The Paris Seamstress

by Natasha Lester

  “Estella,” he said, lifting her head back up to meet his.

  His lips lit fires along her neck and she felt her back arch, her head tip back. He shucked off his clothes with one hand as the other caressed her breast, then teased her nipple, then marked a path to her hipbone, her thighs, and finally between her thighs and she had to close her eyes from the rush of sensation through her body. He kept one hand circling languorously between her legs as he moved his mouth down to her ankle and kissed his way up her leg, from her calf to her knee to her thigh, finally placing his mouth where his hand had been and Estella was no longer able to breathe, was no longer able to do anything except cry out his name as everything except Alex evanesced.

  It took her several long moments to regain her breath, to open her eyes and, even then, all she was capable of saying was, “Oh God.”

  He smiled and said, “Kiss me again,” and she did, drawing him on top of her, drawing him into her so fully that it was his turn to close his eyes, to murmur her name against her neck, to grip one of her hands in his so tightly she knew that his world had just receded too; that all that was left in that moment was Estella and Alex and the feeling between them that she was unable, because the right words did not exist, to name.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Neither moved for a long time after, helpless to do anything other than lie body to body, kissing as they recovered. Eventually Estella rolled over onto her stomach, propping herself up on her forearms and Alex turned onto his side, leaning on one elbow, running his hand lightly up and down her naked spine.

  “Well, that was even better than I’d imagined it would be,” he said, smiling.

  “Now you sound just like the womanizing man-about-town you pretend to be,” she said with a laugh.

  “Was I not supposed to enjoy it?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

  “You were definitely supposed to enjoy it,” she said. “But did you really…imagine this?”

  He reached over and lifted her chin, kissing her softly. “If it won’t get me into trouble,” he said, “then yes. I have imagined doing this with you a thousand times.” He laughed. “You’re blushing! I can’t believe that the normally audacious Estella is speechless and blushing.”

  She pushed him onto his back, resting her arms on his chest. “I’ve been a complete idiot,” she admitted. “I had no idea. I guess that I mostly thought of you as the man responsible for turning my whole life inside out and back to front so I just didn’t let myself think beyond that. And I always thought you and Lena…”

  They were both quiet for a moment. “I understand,” he said. “I wanted you to think Lena and I were together because it would keep you away from me. I’m just glad now that you feel the same as I do.”

  “You have Peter to thank for that,” she said. “He gave me the worst tongue-lashing I’ve ever had in my life.”

  Alex winced. “Sorry about that. He’s overprotective. We’ve been through hell and beyond together. The agent with the broken leg in the Village Saint-Paul was his brother. I think Peter’s bluntness was his peculiar way of saying thank you for helping.”

  “I didn’t know,” she said. “And don’t apologize. I’m glad he gave me a piece of his mind. Otherwise I might be in someone else’s bed right now,” she added, eyes sparkling with mischief.

  “I don’t think I can joke about that,” he said, kissing her again, as if wanting to convince her that this was the only place she should be, a fact of which she needed no persuasion.

  “Mmmmm,” she said when he let her go. “There should be a law against kissing like that unless you want it to end up…”

  But she didn’t finish her sentence. He kissed her again, exactly like he’d done before, and she slid her body on top of his, running her hands over his chest, feeling his hands circle her hips, moving in time with him.

  “What were you working on when I came in?” he asked later as he sat up to light a cigarette and lean his back against the sofa.

  Estella stood and he watched her walk, naked and stunning and, for the time being, all his, and he had to stub out the cigarette because it was hard enough to breathe, watching her walk, let alone with his lungs full of smoke.

  “These,” she said when she walked back, passing him the sketchbook.

  He held out his arm and she curled into his side, tucking her head into his shoulder. He kissed her hair and had the same sense of breathlessness; that she was the kind of woman who wanted what came after the act itself, that she wanted the slow embrace, the stopping of time on a winter evening after sex, when the light had long since faded but the air was still alive with what they’d just done, with the promise of doing it again shining like a full moon above them. When it felt as if they had all the time in the world to kiss and to touch and to never move apart for more than a moment, to never be clothed again. To be two people adrift from the world, castaways into love and desire.

  He looked at each drawing and could see her in all of them, her body moving sultrily beneath the fabric, see the smile she might give as he slipped each one off her. “Are you going to put together another collection?” he asked, lighting a cigarette again, trying to do something with his hands which just wanted to touch her.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t worked at all for the last few months. I’ve felt lost for the first time in my life. And then today, inspiration came. I haven’t decided what I’ll do with the designs though.”

  “I have something for you,” he said, reaching out for his trousers, taking an envelope from the pocket. “It’s why I came to see you. I went to Sam’s apartment since I couldn’t get into the Barbizon and he told me you might be here.”

  He passed her the letter and steeled himself for how she might react. But she deserved everything the letter granted her—the Gramercy Park townhouse, the paintings on the walls, the furniture, the money in Lena’s bank accounts, which was a reasonable amount because Lena had carefully and assiduously invested the proceeds of Frank’s and Harry’s pawned jewelry—but he knew Estella would disagree.

