The American Wife. Kristina McMorris

hadn’t closed the deal. When it came to risks, the thinnest of lines separated a legend and a fool.

      Quiet applause broke out while the USC players jogged toward the dugout. Following them in, TJ dared to seek Essick’s reaction—not a total disaster; they were still tied, after all.

      But the guy had already left.

      

6

      Apprehension reverberated through Maddie’s body, a concerto plucking away the minutes. Inadvertently sticking her callused finger with another straight pin served as a reminder to concentrate on the job at hand. At least until Beatrice, the manager, arrived after a doctor’s checkup. Then Maddie would be free to leave her father’s tailor shop early, in order to present Lane with her decision.

      She scooted her knees another few inches on the scarred wooden floor, dark as the paneled walls, and tacked up more hem-line of the jacket. Emerald silk enwrapped Mrs. Duchovny’s robust form. A regular customer since Maddie’s childhood, the woman had spent her youth as an opera singer. Her endless chatter in the full-length mirror evidenced her sustainable lung capacity. Even more amazing, she gesticulated as quickly as her lips moved, taking only tiny breaks to fluff her pecan-brown curls. None of this made marking her garments an easy task.

      “Of course, you know more than anyone,” she was saying, “I have enough holiday suits to clothe all of Boyle Heights. But with Donnie coming home on leave, I just wanted something special to wear for Christmas dinner. Especially after missing him over Thanksgiving. We only have three weeks to go, which doesn’t give Bob much time. He’s trying to surprise our Donnie with an entire wall of custom-made bookshelves in his room. That boy could read two books a day if he wanted. Did I ever tell you that?”

      Maddie glanced up at the unexpected pause. “I think you’ve mentioned it.” She pretended Mrs. Duchovny hadn’t already reported the same news about her Navy son a thousand times. Often Maddie wondered about the true reason the woman had insisted on becoming her benefactress for Juilliard. A charitable act of kindness? Or an investment in a potential bride for her son?

      Mrs. Duchovny prattled on, continuing to drop matchmaking hints, until Maddie announced, “All finished.” Then Maddie snatched two stray pins from the floor and pressed them into the cushion bound to her wrist. She rose, wiping a dust mark from her apron.

      “Madeline, dear.” Mrs. Duchovny faced her, suddenly serious. The corners of her eyes crinkled behind her thick glasses. “Are you feeling all right?”

      And there it was. The dreaded question Maddie had heard more times than she cared to count.

      “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.” She forced a smile, feeling anything but fine, as always seemed the case when delivering the phrase. Fortunately, frequency of use had worn the roughness off the lie, turning it smooth as sea glass.

      “Are you sure about that?” said Mrs. Duchovny, resonant with disbelief. Before Maddie could repeat herself, the woman cracked a wide grin and displayed her right arm. “Because I think you’ve forgotten a little something, dear.”

      The other sleeve. Maddie had only tacked the left. “Good grief, I’m so sorry.” She resumed her tucking and pinning as Mrs. Duchovny chuckled.

      “I’m actually relieved. For a minute, I was worried one arm had grown longer than the other.”

      Maddie’s lips curved into a full smile. Soon, though, she recalled her meeting with Lane. Today. At the Pier. And her anxiousness rose like the tide.

      Oh, how she wanted to get the conversation over with.

      She had planned to inscribe her thoughts in a letter, but just as she’d flipped over the OPEN sign this morning, Lane had phoned. He’d said he was headed to Santa Monica with his sister, and that he and Maddie needed to talk before he left town.

      It’s about us, he’d replied ominously when she asked if everything was all right. There had been a heaviness in his voice throughout the call, yet it was the word us that had landed with a thud, a trunk too burdensome to carry.

      Clearly, he too had been pondering the impracticality of it all: A couple weeks for winter break and he would be back at Stanford; by summer’s end, she could be off to New York for who knew how long. There would be no harm done should they simply put their relationship on hold, revert to friendship for now. If they were meant to be, destiny would reunite them.

      The bell above the entry jarred Maddie back to the room. Beatrice Lovell entered—at last!—hugging a sack from the corner diner. It took two shoves for her to fully close the door. The sticking latch was among the list of repairs the seamstress had been chipping away at since becoming the shop’s overseer.

      Maddie hastened a review of Mrs. Duchovny’s sleeve lengths. Satisfied, she secured the second one with more pins.

      “Lord ’a’ mercy,” Bea exclaimed with her residual Louisianan accent. “I thought I’d left hurricane weather behind me.” She set the paper bag on the counter. Outside the windows, red ribbons flapped on storefront wreaths. Passing pedestrians looked to the pavement, hats held to their heads in a tug-o-war with nature.

      Mrs. Duchovny clucked in response. “I tell you, this wretched wind is a lady’s enemy,” she said while Maddie eased her out of the jacket, guiding her around the exposed metal points. “You should have seen the scattering of clothes that ended up in my backyard this morning off my neighbor’s line. Good thing Daisy sews her name into her undergarments, because I wasn’t about to go door-to-door in search of their owner.”

      As Maddie hung up the coat, Bea dabbed two fingers on the tip of her tongue and tamed the silvery strands that had escaped her signature bun. Her pursed mouth created a coral embellishment on the wrinkled fabric of her skin. “Brought us back an early lunch,” she told Maddie, and unloaded two wax paper–wrapped sandwiches.

      Maddie opened her mouth to explain that she had a last-minute … well, errand to run. But Mrs. Duchovny interjected, “Ooh, I almost forgot. Donnie’s favorite dress shirt is missing a button.” From a shopping bag near the sewing machines she produced a white, long-sleeve garb pin-striped in blue. “I was hoping you might have one to match.”

      “I’d be right surprised if we don’t.” Bea turned to Maddie. “Sugar, would you mind peeking in the back?”

      Maddie strained to preserve her waning patience. How could she deny her patron a measly button?

      “Not at all.” She accepted the shirt and hurried toward the storage room. Mothballs and memories scented the air, luring her inside, in every sense. It was here, between the racks of now dusty linens, that she and TJ used to hide, still as mice, awaiting a familiar waft. The fragrance of rose petals and baby powder. Their mother’s perfume. A sign she’d returned from shopping at the market.

      The giggling youngsters would huddle together as two sets of hands swooped in for the capture. And with their small bodies cradled in their parents’ arms, a sound would flow through the air, lovelier than any sonata could ever be. For try as she might, Maddie had yet to hear a melody more glorious than their family’s laughter. A four-part harmony never to be heard again.

      Enough.

      She wadded the thought, tossed it over her shoulder. There were plenty more where that came from, and the clock wasn’t slowing. Lane, with a train to catch, would only be at the Pier another hour.

      Refocusing, she scoured an old Easter basket filled with abandoned buttons, found a decent match, and headed down the hall. She was rounding the corner when she caught the women in hushed voices.

      “Goodness me,” Mrs. Duchovny lamented, “I forgot how terrible the holidays must be for them.”

      “Aw, now. You shouldn’t feel bad, for having discussed your family gatherin’.”

      “I