The Lace Makers of Glenmara - By Heather Barbieri Page 0,2
never hungry at the beginning or end of a love affair, this one, especially, this one that was supposed to last. Everyone had been so sure she and Ethan would get married, that she would catch the bouquet at the medieval wedding they attended that March (the couple being devoted not only to each other but to the Society for Creative Anachronism), the event at which he left her, if not at the altar, just southwest of it, next to an ice sculpture of a knight in shining armor that had begun to melt, a moat of water at his feet, his sword soon no more than a toothpick.
“I can’t breathe,” Ethan said as they filed out of the room after the minister pronounced the couple man and wife. The turreted stone house in Seattle’s Denny Regrade neighborhood had been transformed into a castle, festooned with tapestries, standards and heraldry, the wooded grounds a miniature Sherwood Forest, a formidable scene, especially after multiple flagons of ale.
“I know what you mean,” Kate whispered in a mock-English accent. “This corset is an iron lung—though you do look rather comely in those tights.” The scent of prime rib and roast vegetables drifted from the banquet hall. She wondered how she’d manage to eat, wished she’d brought a change of clothes. She would have liked to slip into something more comfortable, but it wasn’t that sort of wedding. It was a theme party, and the bride was determined to have her way, mutton sleeves and all. Kate felt, by turns, amused and ridiculous.
“No.” Ethan avoided her gaze. “I mean, I can’t do this anymore.”
“This?” She didn’t let her smile falter, wouldn’t let him spoil the evening. “We can leave if you want, but Sean will be disappointed you missed the joust.” And she, too, because she’d hoped they could dance afterward. The bride’s parents had hired a pipe band, already skirling away. A jester tumbled down the great hall, narrowly avoiding a priceless Ming vase, jingling his bells. Fire eaters gulped flames on the balcony. She wondered if they ever burned their tongues.
“No. Us.” He let the words sink in a moment. “It’s over. I’m sorry.” He moved away, tottering slightly, loose from his moorings, though others probably put it down to drinking. Before he reached the exit, a friend reeled him in, clapped him on the back, and he allowed himself to be caught in this way, obviously grateful for the distraction. Within moments, he was raising toasts and laughing. He was, among other things, resilient—and clever enough to know Kate wouldn’t follow and make a scene.
She stood there, speechless, her expression not unlike that of the roast pig in the center of the feast, mouth agape, minus the apple. At first she’d wondered if witnessing the exchange of vows, the pledge of fidelity, the till-death-do-us-part, had unnerved Ethan. She could understand that. She could wait. She wouldn’t pressure him. She got a ride home with Ella, figuring she and Ethan would kiss and make up later, as they always did.
She was wrong. That night, he moved in with a friend, saying he needed the time and space to think. He left most of his things behind. Whenever she called, he was out. She wondered if he was even living there, but where else could he be? She waited two weeks, counting the days, until his friend finally took pity on her and confessed that Ethan had been seeing the model for months, that they were, in fact, soon to be engaged. Instead of Ethan and Kate moving to Manhattan to pursue their dreams (he in finance, she in fashion), it would be Ethan and The Model. Kate was left with no boyfriend and few buyers for her debut line. The concept hadn’t “clicked,” her rep, Jules, said; she needed to try something more “high concept”—never mind that she thought she had already, following his advice against her best instincts. The only takers were two small local boutiques, the money she earned hardly enough to pay her expenses, meaning she would have to start doing alterations. She was sick of letting down hems, making allowances, mending buttons and holes, tasks people could have done themselves if they’d only taken a few minutes. Less than it took to bring the garments to the vintage clothing store, Ella’s, owned by her best friend, where Kate tried to make ends meet. Her fingertips were rough from the work. Seamstress hands. Her mother had them too.