  As she read, he said, “She had me draw this up before we went to France. Now I wonder if she had some kind of premonition.”

  Estella reached the bottom of the letter and looked up at him, wide-eyed. “I can’t accept any of it,” she said. “I was the worst sister anybody could have had. Always pushing her away…It’s like I’ve stolen the life she was meant to have.”

  He gathered her up in his arms, the pang he felt at seeing her pain unlike anything he’d experienced and he’d known all kinds of physical pain. If love hurt this much, it was a wonder anyone did it. But if love meant being able to hold so close what was most precious in the world to you, then love was worth anything.

  “You have to accept it all,” he said. “Because it’s a gift Lena wanted to give you. She wants you to live your dream, just like she says in the letter. Otherwise her life really was a waste. This way you can make something of what she was. You owe it to her.” He knew he was being unfair, in a way, but it was all true. Only Estella could redeem Lena’s life, could transform all of the many hurts Lena had suffered into a legacy of tenderness, warmth, and affection, rather than waste and suffering. “She loved you,” he said, kissing Estella’s forehead. “She really did.”

  He felt Estella’s body shudder, heard the fierce intake of a sob. He held her even more tightly, and she clung to him, as if his presence made her feel better. He felt such a wave of adoration and disbelief that, of all people, she would seek comfort from him, that he couldn’t speak. They sat there for a long time, bound together, the solace of one another’s presence a thing beyond understanding.

  When Estella pulled back, he wiped away the tears from her cheeks.

  “I feel…” she started.

  “Guilty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t. You should feel guilty if you don’t do anything with these drawings.” He gestured to her sketchpad. “Make them for Lena. It’s what she’d have w
anted.”

  She nodded. “I will. I’ll name this collection for her.”

  “It’s perfect,” he said.

  Neither spoke for a moment and then she asked, “Where were you?”

  He hated the answer he had to give. “I can’t tell you. You know I can’t.”

  “Did you find my mother?” she whispered.

  This time he thanked God for what he could say. “Yes. She’s alive. She’s moved though. I can’t tell you where.”

  “I don’t suppose I can write to her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “How long are you in New York for?”

  “That I can tell you,” he said, smiling. “I have a month’s leave. And I plan to spend as much of it with you as possible. I plan to kiss you whenever,” he leaned over and kissed her neck, then her breast, gently at first, then hungrily, “and wherever I want.” He moved down to kiss her stomach and then looked up at her.

  “Don’t stop,” she whispered.

  “I don’t intend to,” he said.

  When they’d finished he rolled her into him, her back pressing against his chest. “Let’s go to the Hudson Valley,” he said. “Away from everything. We can just be together.”

  When she didn’t reply he added, “You can work out there, if that’s what’s bothering you. I don’t mind what you do so long as you come.”

  “You really want to spend your entire month of leave with me?” she asked and he could hear the incredulity in her voice.

  He turned her over to face him. “I love you, Estella.”

  The look on her face was one of such astonishment he couldn’t help laughing. “I was hoping for a thank-you at the very least.”

  “It’s just that I can’t imagine you…falling in love with me.”

  “I know it sounds crazy and not what happens in real life—it’s something you see on the silver screen—but the minute you walked into the Théâtre du Palais-Royal and spoke to me, I felt something more than I’d ever felt for anyone in my life. And it’s never gone away.”

  “I can’t believe I wasted all those months disliking you for things that weren’t your fault. But I intend to make up for it,” she said smiling, “because I love you too. So much.”

  “Thank God,” he breathed and he kissed her.

  She let the kiss linger then pulled back. “Let’s go to Sleepy Hollow,” she said. “I won’t be able to work there though. I need Janie to model for me and Sam to cut for me.”

  “They can come too,” he said and even he could tell that his voice sounded not quite thrilled with the prospect.

  She laughed. “Yes, because having them in the house while we spend an entire month naked is just what you had in mind.”

  He groaned. “You can’t say things like that,” he whispered. “A month naked with you is more than I can bear thinking about.” He paused. “But, realistically, I have work to do too. Safe work, I promise,” he said as she looked askance at him. “Just a few government meetings. So why don’t we spend a week there with just the two of us and then they can come out and you can do your work. I don’t mind.” He stopped, but then made himself say it. “Are you sure that you and Sam…”

  “Sam is my friend. A very good friend, but a friend nonetheless. I promise.”

  “I believe you,” he said. “I just feel as if he’d be more suitable for you.”

  “I don’t want suitable,” she whispered. “I want this. And thank you. I don’t imagine many men would be willing to let two virtual strangers share their hard-earned leave with them.”

  There wasn’t a thing in the world he wouldn’t be willing to do for her. He couldn’t believe his good fortune, that of all the women in the world, the one who was the most extraordinary had somehow fallen in love with him. He couldn’t even speak, felt sure he might actually cry so he just held her fiercely against him so she couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see that he was about to break down into sobs of joy, of gratitude, of wonder that life could be so damned good.

