The fixture buyer arrived Thursday morning with a van, a second man and precisely the list Daniel had sent him.
Ed Moran was shorter than Iris expected from his brisk telephone voice. He wore work trousers, carried a blanket over one shoulder and examined the first island from the floor upward before looking at the mirror.
“Good,” he said.
Daniel showed him the small mark along the lower edge. It was in the condition notes. Ed checked, nodded and moved on to the next piece.
Iris stood by the counter while the two men wrapped the glass. The replacement backdrop had been prepared Wednesday evening, plain cloth stretched over the noticeboards, the photograph mounted between them. Priya had made it look better than the drawing. It still did not look like the thing Iris had first wanted.
One island rolled away. Then the other.
The aisle opened into a space so bare that Iris could see an old square in the floor finish where the units had stood before someone moved them years ago. The building had been changing all along. Usually they had put another thing over the evidence before customers arrived.
Ed signed the collection record. Daniel checked the payment confirmation before releasing the last rails, then walked the lot with him to make sure nothing listed remained behind.
At the loading dock, Hugh checked the goods against the sheet a second time and signed his own name.
The van left at eleven-twenty.
Daniel came back into the store with the paperwork. He looked pleased, not apologetic. Iris discovered she could allow him that without pretending she liked the empty space.
“It’s a good deal,” she said.
“Yes.”
“The cloth looks better than I expected.”
“Yes.”
“You could make one of those answers longer.”
He smiled. “I didn’t want you to think I was arguing you into being happy about it.”
“I’m allowed to be happy about some of it.”
“I’d hoped so.”
She went to the end of the aisle. Daniel joined her while she moved the photograph an inch to the left, then back again.
“I don’t think the millimeter is the problem,” he said.
“Inch. We’re a local shop.”
He laughed. She looked at the plain boards, the faces in the old picture, the chairs waiting stacked by the wall.
There would be enough room for everybody. The photograph would be seen. The estate had the money it should have received. She had lost a beautiful idea and kept the evening.
“Leave it,” she said.
He took his hands away from the frame.
At six, the first full rehearsal went badly enough to make the second seem unnecessary.
Mrs. Hallet walked too quickly, Hugh forgot whether he was meant to speak before or after the photograph appeared, and Winnie refused to enter until the music had reached a part she liked. Priya, holding a clipboard, developed an expression Iris had seen on her own face and found considerably less flattering from a distance.
“Stop,” Iris said.
Everyone stopped except the music.
Daniel turned it down at the temporary sound desk. He had borrowed the equipment from a local events company on an estate-approved hire, and now appeared to regret the whole concept of amplified sound.
“We’re not opening on Broadway,” Iris said. “We need people to get from there to here without hurting themselves. Everything else is a bonus.”
“Does that include Hugh remembering his name?” Winnie asked.
“I knew my name.”
“You said your daughter’s.”
“I was explaining the suit.”
“You hadn’t reached the suit.”
Priya put the clipboard down and began to laugh. After a moment, Hugh laughed too.
They began again without music. Mrs. Hallet walked slowly enough to enjoy the red coat. Hugh held up the photograph before speaking, which gave him something to look at when he forgot his words. Winnie came when called and told the story about the man she hadn’t married with enough detail to make Iris grateful they had agreed to no more than two minutes each.
“What did he do?” Priya asked.
“Made money.”
“I mean when you turned him down.”
“Married someone sensible. They have a very large house.”
“Do you still see him?”
“At funerals. His wife looks beautifully rested.”
Hugh laughed so hard he had to sit down.
At the sound desk, Daniel’s phone lit up. He glanced at it, looked toward Iris and mouthed an apology before stepping into the office. She nodded. Work. He had other work; she knew that. The knowledge did not stop her noticing the space he left.
By seven, the rehearsal had acquired a shape. Priya could run the order. Winnie would speak without notes. Hugh could be trusted if nobody asked a second question. Mrs. Hallet had decided on low red shoes instead of slippers and looked as pleased with them as she’d looked with the coat.
