“A gift. Something for you to wear tonight.”
I frowned. “What? I have a tux.”
I glanced at the 1980s Armani hanging from the back of my door, freshly dry-cleaned and pressed for tonight’s party. Nina had seen it before—exactly one year ago, in fact, when we had tried to say goodbye to each other at the last gala. Of course, that evening hadn’t exactly panned out the way we thought. Eric ended up killing a man, and I’d spent a sleepless night trying to understand what happened until Nina showed up on my doorstep the next morning.
“Darling, I’m going to tell you something, and I don’t want you to be angry.”
I frowned suspiciously as I wiped a few drops of water off my chest. “What’s that?”
“Relatively soon, you may have to attend a lot of these things, and not just as a family friend. There will be certain…expectations of you. I don’t think I need to tell you that some of the attendees can be rather unforgiving.”
“You’re saying I don’t fit in with all the muckety-mucks on the Upper East Side? Duchess, I already knew that. I just didn’t think you cared.”
I tried to ignore the pain I felt at the idea that maybe she did care after all.
“Oh, my reputation is ruined beyond rescue. But I do care about you. And these events aren’t easy for anyone, much less outsiders. It will be easier for you to navigate if you have the right…costume.”
I turned around like she was standing behind me, not talking on the phone. “What are you saying, my wardrobe is rags?”
I was trying to be light, but to be honest, I was more than a little offended. Every vintage suit in my closet was chosen with love.
Nina chuckled. “My love, I adore your style. You know that. No one makes a fedora or a pair of suspenders look better than you do.”
“I’m sensing a ‘but’ here.”
“As impeccable as your taste is, it’s not always…how shall we say…à la mode.”
“Topped with ice cream?”
“It’s French for ‘of the moment.’”
I pulled on a pair of underwear and hung my towel from a hook over my door. “I know what it means, Nina. But I like my clothes. They’re vintage, so they aren’t supposed to be ‘à la mode.’ They’re supposed to be classic. Plus, I chose all of them from Kate’s shop, and every last piece was tailored to fit me. What is this, some off-the-rack crap? You don’t even wear that.”
“Give me a little credit. Just open it before you say no.”
I turned to the garment bag, tempted to throw the damn thing out the window instead. I didn’t like this feeling. Like she was ashamed of me. Like I was some doll who needed to be fixed.
“Listen,” I started.
“Matthew, will you please put your ridiculous pride aside and listen for one moment?” Nina’s tone turned sharp.
I paused.
“Matthew?”
“I’m listening.”
There was a sigh. “Did it ever occur to you that I appreciate the way you fill out certain garments as much as you so openly do of me?”
I grimaced. “That’s nice of you to say.”
“Please. This is a gift. I’m not trying to hide you, nor am I trying to dress you up and make you something you’re not. Just open it. And if you don’t like it, I’ll donate it or something.”
“Donate it?” I asked. “You can’t just send it back?”
“Well, couture isn’t really something you can ‘send back,’ my love. Especially since I would prefer not to be banned from Ricardo’s atelier. I love Givenchy too much.”
“Couture?” Intrigued, I unzipped the bag and nearly dropped what was inside from shock alone.
“This is cut to fit you as well,” she said. “Kate already had your measurements, but I had her send one of your old suits that was bound for donation to Paris.”
I nearly choked. “To Paris?”
“Just look at it, my love. Please.”
So I did. And when I took the whole thing out of the bag, I had a hard time breathing for a moment. It was a simple tuxedo, so dark blue it was almost black, paired with a sleek white shirt and a matching white tie. The differences in the stitches, the lines, the fabric and any number of uncountable things between this and the clothes hanging in my closet were too many, too subtle to count. Platinum gold buttons instead of plastic, each engraved. But the sum was definitely more than the whole of its parts. This tux did make my collection look like house rags.
It was a piece of art. There was no other way to describe it.
“Okay. It’s legit. But, baby, this is too—”
“Stop,” she interrupted. “I already said I can’t send it back. So please do me a favor and just try it on. Hang up and FaceTime me, please.”
I signed, then I did as she asked.
“All right,” I said once she answered the call. “Here it is.”
She didn’t speak at first, although I definitely enjoy the way her gaze turned hungry as I backed away from where my phone was propped on the bureau and put on the clothes.
“Well?” I asked once I had everything on except for the tie. My shirt cuffs were still open too—I’d pick out a pair of cuff links later.
But when I turned to the mirror, I didn’t need her to answer. The damn thing fit like a glove. I looked like a million—no, a billion—dollars.
“I think…I think I need to see it in person,” she said breathlessly. “Matthew, it looks wonderful.”
I turned from side to side, peacocking left and right. “I think it looks all right,” I conceded.
“More than all right.”
I took off the jacket and hung it carefully before returning to talk to her. “I still don’t understand why you went through all this trouble. It’s not like I can even escort you properly tonight.”
“I did it because, oh, Matthew, it’s finally happening! I didn’t want to say until I knew for sure, but the lawyers called today and
