On my forty-sixth birthday, I wore the emerald dress Aunt Lorna had left unfinished on her cutting table. I had spent three evenings fitting the bodice and hemming the skirt. The fabric was not fashionable, but it held light like a green bottle on a windowsill. When I came downstairs, Adrian looked up from his phone and asked whether I had something quieter. He said the restaurant was elegant, and I looked ready to lead a parade.
I nearly changed. For nineteen years, Adrian had called his corrections helpful, and I had learned to receive them as if they were weather reports. Then I felt the tiny ridge of Lorna's hand stitching beneath my thumb. She had taught me that a garment should make room for the person inside it. I put on my old black coat, leaving the green skirt visible below, and told him our reservation would survive. He smiled without warmth and spent the drive explaining how important the evening was.
That was my first surprise. I had expected my sister, a candle, perhaps the lemon cake Adrian knew I liked. Instead, a woman named Priya Nayar waited at the best table with a leather portfolio beside her chair. Adrian introduced her as an investor in his new boutique hotel project. Priya wished me happy birthday, then asked how long I had been involved in the textile concept. Adrian answered before I could. He said I occasionally helped with samples when my little shop was not too busy.
I had never seen the project. As Adrian described hand-finished curtains and locally designed staff jackets, Priya opened the portfolio. A square of cream linen was mounted on the first page, embroidered with three climbing leaves. I knew the crooked middle stem because I had sewn it during a power outage, guiding the needle by a camping lamp. A green thread trailed from the sample to Adrian's cuff, caught beneath his watch. I stared at it while the waiter set down three menus and only two glasses of champagne.