Page 56 of Seale the Deal

Audrey looks up. Well, you can ask her yourself. She just walked in.

I turn and see Beryl step inside. The features on Audrey that seem so familiar now make sense.

Beryl, I say, surprised and delighted.

Well, hello, child. She beams. It’s good to see you again. Beryl shuffles deeper into the shop. I’m glad you’re here. It saves me from having to call Ruger later.

Because retirement has you so busy, Mom, Audrey teases.

Beryl swats at her daughter over the partition, and it’s impossible to miss the easy, lifelong love between the two.

Anyway, I kept thinking about your wedding colours, Beryl says to me.

I keep my face straight despite wanting to wince.

I see, I manage, summoning a smile and swallowing the cringe.

Well, I asked about it for a reason. Can I steal you for a moment? she asks.

Sure.

Come, child, she says, taking my hand.

She leads me through the shop, past bolts of colourful fabric and shelves full of possibility. We turn down a narrow hallway into a room that’s pitch-black until she flips on the lights.

My eyes adjust slowly, and when they do, I almost gasp.

The room is a treasure trove. There are mannequins both clothed and bare, walls stacked high with ribbon, thread, and fabric, corkboards filled with design sketches and swatches. But what takes my breath away is the sewing machine near the back. It’s black, detailed with golden floral designs, perched on a worn wooden table that’s clearly seen decades of use.

Do you sew? Beryl asks.

A little, I say, because I’m having a sexual awakening at the sight of this machine feels like too much.

She steps forward and places her hands on it. Her fingers are bent and knobby with arthritis, and her hands shake a little.

This was my mother’s machine. She saved up for it herself. She taught me everything I know. Her eyes sparkle with pride. She passed it on to me, and I passed on what I could to Audrey, though she never caught the bug quite the same. Still, she’s always loved my little shop. She started working here keeping the books. Her husband, Jack, is the only accountant in town, so it worked out.

There’s a pause, and Beryl looks lost in thought.

But things changed? I asked,

Beryl nods, the light dimming just a bit in her expression. Cancer changed everything. I thought I’d have to shut the doors, but Audrey stepped up. Turns out I taught her more than I thought. The pride returns in full force. She discovered she likes making quilts. Now she makes one for every baby in Alpine Harbor.

My heart swells. No one does that in Vancouver. There, you’re lucky if your neighbours don’t call bylaw on you for your front porch light being too bright.

You can try the machine if you’d like, Beryl offers.

Really? My voice cracks a little.

Of course. Let me set it up.

She moves slowly but deliberately, her gnarled fingers curling around a spool of thread. It looks like it pains her, but the pain doesn’t seem to dampen her determination. She pulls open a drawer built into the old oak cabinet, fingers trembling just slightly as she retrieves a dusty tomato pincushion.

These hands don’t move like they used to, she says, not looking up. But they remember.

I watch her thread the machine, guiding it through the upper tension, the take-up lever, and finally down the needle with a patience only decades of practice could teach.

She reaches under the cabinet and unlocks the treadle with a soft click.