I sit in front of the large, wooden, tabletop tambour frame, which is angled perfectly for my body. The sheer tulle is already mounted drum-tight so the stitches won’t pucker. Coaxing the hook through the back side of the fabric, I focus on the rhythm of the stitch and think of Nonno.
Embroidery is a dance of the hands, Tesoro.
Catching my pre-strung thread, I pull a loop back up to the top.
Every bead is a moment, a breath, in the story of the thread.
The scent of steam and leather brings me back to those evenings playing with scraps of fabric on Nonno’s studio floor.
Growing up, I was mesmerized by his ability to change the soul of garments. What started as a flat, plain fabric at sunrise would shapeshift into something with a sense of history by sundown.
Ten years ago, I made him a promise the day before he died: to carry his legacy with me as I grow his label beyond Italy’s borders into something he’d be proud of today.
I miss Italy, but I still feel that sense of home in my shop.
Leaning back, I examine my work, pleased with how the beads sit snugly against the delicate tulle. Controlled tension, accuracy, and balance comprise the precision needed for the vision he would’ve wanted for this appliqué—the last piece he worked on before he fell too ill to continue. Brushing my fingertips across the tulle, I admire the white opal Miyuki beads. Nonno left it unfinished next to a note addressed to me.You’ll know what to do with this, Tesoro.
But I didn’t know what to do with it. I still don’t. It sat for three years, nearly eighty percent finished, until I decided to pick it up. Working on it little by little over time, savoring it in a way, has given me a new sense of purpose. When I sew the final bead on, the appliqué will be finished, but the memory of his hands guiding mine will linger.
“Wow. That’s actually perfect. Where did it come from?”
I flinch at the unexpected voice carrying over my shoulder and quickly block the tambour frame with my arms.
“Where didyoucome from?”
Tessa wasn’t supposed to be here until tomorrow morning. I know, because I embroidered it on a swatch.
The scent of pears drifts around me as she brushes her hair off her shoulders, the movement revealing more of her heart shaped face.
She cranes her neck, trying to get a better look at the appliqué. “Why are you always hiding your work from me? Are you weaving the location of Atlantis into the fabric or something?” A glint of humor flickers in her eye as her lips twitch at her own joke.
If anyone else spoke to me like Tessa does, they’d probably be banned from my shop, but when the dimple in her left cheek appears, I’m just happy she’s talking to me. There was a time when conversation between us was effortless. We’d talk about our shared love for fashion, our least favorite trends, and Lamont’s latest demands. Hectic workdays somehow slowed when she entered my shop. It felt like wematteredto each other in small, silent ways.
But then she suddenly pulled back, and the distance between us became fraught with a bitterness I don’t understand. Now, when glimpses of the old Tessa sneak up on me, the Tessa who speaks her mind with abandon, it hits me right in my chest.
My jaw ticks. “This isn’t for your design.”
She blinks at me. “Giovanni.”
“Tessa.” Her name rolls off my tongue draped in an accent that only announces itself when my emotions are strong. And they’re always strongest around her.
She huffs. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I assure you I?—”
“This is exactly?—”
“Scusa, did the middle of my sentence interrupt the beginning of yours?” I stand up, and she tilts her chin to meet my gaze. Her dark brown eyes pull me in, and I shake my head to avoid hypnotization. “This is a personal project.”
“But it’s exactly what the dress needs. We won’t have to start from scratch. You can finish beading it on the illusion tulle using the white opals, adapt the shape to my design, and then we can integrate it as a panel across the open back. When the model turns around, it’ll bemagic.”
My lips turn up at her attempt to convince me. How quickly our interactions shift from polite to passionate. I love when she gets fired up like this in front of me. I’ve seen her downcast eyes when she talks to Lamont, how easily she folds to his demands,shrinking herself. Not like how she looks in my shop. Tall. Regal. Take-no-shit attitude.
Tessa bites her lip. “I didn’t want to resort to this. But…please, Giovanni. I really need this gown to be well-received. I will…” She trails off and sighs. “I’ll do anything.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Anything?”
“Well, notanything. I won’t join a cult or lick a subway pole.”
