“Have I been enough?” she whispered, grazing the razor nick with her fingertips and brushing away the remaining cotton fibers. “Did I hold you back from your dream? From Milan and Paris?”
“Never. You saw what happened. I tried to take us to Milan, then Paris. Even New York. Every door closed.”
“What about children? Aren’t they the best legacy? And here we are, more than well down the path, childless.”
“Now look at what I’ve done.” He held her hands to his thick chest. “I’ve made you brood as well. Pay no mind to this doddering old fool who’s feeling sorry for himself. I’ve lived a blessed life, and you have been more than enough. We have our health. We have each other. Our old shop above the quay. Why, we couldn’t afford to buy this today. Did I tell you an estate agent rang and offered me more than I ever imagined?”
Eileen’s eyes widened. “You turned him down, I hope.”
“Of course, love. This is our home, where we and our memories live.”
“Where you made the dress. Taffron, most men dream of things they never, ever achieve. Not even a little. But look at you. Chosen from all the designers in the world by Princess Louisa to make her wedding gown. The poor lass never looked so beautiful. She was incredibly grateful, remember? Saying how you made her feel special, like a real princess. Imagine. A princess wanting to feel like a princess. But you have a way, Taff. A way of making everyone feel special. It’s a gift, I say, a gift.”
“She was lovely. I so enjoyed working with her. But that was a long time ago. Let’s not think of it any longer. I’m ruining my day. What’s past is past.”
“Taffron, look at me.” Eileen’s tone was as firm as her grip on his hands. “What if you were put on this earth to create one extraordinary gown for an ordinary, insecure princess? You can count on one hand how many designers dressed a royal on her wedding day. Even less if they made someone like Louisa shine at her most critical hour. That is who you are, love. You make gowns for women who need to know who they are, who need to feel beautiful, accepted. She needed to feel she was a princess. Not just know she was one because her father was the king.”
“You are wise, my wife.” Taffron turned his attention once again to the cliff that held the Hand of God.
Shipwrecked sailors named the cliff-top, carved-out nook over three hundred years ago when their vessel shattered on the channel rocks during a storm. Miraculously, they somehow survived the sea, scaled the rough, sheer rock face, and found shelter.
When asked how they survived, they said, “The Hand of God.”
“Do you think some are born for one solitary purpose and no other?”
“The good Lord only had one purpose. Do you suppose you are better than He?”
Taffron laughed. “I can’t quarrel with you now. You’ve trumped me with the Almighty.”
“I’ll have to tell the other wives my secret for besting my husband. Now let me get on with your breakfast.”
Taffron gave her bottom a loving tap as she turned to go. Eileen swished her behind from side to side, her flirtatious wink tossed over her shoulder causing his heart to quicken.
She paused at the kitchen door. “Taffron Björk, you are somebody to me. You made a difference in my life. I don’t know where I’d be without you. Isn’t that more enduring and lasting than if you’d designed the most beautiful gowns in Europe?”
Taffron gazed again toward the Hand of God as Eileen’s words cut through him. How selfish to long for what he never achieved while disregarding what he had—a beautiful life with his beautiful wife. But still…
“I’m still here. Use me.”
Despite his speech about letting go of the past, he tripped backward to the time of Princess Louisa. For one glorious season, he’d been a somebody. Or so it seemed. Worthy. The fashion world raved over him. Lords and ladies called upon him.
Then without warning or reason, it all ended. The letters and inquiries stopped. His calling card meant nothing. So he climbed the Hand of God again because it was after his first ascent that Emmanuel came with the opportunity of a lifetime.
But the old man never appeared again.
Now it was too late. While Taffron had his sight and his teeth and a full head of hair, arthritis and tremors gripped his fingers, preventing a steady grip on his scissors and needle. If Emmanuel somehow appeared today, Taffron would have to turn him aside.
In the distance, a horn bellowed, signaling a ferry leaving the dock, headed toward England. From inside, Eileen called him to the table.
He’d just picked his cup up from its saucer when the shop doorbell chimed. Taffron glanced toward the passageway leading from the seaside cottage kitchen into his workshop and storefront.
“Are you expecting someone?” He regarded his wife. Had she planned some sort of birthday tomfoolery?
“I bet it’s Mrs. Gunter. She inquired of your birthday last week, hinting she had something for you.” Eileen motioned for him to sit. “I hope it’s not cake. I’m making your favorite.”
“Chocolate caramel? You do love me, don’t you?” Taffron snapped his napkin over his lap and took up his utensils. A chocolate caramel cake. Well then, he’d welcome eighty-two with open arms. No one bested his Eileen in baking.
But first, he’d take his wife out to dinner, celebrate like a man who’d lived a good long while. Drink a pint or two and then come home for cake.
He’d just cracked open his three-minute egg when Eileen reappeared, her eyes wide, her face pale.
Taffron was on his feet. “What is it?”
“He’s here,” she whispered. “In the workshop.” She pointed toward the doorway, her words rushed and breathless. “My goodness, he doesn’t look a day older. How can that be?”
“Who’s here?”
“Him. Emmanuel.”
“What?” Taffron toppled his chair as he moved around the table. “Surely not. He was an old man forty years ago.”
“He’s the same old man. Exact same. And in our shop.”
Taffron took a wobbly step then steadied himself on the adjacent chair. “What do you think he wants?”
“I’ve no idea. Perhaps another glorious assignment.” Eileen glanced toward the exit then at her husband. “He is as kind as ever too.”
“What assignment? There are no princesses to be married. Why me? I’m nothing more than a common tailor.”
“Perhaps there’s a duchess or a marchioness marrying? Didn’t I read in the paper that the prime minister’s daughter was engaged?”
“I can’t,” Taffron whispered more to himself than Eileen, rubbing his crooked sewing fingers with this thumb. “The last time I looked at fashions, the Titanic had just sailed.”
“Go.” Eileen urged him forward. “What if he just wants to wish you a happy birthday?”
“How would he know it’s my birthday?”
“Everyone in the hamlet knows it’s your birthday. Now go.”
With a tug at his tie, Taffron slicked back his hair and headed into the shop.
“Good morning, sir.” Good. He sounded casual. Confident. “How can I help you?”
Emmanuel stood in the center of the shop, filling it with his large frame and seeming to bring a light all his own.