C.E. Murphy - Truthseeker

“Most of my clients aren’t old.”

“But they’re rich, right?” Kelly’s eyes brightened. “They have to be, to afford their spiffy custom suits.”

Lara wrinkled her nose and put on a haughty accent. “Please. We at Lord Matthew’s Tailor Shop prefer the term ‘bespoke’ to ‘custom made.’”

“That’s because you at Lord Matthew’s are a bunch of Europhile snobs,” Kelly said cheerfully, and Lara laughed.

“Steve’s got three hundred years of tradition to live up to. Give him a break.”

“Oh yes.” Now Kelly put on the accent, sniffing disdainfully. “Steven Taylor, eighth in a line of tailors beholden to a Lord Matthew, whose name became so synonymous with quality that even during his lifetime men were referred to ‘Lord Matthew’s tailor’ rather than the Newbury Street Tailor Shop. That’s your party line, isn’t it?” she said in a normal voice. “You have to admit it sounds snooty.”

“It is snooty. But I love it. The way everything fits together flawlessly, it’s like a true thing made real.”

“A true thing made real. And you think I say weird things.”

Lara grinned. “Someday I’ll make your wedding dress and you’ll understand why it’s so fantastic. No patterns, just your body shape and your every whim conceded to. Except if you try to make a disastrous fashion choice, in which case I’ll politely ignore you and make something suitable. At least I could do that with you. We’ve had clients with no taste at all. A couple of them were even famous.”

“Fortune five hundred famous?”

“More like movie star famous.”

Kelly brightened again. “Now, see, if I were even the tiniest bit interested in sewing, I would so make you get me a job. Intimately fitting clothes to movie stars. I want your life.”

“No, you don’t,” Lara said with perfect confidence.

Kelly squashed her lips in mock irritation. “Shush. You’re not supposed to call me on things like that and you know it. People say things like that, Lar.”

“I know. But you don’t mean it.” If Lara’s high school yearbook had had a category for least likely to develop a sense of humor, her teenage self would have been pictured there. It wasn’t that she lacked one, but even as an adult, the line between teasing and telling lies was a thin one to her sense of truthfulness. She frequently had to stop and consider what she’d been told, investigate it for irony before responding. At the shop, her fellow tailors had such passion and joy for their creations they rarely joked about it; Lara’s underdeveloped sense of humor fit in well there.

Outside, in the real world, she was grateful for people like Kelly, who had recognized Lara’s ability on her own and wasn’t bothered by it. Building friendships without the polite gloss of white lies was difficult. People simply didn’t tell one another the truth all the time, or even often. When Kelly had protested that they did, Lara had arched an eyebrow and asked, “How often do you say ‘fine’ when someone asks you how you’re doing?” Kelly had shut her mouth on further objections and rarely argued with Lara on matters of truthfulness again.

“Okay, I don’t want your job. I want to hang out with you and meet the rich people you make clothes for,” Kelly admitted. “Is that more accurate?”

Lara laughed. “Much. The trouble with that is most of them never even see me, Kelly. I’d have a hard time introducing you to somebody when I’m effectively invisible.”

“I don’t understand that. They’re the dressmaker’s dummies. How can they not see the dressmaker?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lara assured her. “I don’t need to be noticed.”

“No?” Kelly cast a glance out the window. “Not even by him?”

Lara followed her gaze to where the weatherman, hair blown askew, shouted enthusiastically into a microphone as rain splashed over him. He was vividly handsome, with angular cheekbones and a pointed jaw, and a well-shaped mouth currently stretched in a rueful grin. His eyes were crinkled against the weather, features animated as he spoke. “Nah. Not that I’d say no …”

Kelly clapped her hands together. “Finish your burger. Come on, hurry up.”

Lara picked up the sandwich and bit in, an automatic response to the command, then furled her eyebrows. “What’s the hurry?”

“Look at him, Lar. He’s a pretty-boy TV star, but that coat, those pants.” She tsked , shaking her head, eyes wide with dismay. “The man needs a makeover to reach his full potential, and I know just the woman to give him one.”

“You?”

Kelly gave an enthusiastic pah! of dismissal. “I like my men broad enough to fill doorways. Not that Mr. Weatherman doesn’t have great shoulders, but my mighty thighs would crush those slender hips. I’m going to introduce you.” She dropped a twenty on the table and caught Lara’s wrist, tugging her up.

“Kelly! I’m not done eating! And you don’t even know him!”

“Everybody knows him,” Kelly insisted. “He’s David Kirwen, Channel Four News weatherman, and they’re shutting down filming. It’s now or never. I’ll buy you another burger. Come on, Lara. This is why you never meet guys. You never take any risks. Live a little!” She pulled Lara toward the door, ignoring her protests, and stepped out into the wind-driven rain, T-shirt soaking in a few seconds.

Lara muttered “He’ll notice you, anyway,” and earned a second dismissive sound from her friend.

“Huge tracts of land aren’t everyone’s fancy. Excuse me! Excuse me, Mr. Kirwen? My friend here wanted to talk to you about your wardrobe!”

“For heaven’s sake.” Lara spoke the protest under her breath as Kirwen turned to face them, amusement writ large across his face, animating thin lips and brown eyes into pure sensual charm. “I didn’t,” she said to him in embarrassment. “I mean, your trench coat is really well made. The stitches must be oiled, the way water’s beading and rolling off. But really, I didn’t want to talk to you. I’m sorry. My friend is—” She ran out of words, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering. The weatherman was dressed for the pelting rain; Lara, in a T-shirt and jeans—her coat was in Kelly’s Nissan—was not.

“An enabler,” Kelly offered. “This is Lara Jansen. She’s a tailor, a bespoke tailor, I don’t know if you’re familiar with it, but—”

“I’m only a journeyman,” Lara mumbled, but Kelly went on heedless.

“—it’s custom tailoring, not even a pattern, I can’t remember how it all works, but anyway, Lara can tell you about it, and she thinks you’re cute and well dressed—”

“Kelly!”

“A tailor who thinks I’m well dressed. I’m flattered, Miss Jansen. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He turned a megawatt smile on Lara, evidently unaware of its power. Bells chimed beneath her skin, ringing in the truth inherent in his statement, and Lara put her hand out automatically to meet his as he said, “I’m David Kirwen.”

Pure tones shattered into discord.

The hairs on Lara’s neck stood against the rain and wind. The tones of truth rang with uncertainty, tremors lifting goose bumps on her skin. Her knowledge was usually an instant thing, one pure tone or a flat one, but the sound of David Kirwen’s name went on and on, searching for a final note to settle on. They began to clear, shivering toward agreement, but even as purity took over, a dissonance remained. Lara felt her smile go fixed, felt her hand go icy in Kirwen’s, and saw that he noticed it. Some of the light went out of his own smile and he retrieved his hand from her cold grip. “I’d hate to keep you out on an afternoon like this one. Thank you for saying hello.”