ten years younger, maybe more. Her dark hair is loose around her shoulders, catching the light. Her face is transformed by a smile I've never seen on her. Open. Radiant. Incandescent with joy, with the glow of a vibrant woman I hardly recognize as the withdrawn, unreadable craftswoman I've known for the past several months.
Beside her stands a man.
He's much older—thirty years her senior, at least. Silver hair, distinguished features, the bearing of a man accustomed to wealth and power. His arm is wrapped around Nadiyah's waist, proprietary and proud, and she's leaning into him with the easy intimacy of absolute belonging.
A wedding band glints on his left hand.
I look at her left hand in the photograph. No ring.
My eye drifts to another photograph, this one with Nadia holding a newborn. Sami. He had same dark curls, the same watchful eyes even then. The older man is in this photo too, seated beside Nadiyah and gazing at the infant withunmistakable tenderness. One of his arms is draped over Nadiyah's shoulders. His other hand is gentle on that small body nestled against its mother.
