Chapter 22: Green Thread

We cut the coat on the first Saturday of December, on the carriage house table, with the radio on low.

Pippa had drawn it herself on the back of a spelling test.

It was a long wool coat with a hood, deep pockets on both sides, and a lining in green.

"Pockets that hold a whole book," she said. "Not a paperback. A hardback."

"Deep enough for two," I said.

"Three. I read fast."

I laid the charcoal wool out flat and pinned the paper pattern down.

Pippa held the shears in both hands and looked at me.

"You do the first cut," she said.

"You do it. It's your coat."

She drew the blades along the chalk line, slowly, with her tongue between her teeth.

It was a clean cut, with one wobble at the shoulder.

"Perfect," I said.

"It has a wobble."

"Every good coat has one. That's how you know it was made by somebody."

She grinned.

I had not seen her grin since the summer.

Abraham had left a stool by the machine.

It was a plain little pine thing, sanded smooth, with the legs cut so that an eleven-year-old's foot reached the pedal exactly.

He hadn't said a word about it.

I'd found it on Thursday by the door, with a bar of soap on top.

"Why soap?" Pippa asked.

"For the chalk marks. You rub the seam, and the wool doesn't fray."

She tried it.

"He knows a lot about fabric for a person who builds tables."

"He knows a lot about whatever he's looking at," I said.

Pippa gave me a very flat look.

"Mom."

"What?"

"You turned pink."

"I did not."

"You turned pink at the word 'soap.'" She fed the first seam under the needle. "He turns pink too. When you walk in. It's disgusting."