The Wife He Never Knew

The woman who was marrying my husband wanted sleeves. “Something sheer,” she said, pushing her coat off her shoulders. “My aunt has opinions about bare arms. Unfortunately, she also has the loudest voice in the family.” I smiled and opened my sketchbook. “We can give her something else to complain about.” She laughed, relieved. Brides often arrived expecting to be told what was wrong with their bodies. I tried to disappoint them. Rain tapped the studio windows. Behind the fitting-room curtain, a drop struck the bottom of a metal bucket. I had moved the expensive silk away from that corner before opening. “When’s the wedding?” “June fourteenth.” Seven months. Enough time, provided the lace supplier behaved. “And your fiancé’s name?” “Adrian.” My pencil stopped against the paper. It was a common enough name. “Here.” She turned her phone toward me. “This might help with the general feeling.” My husband stood beneath the lemon trees at the hotel where we had spent our honeymoon. His hand rested on her waist. Beside his thumb was the scar he had earned opening a tin of peaches in our first apartment. He still blamed the opener. I still remembered washing the cut over our tiny kitchen sink while he complained that the peaches were getting warm. He wore the watch I had bought him when his first business failed. He wasn't wearing his wedding ring. “Isn’t he handsome?” she asked. I looked down at the sketchbook. “Yes.” There was a diamond on her finger, oval and clear, resting in a narrow gold setting. Three weeks earlier, Adrian had stood beneath the leak and told me the roof would have to wait. Cash flow, Clara. You understand. I had understood so thoroughly that I had apologized for asking. “Sorry,” she said. “I’ve become unbearable since he proposed.” I tried to draw a neckline. The pencil pressed through the page. She noticed. “Are you all right?” “Would you like some water?” “No, thank you. I can’t stay long. He thinks I’m having lunch with my sister.” She leaned closer, smiling. “The dress is a surprise.” I could have let her keep talking. I could have asked about the venue, the flowers, how they had met, and quietly collected enough details to hurt myself for years. Instead, I heard my own voice. “Has he told you he’s married?” Her smile stayed for a second after the rest of her face changed. Then she drew the phone toward her. “He said the divorce was finished.” The bucket caught another drop. “When?” “Last month.” That morning, Adrian had kissed my shoulder while I stood at the stove. He had taken a piece of toast from my plate and asked where I wanted to go for our anniversary dinner. I had said anywhere was fine. Seven years married, and I was still trying to be easy to love. The woman looked at my left hand. “You're Clara?” I nodded. “But the business is March Atelier.” “March was my mother's name. I kept it for the studio.” She put both feet flat on the floor, as though the chair had begun to move. “I think you'd better sit down.” I was already sitting. She realized it, covered her mouth, and shut her eyes. “I'm sorry. That was—I'm sorry.” There was nothing practiced about her embarrassment. That made it worse, somehow. I had wanted someone I could hate without effort. “Your name,” I said. “I wrote it down, but I can't seem to—” “Nina. Nina Mercer.” I found it on the appointment sheet. Nina Mercer. Initial consultation. Two o'clock. At three, I was supposed to shorten a veil for a woman whose mother was flying in from overseas. At five, I needed to collect Adrian's jacket from the cleaner. The jacket was suddenly unbearable. “How long?” I asked. Nina's fingers tightened around the phone. “Fourteen months.” I stared at the torn paper. Fourteen months included last Christmas. My birthday. The weekend he had driven three hours to bring me home after I scattered the last of my mother's ashes with my aunt. He had held my hand on the drive. I remembered being grateful that I still had him. “He told me you separated two years ago,” Nina said. “He said the legal part took longer because of a business.” “We live together.” She swallowed. “He has an apartment on Halden Street.” “He says that's his office.” Neither of us spoke. On the shelf behind her stood a photograph of my mother, holding the first dress we had made together. I was twenty-two in the picture, wearing pins in my sleeve and a furious expression because she had insisted on taking it before I finished the hem. I wanted her so suddenly that I had to press my tongue against my teeth. Four years, and there were still moments when being an orphan felt like something I had only just been told. “I didn't know,” Nina said. “I believe you.” I wasn't sure I believed anything yet. But she deserved that much until I had a reason to take it back. She turned the phone over. “Would you like to see the messages?” I shook my head too quickly. Then I made myself breathe. “Not all of them. Just something dated recently.” She opened a conversation and placed the phone between us without pushing it into my hand. Yesterday. A photograph of a kitchen with green cabinets. Adrian's reply: The left one. You should have somewhere beautiful to come home to. Our kitchen cupboard had been missing a handle since March. I looked away. Nina reached for the phone, then stopped, waiting for permission. I nodded. “Why here?” I asked. “Why this studio?” “An old magazine at my aunt's. There was a dress with embroidery inside the cuffs. Your mother's, I think. I wanted something like that.” She glanced toward the photograph. “Adrian suggested a boutique across town. I thought commissioning someone would mean more.” I had sewn tiny blue flowers inside my own wedding cuffs. Adrian used to brush his thumb over them when we danced. I put the pencil down before I broke it. There was a mark on my ring finger where the skin stayed pale. I rubbed it with my thumb, an old habit from fittings, when a loose thread caught beneath the band. “Are you going to call him?” Nina asked. I looked at the clock. It was twenty-three minutes past two. Twenty-three minutes earlier, I had been worried about whether this woman could afford handmade lace. “I don't know.” My phone vibrated beside the card reader. Adrian. For one foolish second, relief came first. Something terrible had happened, and my body still thought he was the person who would help. I turned the screen so we could both read it. Dinner booked for eight. I'll come by the studio around six. Need your signature on a few boring things first. Love you. Nina made a small sound. I read the last two words again. They looked ordinary. That seemed cruel. “What things?” she asked. “Probably company paperwork. I own March Textiles. My mother left it to me. Adrian handles the administration.” Nina went very still. “What?” “March Textiles?” “Yes. The studio buys fabric from them sometimes, but they're separate businesses.” She stared at me, then unlocked her phone again. “My father is a director at Northline. They buy small manufacturers. Adrian met him through me.” I watched her search her email. “Nina.” “He copied me on a message this morning. I introduced them, so he said I should see that it was almost finished.” She opened an attachment. At the top of the screen, above a table I couldn't focus on, were the words MARCH TEXTILES: PROPOSED ACQUISITION. “Almost finished?” I repeated. “I thought you knew.” I read the first paragraph twice. Then I held out my hand, and she gave me the phone. The proposed sale included the mill equipment, the trading name, and the design archive. My mother's archive. Forty years of patterns, samples, and handwritten corrections. The little pencil marks she made when a measurement displeased her. Her handwriting was everywhere in that room. “I haven't agreed to sell anything.” Nina shifted closer, careful not to touch me. “There's another page.” The rain thickened against the glass. In the fitting room, water hit water now, a softer sound than before. I scrolled past a schedule of meetings and a list of outstanding documents. Then I reached a page headed SHAREHOLDER APPROVAL TO PROCEED. My name was printed at the bottom. Above it was my signature. The date was yesterday. Yesterday, I had spent the afternoon on my knees pinning a hem for a bride who couldn't stop crying because her father wouldn't be there to walk her down the aisle. I had stayed late. Missed lunch. Sent Adrian a message asking whether he wanted soup. I had not signed this. “Clara?” Nina whispered. I put the phone flat on the table because my hands were shaking too much to hold it. For the first time since she had walked in, I knew what I needed to ask for. “Please,” I said. “Send me that email.”