Chapter 7: The Help

Every mallet in the arch stopped.

I finished the stitch I was on.

Then I set the needle down and wiped my hands on the apron.

"Madison," I said. "Congratulations on your wedding."

"Thank you!" She held up her left hand so the diamond caught the light from the doors. "It was very small. Pierce hates a fuss."

"I saw the photos."

Behind me, Zoe made a sound.

Madison spotted her, and her smile stayed exactly where it was.

"And the intern. You're everywhere, sweetie."

"I'm her right hand now," Zoe said. "And I'm not your sweetie."

The photographer was already opening his cases.

Madison walked into the arch.

She touched a trunk frame and looked at her fingertip.

"So the concept is heritage," she said. "Old London. Real craftsmen. Hands." She spun around. "Who's the oldest?"

Nobody answered.

Her eyes found Peggy at the first bench.

"Oh, she's perfect. Look at her. She's like a little apple doll."

Peggy didn't stop sewing.

Madison crouched beside her and put an arm around Peggy's shoulders, cheek to cheek, and held her phone up.

"Smile, sweetheart. Big smile. Think about the Queen."

Peggy looked straight at the phone with an expression that could have stripped paint.

The photographer started setting up a light.

He angled it onto Peggy's hands, the thimble, the waxed thread.