  But she knew, she knew everything about him it seemed because she reached up and touched his chin with her hand, drew it down, looked directly into his face and saw him as no one had ever seen him before. Still she kissed him, still she said, “I love you, Alex.”

  They finally tore themselves away from their makeshift bed long enough to get in a car and drive to the Hudson Valley. They talked the whole way there and Estella felt the opposite of what Janie had felt about her husband; that she knew Alex better than anyone, even though there was so much about him, facts and figures, that she didn’t know. But all the important things were absolutely known.

  “How old are you?” was one of the questions she asked as they drove.

  “I had my twenty-seventh birthday while we were in Paris.”

  Twenty-seven. It was so young. “I remember you once said you’d been doing this for six years,” she said, taking his hand. “It’s not the kind of thing most people start doing not long after they turn twenty.”

  “I started working for the British government the day I finished law school. Which is why I’ve hardly spent any time in New York over the last six years. Just short trips, on and off. Enough to keep my cover of Americanness. I’ve mostly been in Europe.”

  “Well,” she said, knowing he probably wasn’t able to tell her any more, “we’ll have to make sure we celebrate your birthday properly when we get there.”

  Which meant they barely said hello to his housekeeper when they arrived, just ran up the stairs to his bedroom, at the door of which Alex gave her a wicked grin. “This will be our first time in a bed. Even the womanizer that I’m supposed to be usually manages to find a bed for these things. Which must mean it’s you leading me astray.”

  Estella laughed. “We have been in a bed together before. In Paris.”

  He drew her in close and kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her neck. “That was torture,” he said. “I was sick enough anyway and then to have to lie there and pretend to feel nothing with you sitting on a bed beside me just about killed me.”

  “Now you can feel whatever you like.” She led him over to the bed and touched the scar just above his right temple with her fingers.

  “That one’s from the parachute drop,” he said.

  She kissed it. Then she touched the scar line on his chin, which was almost hidden by stubble.

  “A skirmish with a double agent in Marseilles,” he murmured.

  She kissed that one too. And so on, down his body, as she undid each button on his shirt and on his trousers, as she eased him onto the bed and learned the history of his body, what each scar meant. She let her fingers and her lips touch the remnant of every wound and he gave her its provenance, then she moved to the skin in between, letting her mouth tell him how much she wanted him, how much she trusted him, how much she couldn’t bear to be separated from him.

  With each kiss, she heard him whisper her name, and then say it louder, and then louder still until he eventually pulled her head up toward him, and she saw the desire unmistakable in his eyes, heard him say, “I want you so much, Estella.”

  She let him roll her on to her back where he did to her what she’d done to him, marking her skin with his mouth, repeating to her everything she had told him with each one of her kisses.

  Part Eight

  Fabienne

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  July 2015

  At half past nine, Fabienne walked into the atelier where she’d asked everyone to gather. This was it. Her one chance to convince them she had what it took to sit at Estella’s desk. She’d arrived in New York just yesterday and had spent most of the hours of the night thinking of what she would say.

  As soon as she appeared, the noise of the workroom quieted. The spreading machines stopped their work of laying out fabric, the graders halted their resizing of the pattern pieces, the cutters turned off their blades, the machinists took their feet from the treadles. And as Fabienne looked around at the faces in front of her, many of whom sh
e knew because they’d worked for her grandmother for years, she felt the tightness in her stomach relax. She’d spent so many summers on the factory floor, being shown by the seamstresses how to sew, by the finishers how to trim, by the cutters how to cut. They used to buy her gifts, bring her cookies, ask for her to sit beside them while they worked. Remembering that, she smiled. Perhaps she had always belonged here; perhaps Estella’s business was as much in her blood as her grandmother had always said.

  “I know the last few weeks have been shocking,” she said. “We all knew Estella was old, but I think most of us had hoped she was also immortal.”

  A murmur of assent rippled around the room.

  “One of my fondest memories is of Estella telling me about the early days of this business. That she had a workroom set up in her home in Gramercy Park and Janie, who we all miss terribly, would stand in the center of the room, looking amazing in anything Estella put on her. My grandfather would, in his gentle way, teach Estella everything she needed to know to help her transform her sketches into things that could be worn. When she told me those stories, I thought it was so romantic; that she and my grandfather had met over a shared desire to make beautiful but wearable clothes, that their love for the things they made had eventually transformed into love for one another.”

  Fabienne paused and breathed as deeply as she could. She was not going to cry today. Today was all about fresh starts. Nobody in the room moved; they watched her, intent, and she believed that they were also imagining Estella and Sam and the wonderful way they had always worked together.

  “Estella had so much love to give,” Fabienne continued. “For a long time I thought that everything she said to me, everything she did—making up one of my designs for each collection for instance—was a simple act of love. But while Estella was a loving grandmother, she was always a businesswoman. She had to be; she quite literally started with nothing, leaving Paris during the war with only a suitcase and a sewing machine. And out of nothing, she made this.” Fabienne gestured to the room they all stood in, the factory at 550 Seventh Avenue that had been the home of Stella Designs for seventy years.