CHAPTER SIX
STACY
HAMPTON ROLLS THE SLEEVE OF his blazer between his fingers, pausing where the rip used to be. I refuse to say anything if he doesn’t, but part of me hopes that he will. I don’t even want to rub anything in Hampton Brooks’ smug face anymore. As much as I hate to admit it, this is about pride.
Hampton looks up at me, his expression puzzled, then returns his attention to the sleeve. Carlo isn’t here, but I can see his other pal — a tall and rather impressive man with a reddish-brown goatee — through the window.
“I can’t see the rip.”
His voice and manner are both guarded. I can tell he’s dying to berate me, or to spar as we did before.
“I should hope not.”
“This is your halfway job?”
I don’t do anything halfway; that’s what I didn’t want to admit earlier when he was explaining how I could get it done faster. But I don’t want to tell him that I played full-out. He might take that as his winning, and my surrendering to his superior will.
He’s still turning the sleeve up to make a cuff, observing my stitching. He straightens the sleeve. “Did you …?”
“Try it on,” I say.
He does.
“How does it feel?”
My heart is pounding. Looking at Hampton now, he doesn’t seem nearly as intimidating or even arrogant as he did before. Confusion has rendered him helpless. Until he understands what odd thing has happened, he can’t yell, blame, or act like an asswipe.
“Good.”
“Better?”
He shifts. Tries the sleeves. Adjusts the collar. Trying, desperately, to see what’s different. “Yes. But … The sleeve?”
The coat moves on Hampton’s frame. I’ve guessed his chest measurement perfectly. It sits better now, and you can’t even see where I let it out, or how much.
Hampton took longer than he’d said, showing up a little over two and a half hours later. After talking with my father, I had two full hours to work. I must’ve done a day’s worth of work in that time.
I fixed the sleeve first, improving the seam and securing it the way the first tailor should have if he’d been paying attention.
Then I took my seam-ripper to the lining and fixed half of it before seeing the puckered seam near the right armpit — the one spot where I’d noticed a hiccup when Hampton moved, where it didn’t quite slide right.
On impulse, I ripped that seam, too, then let out the little bit of extra fabric that had been left, trying to guess at Hampton’s chest while trying my best not to think of the way it looks bare, in the beach photos I’ve seen in magazines.
I put the lining in correctly upon reassembly, taking care to square the pattern. Then with my remaining time, I re-did the button shanks (which were weak) and re-stitched the buttonholes (which had begun to unravel).
“You did something,” he says.
I gauge the way he’s studying me. Only now do I realize the weight of my gamble. I don’t have thousands of extra dollars lying around, should he decide to accuse me of ruining his blazer. Altering a garment when asked is one thing, but I’ve done it on my own. Like a rogue tailor, sneaking into an enemy’s house at night to mend his uneven hems.
But his eyes are clear. His look is curious, not accusatory. Tentatively satisfied, not angry — and pleasantly surprised, despite his best intentions.
“I adjusted the fit where the bottom of the sleeve meets the chest.” I reach out, touch the jacket, and notice the firmness of Hampton beneath. “Here.”
“Why?”
“The fabric was bunching when you lifted your arm.”
“It’s better,” he says. “A lot better. I just assumed that’s how it was supposed to move.”
I take him by his sides, then turn him like a life-sized doll. He faces his reflection, and I pluck at the altered area, enjoying my chance to pose him despite my pride’s insistence that I loathe it.
“It falls better, too. See this line? It was like this before.” I pinch the fabric to mimic the old cut. A subtle difference, until you see it side-by-side.”
“But why? I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“Because it was wrong.”
He looks at me like an alien creature. I could explain my perfectionism, but I won’t, not if I don’t have to. It’s like OCD. Or, as my father calls it, “the common sense to know that jobs should be done right.”
I move behind Hampton, take the jacket by the collar, and lower it to encourage him to slip it back off. I clear a space and lay it flat, then show him the seam from the inside. If you look closely, you can see the old line of thread holes and the way the lining wants to lay in its old crease.
“I just let this out a little. And while I was at it, I re-sewed the lining. See here? The pattern didn’t used to line up.”
Hampton nods; I showed this to him before when it was wrong.
“And remember the way the buttonholes had some loose, loopy threads? Look here.” I point. And point. “I also tightened the shanks.”
“The what?”
“On the buttons.” I rush on. This last bit is maybe the most dangerous because it can’t be changed back. But I had some time and took a risk. “And this. Do you see it?”
Hampton squints. I did my work well; it’s almost invisible on the lapel.
“There’s a hole there. Was it there before?”
“No.”
“You cut a hole in my lapel?”
He sounds more inquisitive than angry.
“It’s a boutonniere hole. Your jacket didn’t have one.”
“I don’t wear boutonnieres.”
“You don’t need to. But you should have the hole.”
“Why?”
“Because if you ever need to wear a boutonniere, you’ll have it. But there’s another reason. One I’m not sure you’ll get.”
He could be offended, but by now he seems stunned enough to smile.
And his smile? It’s surprisingly nice.
“What’s the reason?”
“Because on a formal jacket this fine …” I hesitate but decide not to elaborate: this fine if it’s done well. “… the missing hole suggests an inferior quality. It suggests that a maker lacks attention to detail — and that because the hole isn’t present or done well, other details might also be shoddy.”
Hampton puts the jacket back on. Shrugs to feel the fit. Smiles a little.
“You still haven’t told me why you did all of this.”
“I had to,” I tell him, “or it wouldn’t be right.”