Page 57 of Seale the Deal

She’s old, she says, smiling. No electricity. Just rhythm. See if you can find yours.

I sit, nervous. It’s nothing like the machines I’ve used before.

She nudges the flywheel. There. Let it carry you.

The second Beryl steps back, giving me space, I feel the weight of her gesture settle in my chest. She didn’t just offer me a seat at her machine; she handed over a piece of her family history. I press the treadle gently, feeling the rhythm catch and the needle begin its dance. There’s something meditative about it being just me, the fabric, and the up-and-down motion of the treadle. My hands move instinctively, guiding the fabric beneath the presser foot as I feed it through. I don’t even realize I’m smiling until I hear the soft chuckle behind me.

So, what do you think? Beryl asks, pride stitched into every word.

It’s different, I say, barely above a whisper. But in a good way. It’s like… I trail off, unsure how to put it into words. It’s like the machine and I are having a conversation. I don’t always know what to say, but it doesn’t rush me, and yet it doesn’t forgive poor conversation either. It expects me to be present and tuned in.

Beryl nods in understanding. But not in a demanding way, right?

I chuckle. No. It’s very gentle.

I guide the fabric through a long, clean seam, and for a moment, everything else fades—the fake engagement, the unfamiliar town, the worry of my increasingly confusing feelings for Ruger. All that exists is the cotton beneath my fingertips and the quiet clatter of the treadle in motion.

When I glance up, Beryl is watching me fondly. Like she’s seeing something in me she remembers from herself.

Now, I don’t let just anyone touch this machine, she says, her voice soft and honest.

I swallow around the lump forming in my throat. Thank you for trusting me with it.

Beryl just nods, like it’s no big thing. But it is. I can feel that it is.

When I finish the stitch, I remove it from the machine and examine it.

Let me see. Beryl picks up a magnifying glass as I hand her the fabric.

She studies the stitches closely, and for some reason, I feel more nervous now than during any exam in university.

Not perfect… She looks at me and smiles. But pretty darn close.

I smile as she hands me back the fabric. Thanks.

You’ll come back and practice, she insists.

I light up. Absolutely.

We hold each other’s smiles for a beat, and then Beryl blinks like she’s waking from a dream.

Goodness, this isn’t why I brought you back here. She shuffles past me and starts rummaging through a cubby. I tilt my head as she pulls out some fabric. I squint, unable to determine what it is. Once she moves the fabric around, my mouth drops, and tears prick my eyes as I realize what they are.

Are those… flowers?

She nods, smiling. For your wedding. I made dusty-rose peonies, and this is a sample of the cream-coloured roses.

She’s busy looking around the room, which is probably for the best because what’s happening on my face isn’t so much tears as it is a full-on snot situation. I slap a hand over my nose like that’ll somehow make it classy.

She holds up a string of white beads. And see? I’ll string these pearls throughout. I haven’t quite settled on the lace because I need to know more about your dress and— Suddenly, Beryl stops talking. Child, are you quite alright?

No. Not even a little.

How do I tell this generous, open-hearted woman making flowers by hand, despite pain in every joint, that the wedding she’s pouring time into isn’t real?

I can’t let her do this. But I also can’t not.

If I open my mouth, if I tell her the truth, this whole thing could unravel. This entire plan could blow up. We could face legal trouble. Get arrested. I could be deported. Ruger could have criminal charges brought against him for fraud. This isn’t just a lie—it’s illegal. And the second we let someone in, it stops being safe.