Lenore inspected the blue dress without asking Coralie to turn around.
“You need to see the back,” Coralie said.
“I will when I’m ready.”
Her aunt sat in the comfortable chair by the window, hands resting on her bag. Coralie had brought the dress home finished and pressed, then invited Lenore over before she could decide that asking an opinion was too dangerous. Now she stood in her own living room feeling approximately twelve.
“Well?”
“It’s a good color.”
“Everyone says that. I’m beginning to think I should have worn the bolt.”
Lenore smiled. “Turn.”
Coralie turned. The skirt moved around her legs without catching, and the wrap stayed where she wanted it. She had worn it for an hour while doing ordinary things just to make sure. Sitting, reaching for a glass, bending to retrieve a dropped book: none had produced disaster.
“I would have made the sleeve a little longer,” Lenore said.
“I know.”
“And brought the neckline up.”
“I know that too.”
“But you’ve balanced it well.”
Coralie looked back at her.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Lenore said. “I can dislike a sleeve and recognize good work.”
She reached out. Coralie came closer, letting her aunt touch the fabric between finger and thumb. The movement was slower than it used to be. Lenore had once handled cloth with a speed that made Coralie want to become useful enough to keep up; now she took her time and occasionally stopped before a movement hurt.
“You’ve made room here,” she said, indicating the waist. “Without losing the shape.”
“That took three attempts.”
“Only three?”
Coralie laughed and sat on the sofa. The dress settled beautifully. She was pleased enough that she did not try to hide it.
“You look happy in it,” Lenore said.
“I am.”
Her aunt nodded. Outside the window, a delivery driver was trying to find a number obscured by a plant. Lenore watched him for a moment, then said, “I was rather determined about Stellan.”
Coralie kept her hands still on her knees.
“You were.”
“I thought you were walking straight into another complicated life because you didn’t know what to do with your own.”
“That’s cheerful.”
“I didn’t say it was kind.”
Coralie looked at her aunt’s face. There was no grand apology gathering there, no sudden revision of all her opinions. Lenore looked uncomfortable and mildly annoyed with herself.
“His life is complicated,” she said. “Mine wasn’t exactly empty.”
“No.”
“You could meet him properly. Sometime when you’re not deciding what he means.”
Lenore considered. “I could.”
“You might dislike his sleeves.”
“Then we’ll have something to discuss.”
Coralie smiled. It was enough for the afternoon.
She changed out of the blue before making coffee. When she returned, Lenore was looking at a leaflet from Petra’s shop that had been left on the table. Coralie watched her read it, resisting the urge to explain that enrollment was still small.
“Four evenings,” Lenore said.
“Yes.”
“Will you enjoy that?”
The question was so different from will it pay that Coralie took a moment to answer.
“I think so. I enjoyed the trial. I was exhausted afterward.”
“Those can happen together.”
“Apparently.”
Lenore folded the leaflet carefully and asked if she could keep it. Coralie gave her a second copy without comment.
Her aunt stayed longer than she had intended. They disagreed about a television program, then about whether the plant on Coralie’s windowsill was dying or merely making a complaint. Lenore said it needed less water. Coralie said she had barely watered it. Neither knew enough to continue confidently, so they left it alone.
Before she went, Lenore asked to see the dress once more on its hanger. Coralie brought it out. Without her body inside, it seemed quieter, the blue gathered into soft folds.
“I miss this,” Lenore said.
Coralie looked at her hands. “Making things?”
“Being able to do what I can see in my head.”
The answer made her want to offer something. A task small enough not to hurt, a way to make the loss less absolute. She knew Lenore had already tried the obvious possibilities. They had discussed them often enough, with diminishing pleasure.
“I wish you could have made something for yourself too,” she said instead.
Lenore touched the sleeve. “I made plenty. Most of it I didn’t appreciate at the time.”
“You still have the green jacket.”
“Because it’s excellent.”
“It is.”
Her aunt smiled, pleased by the uncomplicated agreement. Coralie carried the dress back to the bedroom. When she returned, Lenore was struggling with the clasp of her bag. Coralie waited until she asked, then closed it for her. The small act required neither gratitude nor an explanation.
At the door, Lenore kissed her cheek. “Enjoy the wedding.”
“I intend to.”
“And send me a photograph of you in that dress. A proper one, with your head in it.”
Coralie promised.
Farah called while Coralie was putting the cups away. A child was crying in the background.
“I can’t come tonight. Summer art project. My husband thought part of it was recycling. It was not recycling.”
Coralie set the cup down. She had been looking forward to their evening for days.
“Oh, Farah. Can you save it?”
“Maybe. I’m sorry.”
“Next week?”
“I’ll find a time when no one is constructing anything.”
“An ambitious condition.”
Farah laughed, then called to someone to leave the tape alone. Coralie said goodbye.
After the call, she stood in the kitchen and felt the free evening open before her. She could work. There was always something she could work on. A client’s message waited, asking whether an extra alteration could be fitted into the week. The woman had known the deadline when she booked. Coralie had told her what was possible. Reading the message again would not create another afternoon.
She put the phone down and went to the studio only to collect a book she had left there. That had been the intention, anyway.