Iris took her own turn last.
She walked down the cleared aisle carrying the green dress on its hanger. Tomorrow she would wear it, but tonight the cloth brushed her arm like a private joke.
“What are you going to say?” Priya asked.
“I haven’t decided.”
“Why did you buy it?”
“For a dinner that didn’t happen.”
The room grew quieter. Iris had not intended to make the sentence so bare.
Then she looked at the dress, the lovely color she had nearly left in a cupboard until the building emptied around it.
“I think I’ll tell them about the straps,” she said. “How I kept meaning to finish them.”
Winnie smiled from her chair.
Daniel had returned without her hearing. He stood at the edge of the aisle, watching her.
“And the room?” he asked.
“The room?”
“Your business. You could say where people will find you.”
She hesitated. “It’s an estate event.”
“Joan has already asked for a list of where the staff are going, if they want to be included. I can check.”
“That isn’t quite the same.”
“No. But you can ask.”
She looked down at the dress. The idea made her feel exposed in a way the garment itself did not. Saying the name aloud meant people could remember it later and ask whether it had worked.
“Iris Bell Alterations,” she said.
Priya smiled. “That’s your name.”
“Yes.”
“Good name.”
Iris laughed, a little unsteadily. “I hope so.”
They finished at seven-thirty. Staff hours had been allowed; nobody was staying because Iris could not bear to go home. She checked the doors while Daniel packed the sound equipment behind the counter.
“Did you eat?” she asked.
“A biscuit.”
“That does not count.”
“An ambitious biscuit.”
She rolled her eyes. “Come on. There’s pasta at my house.”
In the car, he was quieter than usual. She asked about the call.
“Work,” he said. “Dates and arrangements. It took longer than I meant.”
“Oregon?”
“Yes.”
“Everything all right?”
“Yes. Just a lot to line up.”
She waited for more. He looked at the road, then asked whether she’d heard from the house viewers.
Not yet. Another viewing booked for Saturday morning. The question carried them into practical matters she could answer, and by the time they reached her house she had almost forgotten the one she hadn’t asked clearly enough.
Over pasta, she showed him the opening cards. The name was hers, the font plain, the address small beneath it. She had ordered only a hundred. Laura would have approved the scale.
“They’re good,” he said.
“I thought of putting something grander. A little promise about finding yourself in your clothes.”
He looked at her.
“I know. Terrible.”
“Ambitious for a hem.”
She laughed, relieved. “Exactly.”
He took the card and read the small line beneath her number. Appointments beginning Monday. An open studio hour Friday afternoon for friends and prospective clients, numbers limited because the room was small.
“I thought Friday would be nice,” she said. “A few people in, tea, nothing elaborate. Priya wants to help. Winnie says she’ll come if she isn’t expected to be inspiring.”
Daniel smiled, but his gaze remained on the date.
“And you’ll be there,” Iris said. “You can put up the little shelf. Hugh’s helping with the machine earlier in the week.”
He looked up.
She heard her own sentence after she’d finished it. Not a question. A place made for him, followed by a job.
“If you’re free,” she added.
“I need to check some things.”
“Of course.”
He set the card on the table.
She wanted to ask what things, what dates, how close he was to deciding. Instead she asked whether he wanted more pasta. It was an old movement, almost invisible: offering food at the moment when a question might be inconvenient.
He said yes. She took his plate.
Later, he held her on the sofa while they watched half of a documentary neither remembered choosing. His thumb moved slowly along her arm. She leaned against him and let the familiar warmth quiet the unease she hadn’t properly named.
At ten he left, needing to prepare for a morning meeting. She walked him to the door.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
“Yes.”
He kissed her, then stopped with his forehead against hers.
“I’m glad you finished the dress.”
“So am I.”
After he had gone, she put the opening card into the folder with her lease. The business existed in increasingly small, solid pieces. A receipt. A key she would collect. A name printed in a hundred copies.
His place in it was still written in pencil.