Chapter Text
Amelia Davidson sat up slowly in bed, grimacing at the ache in her side, feeling for the bedside lamp switch. She was still tired, so tired. She’d drawn the shades on the bright afternoon light before her nap. Night fell so quickly in winter it might not be as late as it seemed, but the darkness felt heavy as midnight.
Just an hour, she’d thought when she retreated to the bedroom. An hour’s rest and she could finish the job for Tara Bennett.
The heat was turned up but the old house had drafts and she couldn’t stay warm. There was nothing for it but to get out of the bed and move. The job couldn’t be put off … well it could be and the way she felt, it might have to be. It was just a hem. She should have been able to do it in her sleep. But it was the hem of the girl’s wedding gown, acres of unforgiving satin.
She squinted at the clock and her heart sank. She’d been asleep for hours. It was after six. Charlie would be home any minute, hungry. Harold, good lord, she thought, the way the boy had looked at her when she left the den. Those big blue eyes, too sweet, too knowing for a six year-old boy. He’d been watching her from his desk, across the room from her workspace, beyond the ironing board and her sewing machine. Homework. He’d probably long since finished it and was reading his field guide to birds. Other kids were nagging their parents for toys, bicycles; her boy wanted a book about birds and binoculars. So many years of loving him she’d be cheated of. It didn’t bear thinking about. She was still here, now.
She wrapped her robe around her, over the clothes she’d slept in and pressed her hand to the side where most of the pain was.
They were in the kitchen, her boys as she thought of them. Charlie was at the stove, already changed out of his work clothes, sleeves of an old flannel shirt folded up his forearms. She could smell the bay leaf, the sweet onion aroma of the leftover stew. Harold was carrying dishes to the table. Her heart ached with love for them and with sorrow for what she was putting them through.
She knew what kind of days her husband put in at the garage in town. It was a shiny new place that had put him out of business, then hired him on contract as a mechanic. Long days. The spaces the customers saw were almost luxurious but the hangar-like bays where he worked were poorly heated. Now here he was, putting dinner on the table.
Was there ever a man as thoughtful, as loving as Charlie Davidson. One of her girlfriends had shocked her, saying the old bachelor was so grateful to be married to a young woman like her, he’d do anything for her. She knew it wasn’t like that. Not like that at all. She was the grateful one. He’d given up years of a comfortable, self-sustained independence for her.
She froze at the sight of Tara Bennett’s wedding dress hanging on the back of the kitchen door in its enormous protective cover.
“I told him it was best not to touch it, Amy, but he said Miss Bennett would be coming to pick it up soon. He was real careful, I promise. Wrapped it in the tissue just like you do.”
“But it isn’t finished,” she said, despairing because she knew Harold was right, the woman would be there any minute to pick up the dress.
“Mom … it’s finished,” Harold said.
“No, baby, I slept too long, I never got to it.“
“I did it, mom,” Harold said.
"You finished it,” she said, trying not to show how much this upset her. She’d shown him how to make stitches when he was just a little guy, using a blunt needle and oversized thread, to satisfy his curiosity about her work. She pictured the mess of his childish stitching like a Frankenstein border on the beautiful dress, the horror on her client’s face.
“Better take a look, Amy. I’m sure you can fix it.” Charlie was frowning but his eyes begged her not to get angry with her son.
She unzipped the heavy plastic of the garment bag and saw Charlie wasn’t wrong about how nicely the boy had wrapped the gown. She fished through the sea of satin for the edge of the dress.
It was … perfect. Amelia stared, almost uncomprehending. Tiny, perfect, invisible stitches, so uniform it was uncanny. She scanned the entire hem which went on for yards and yards without blemish. Impossible.
“You … did a good job, baby,” she said, her voice nearly breaking. She looked up to see her husband ruffle the boy’s hair. The man had no idea what his son had accomplished.
Tara Bennett was full of apologies for interrupting their evening, and overflowing with gratitude for Amelia taking the job on so soon after coming home from the hospital. Her entrance and quick exit left a chill in the air and a little puddle from her snowy shoes by the back door.
“Harold,” Charlie said, when they were all seated at the table. “You helped your mom, but you shouldn’t touch her things without permission, without her knowing.”
“It’s okay, Charles,” she said. She looked at her beautiful boy, his little glasses steaming up from the bowl of stew in front of him. For years she’d wondered how she and her husband had produced such a brilliant child. Everything came early and easily to him. She’d almost become used to how bright he was.
But this physical dexterity … this was something new that astonished her. The boy had no interest in sports but she thought he could probably excel at any game he chose. His motor control was exceptional. To wield a needle and thread that way, it shouldn’t be possible for a six year-old boy. Her husband didn’t realize just what an amazing feat the child had performed. She’d say something to him later, maybe; she didn’t want to make Harold uncomfortable by drawing attention.
“Sorry about the leftovers, boys. I know I promised chicken.”
“Stew’s always better after it sits a while. Right, Harold?”
“Right, dad.” He looked happy now, relieved, and she melted when he met her gaze.