Once inside, she saw three small tasks. None would take long. Together they took almost forty minutes, and by the end she was standing in front of Bryony’s dress, considering whether to check it yet again.
She unzipped the bag halfway. The ivory silk lay exactly as she had left it. The work was finished; the final check and pickup were on Thursday. She touched nothing, closed the bag, and stood with her hand still on the zip.
She took the book. She turned out the light.
On the sidewalk, she called Stellan.
“Are you busy?”
“Trying to persuade a drawer to shut.”
“Is it urgent?”
“It thinks so.”
“Would you like to come over? I don’t want to do anything useful.”
“I can manage that.”
He arrived with a pack of cards because he had taken her literally. Coralie found this so endearing that she kissed him before explaining she remembered almost no card games.
“Neither do I,” he admitted.
“Excellent preparation.”
They invented rules badly enough that the game became impossible to finish. Stellan accused her of changing a rule after seeing his hand. She admitted this was true. He said she could at least look ashamed. She declined.
The cards ended in a crooked heap on the table. Coralie put on music, choosing a song she had loved long enough to know it was not defensible. Stellan looked up as the opening began.
Before he could comment, she asked what he used to listen to in his car when nobody else was there. He named a band she had forgotten existed, then defended them with more energy than she expected. She found a song and played the first few seconds.
“That isn’t their best one,” he said.
“It is certainly a choice.”
He took the phone, found another, and watched her while it played. Coralie tried not to smile. The music was earnest and much louder than it needed to be. She could imagine him younger, driving with the window down, believing the chorus was worth singing at full volume.
“Well?” he asked.
“I understand you better.”
“That sounds bad.”
“Not necessarily.”
He began to sing, quite deliberately, until she laughed and reached for the phone. He held it out of reach for one more line, then surrendered it. She returned to her own selection with the satisfaction of somebody whose taste had been equally exposed.
“Really?”
“You may leave.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You sighed.”
She sang along while putting the cards away. Halfway through the chorus, he stood and caught her hand. She turned toward him, laughing.
“You said one dance at the wedding,” he reminded her.
“This isn’t the wedding.”
“Practice.”
“With this?”
“You chose it.”
He was not a remarkable dancer. Neither was she. They moved around the limited space between the sofa and table, bumping once into a chair and twice into each other. Stellan tried to turn her and lost track of his own arm. Coralie had to rescue him from a position that might have required explanation to a doctor.
“We should keep it simple,” she said.
“I thought that was simple.”
“For somebody else.”
They stopped trying to perform. His hand settled against her back; hers rested on his shoulder. The song ended, and a slower one followed without either of them choosing it. She moved closer.
He smelled faintly of soap and the evening air. She could feel the shape of his breath beneath her hand. For a while they barely moved at all, and she did not mind that this would look unimpressive to anybody watching.
“This,” she said quietly, “we can do.”
“Yes.”
He kissed her forehead. She lifted her face for a better kiss, and he obliged.
Her phone rang from the table.
She almost let it go. Then she saw Bryony’s name.
Stellan stepped back when she reached for it, not far, giving her room to answer without trying to listen.
“Hi,” Coralie said.
“Sorry. Are you busy?”
“Not especially.”
Bryony was quiet. Coralie turned the music down.
“Is it the dress?”
“No. The dress is fine. I know it’s fine.”
“All right.”
Another pause. Stellan looked toward the window, his hands in his pockets.
“I was making a list,” Bryony said. “Things for the morning. And I keep thinking I’ll ask Mom. Not even about something important. Whether I need another bag. Whether the flowers will be all right if it’s hot. Stupid things.”
Coralie sat on the arm of the sofa. “They don’t sound stupid.”
“I know she’s not coming. Obviously I know. It’s just—everyone’s asking if I’m excited. I am excited. Then I feel like this.”
Coralie pressed her free hand against her knee. She wanted, with a sudden painful force, to give the younger woman one useful thing. A sentence, a plan, some way to make the morning less empty in the place it would be empty.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Bryony breathed unevenly into the phone.
“You don’t have to fix it. I just didn’t want to tell Dad and make him worry.”
Coralie glanced at Stellan. He was still looking away, but his posture had changed. He knew enough from her voice to be concerned.
“He might want to hear,” she said. “But you can tell me now.”
Bryony talked for several minutes. Not a story with a point, simply pieces of a mother: the way she packed too much, the way she complained about being late while finding one more thing to take, the certainty with which she could answer a question even when she was wrong. Coralie listened. She did not offer memories of her own to match them.
When Bryony fell quiet, Coralie asked whether Kit was home. He was on his way, she said. She would tell him too.
“Thank you,” she added, sounding embarrassed now.
“I’ll see you Thursday.”
“Yes.”
After the call, Stellan turned. “Is she all right?”
Coralie set the phone down. “She’s missing her mother. She said she didn’t want to worry you.”
His face tightened. He sat beside her, close enough that their knees touched.
“I’ll call her,” he said.
“Give her a little while. Kit’s almost home.”
He nodded. The music continued softly, a song neither of them had chosen and neither was hearing. Coralie put her hand over his. He turned his palm upward and held it.
There would be a dress, and flowers, and people doing their best. There would also be an absence none of them could fill. She sat with him until he was ready to pick up his phone.