A man in his forties was on the phone, behind the counter. A U.S. flag was pinned to the wall above the counter. The man was wearing a navy vest and a white shirt with rolled sleeves; a measuring tape was collared around his neck. He interrupted his call for his customer.
“I’m Samara,” she said. “I have an appointment.”
“Oh, yes. Please look around, I’ll be with you shortly. My daughter will help you. Jasim!”
A pretty young girl emerged from the back to guide her through the shop’s offerings. It was crammed, floor to ceiling with bolts of fabric, Egyptian cotton, Italian and British wools, cashmeres, silk charmeuse, chantilly lace. Samara flipped through sample books until the man ended his call.
“Apologies, Samara, I’m Benny.”
He was a master tailor, originally from London, where his father had created suits on Savile Row.
“I understand you were also born in London. I believe we have mutual friends.”
“That’s true. Our uncles know each other.”
As they shook hands, she noticed his sharp, brown eyes.
“You’d like us to create a suit for a very big occasion.”
“Yes.”
“A rush job, you said?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Not a problem. It’s my pleasure to help. Allow me to show you what I’ve started since your call.”
Benny opened a well-used notebook to show her sketches of a three-piece suit-a jacket, skirt and camisole ensemble.
“Simple understated elegance,” he said.
The jacket would have princess seams, and ribbontrimmed faux-flap pockets. The skirt would be cut below the knee, fully lined, with side zipper and ribbon detail. The camisole would be satin.
“All in taupe.” He held up a sample. “Yes, it works for you. Come to the mirrors and I’ll get some measure ments.”
During Benny’s measuring, note taking and small talk about life in Montana, their eyes found each other in the reflection.
“This is a monumental event, Samara.” He’d lowered his voice. “Are you nervous?”
“No. Are you?”
“No. I’m honored to be part of it.”
“What fabric are you suggesting?”
“A new import I just got in via New York from Africa. It’ll be excellent.”
The transom bells chimed as Jake and Logan arrived.
“Be right with you, gentlemen.”
“They’re here for me,” Samara said. “That’s Jake and his son, Logan.”
Benny greeted them.
“Welcome, welcome.”
Jake appraised Benny, then the large U.S. flag and framed photos of U.S. troops in desert combat dress above the counter caught his attention.
“You know people overseas?” Jake said.
“Friends. Clients for graduations and weddings. Got to support the guys,” Benny said. “As you and Samara know, it’s difficult for the people still over there.”
Jake nodded.
“So, Logan, Samara tells us you’re going to meet the pope. You must be thrilled beyond measure?”
“It’s cool, I guess.”
“Very cool. Jake, you must be so proud.”
“It’s a once-in-a-lifetime deal, for sure.”
“Would you like us to make you a suit for the occasion, Dad?”
“Me? No, I mean I couldn’t afford-”
“I’ll give you a very deep discount, out of respect for your contribution overseas.”
“How did you know about that?”
“Samara and I were chatting.”
Jake nodded, glanced round the shop.
“That’s kind of you. But I’m good in that department. Got a suit that does the job. I’m not inclined to wear one much.”
“I see, but a hand-cut suit would fit like a dream. Are you certain you wouldn’t like one?”
“I’m sure.”
“How about young Logan? How would you like to be the sharpest dressed kid to meet the pope in Montana?”
“I don’t know.” He looked to his dad. “I got a shirt and a tie. I don’t like to get all dressed up.”
“Permit me. Let’s try something.” Benny assessed Logan, then selected a small blazer from a rack and held it open so Logan could slip it on.
“Now that fits nicely,” Benny said, then positioned Logan for some quick expert measurements. “Tell you what. I’ll make Logan a suit at no charge.”
“Free?” Jake asked.
“Free.”
“Why?”
“To have my work be part of history would be payment enough,” Benny said, smiling.
Jake looked to Logan.
“Would you like a free suit made just for you, son?”
Logan shrugged. “Guess that would be okay.”
“Terrific.” Benny got more measurements. “I’ll start work on your outfits immediately. We’re very fast here.”
Samara hugged Benny.
They spent the rest of the morning downtown at Pike Place, Pioneer Square, then they went up into the Space Needle. It was about six when they made it to Safeco and got tickets behind home plate, above the press box, for the Mariners’ home night game against Cleveland.
Nine innings and several hot dogs later they returned to the motel. They were exhausted from a long day of fun and were just settling in when Samara’s cell phone rang.
It was Benny. The suits were done.
Within thirty minutes he’d delivered them personally to the motel, apologizing for the late hour.
Logan was exhausted but Jake helped him try the suit on. It was perfect. Then, in the awkward moments Samara was in the bathroom trying hers on, Logan fell asleep watching Jaws on TV and Jake thanked Benny for going out of his way to save them driving time in the morning.
Samara’s suit also fit perfectly.
It looked good, in fact. Samara grabbed her purse before she stepped outside to see Benny off.
Jake could hear them outside the door.
As they talked in low, serious tones in Arabic, a tiny wave of suspicion rippled through him.
Something felt wrong.
Was he jealous at the way she smiled at Benny? Was it something he thought he’d detected in their body language? Or was it his imagination?
He didn’t know.
The next day during the long drive through the mountains back to Cold Butte, Jake ruminated on Samara and Benny.
Samara spent much of the return trip on her laptop, coping with an erratic wireless connection as she worked between taking her turn at the wheel.
As the miles rolled by, Logan sensed the unspoken tension mounting from his dad’s dark mood.
It scared him.
