She reaches up to tighten the loose bow of her plum colored blouse, which sits perfectly in between her breasts. I try—and fail miserably—not to let my eyes linger.
A memory flickers in my mind, one of Tessa chatting with me about her career goals on one of her shop visits, back when we were friendly.I’d do just about anything to attend an international fashion show, she said, eyes alight with enthusiasm. Her skin glowed from within as she excitedly twisted and untwisted the cap of her lip gloss—a habit of hers when she’s excited, or nervous, or deep in thought.I can’t imagine what that kind of exposure would do for my career, she said.
And suddenly, saying “no” to her disappears as an option in my brain. In its place, a soft idea grows. One I’m not sure of yet.
For now, I reply, “A favor, then.”
Tessa tilts her head. “And if I give you thisfavor, you’ll use the appliqué on my design?”
I adjust the watch on my wrist. “With some restrictions on the alterations, but yes.”
She nods, sitting in my chair. “Okay.”
I immediately wonder if she’s ill.Tessa, agreeing so easily?
“Don’t you want to know what the favor is?”
“Is it licking a subway pole?”
“Why would I want you to lick a subway pole?”
Tessa shrugs in response. “I don’t know what kind of stuff you’re into. Licking?—”
“Stop talking.”
Tessa repeatedly saying “licking” is not a message my body can afford to hear right now.
She stands and glares at me. “Do you have a scar?”
I raise an eyebrow. “What?”
“I’m just looking for signs of where your manners were surgically removed.”
I press my tongue to the inside of my cheek to prevent myself from laughing, not wanting to give her the satisfaction.
A beam of light shines through the side window, and Tessa holds her hand up to her forehead like a visor. The beads of the appliqué catch the sun, reflecting off her cheekbones. As she bends over the frame, her eyes widen.
“The details are magnificent,” she murmurs, fingertips hovering over the fabric, like she’s afraid a single touch might damage it. Tracing the lines of the appliqué with her gaze, she lingers at the cluster of crystals near the bottom.
Something in me warms at her obvious admiration of Nonno’s work. Working on this appliqué, it almost feels like he’s in the shop with us, like I can hear him snickering at her jabs.
Straightening, she turns to face me. “It’ll need some editing up top to blend seamlessly with my design.”
“No.”
Tessa sighs. “There’s no use fighting me on every detail, Giovanni. Even ifyou’dprefer to work with a different designer, Lamont chosemygown. We need to make sure the beading complements the dress.”
Offering the appliqué is one thing, changing the original vision is another. But I stay silent, waiting for her proposal.
“The top of the panel needs to be scalloped. The straight line doesn’t work for the expressive style of the dress.” She pulls a copy of her rendering from her bag and hands it to me. “Here. See for yourself.”
My lips part slightly as I hold a copy of her sketch for the first time. Her talent is even more overwhelming in person, where I can really study the pencil strokes, the lines she drew herself. The design is ethereal, yet demanding. Without a screen in front of it, the dress asks for attention in an effortless way, giving me no choice but to admire the smoky blue chiffon waves cascading down the skirt. The modest train doesn’t distract from the silhouette, and the classic mock neck balances the drama of the look. Even her signature looks beautiful.
I get lost in the deep admiration I have for her work, and when I lift my gaze from the sketch, she’s looking at me with an unreadable expression. A flicker of uncertainty flashes in her eyes. What does she have to be nervous about? Lamont chose her design for a reason.
I study her. “You’re thinking that the scalloped edge would give it a seashell effect.”
She wordlessly nods, grabbing her own elbow. “But, um, on second thought… If you like the straight edge, we should probably go with that. Lamont’ll like whatever you like. He trusts your opinion.”
