Page 4

"Am I?"

"It's making a decision."

The corner of his mouth moves, a crooked, unguarded thing that's gone before I can name it. It startles both of us, I think. "Possibly," he says. "Is that a no?"

I should say no. I should say I have a floor to run and a man from Chicago isn't on my schedule, and that there are fifteen ways a tour like this still ends with someone's name on a list. What I say is, "Ten o'clock. Dye house first."

"Dye house first."

"Wear something you don't love. The dye house doesn't care what it cost." My eyes drop to his tie, the perfect knot, the silk, and I hear how it sounds as it leaves my mouth. "And lose the tie. You'll get it caught."

"The tie stays."

"Then don't come crying to me."

"I wouldn't dream of it." He's still wearing that crooked, dangerous almost-smile, and he hasn't looked away from me once. I turn and put my hand on the doorknob, brass worn smooth by a century of palms.

"Rosemary."

Nobody calls me that but my mother, and she makes it sound like a summons. He says it like he's tasting it, setting each syllable down slowly. I stand in the doorway with my back to him, and I know, the way you know a stair that isn't there, that I'm going to turn around.

I do.

"I'll be there at ten," says Roman Caldwell.

I walk out onto the landing and take the first step down, then the second, with my face burning. I don't look back. I want that on the record.

Chapter 2 — Roman

In eleven turnarounds I've been called a vulture, a butcher, and once, memorably, a Tuesday with a haircut. None of them ever walked out and left me standing there like an idiot.

Her boots go down the stairs. Steady. Unhurried. She isn't running. I listen until the looms swallow the sound, then look at my hand, which is still half-raised in the air. I put it in my pocket.

I should be thinking about page six. Instead I'm thinking about the gold glitter smeared up her forearm. When she slammed her hand on the table, her sleeve rode up. A long streak, wrist to elbow. I almost asked about it.

I do what I always do when I'm off balance and call the one person who has never once been impressed by me. Margaret picks up on the second ring. "Roman. It isn't even eight o'clock."

"The operations manager just told me I was wrong. In front of the whole room."

"Was she right?"

"Yes." Below me, through the glass, the weaving floor spreads out in rows of black iron and moving plaid. "She quoted me a date. 1946. Like it was evidence."

"You sound delighted."

"I'm not delighted."

"You sound like a man who's found something he can't file." Margaret's voice is dry. She hired me at twenty-four when no one else would. "What's her name?"

"Rosemary Brewer."

"And she's going to be difficult."

"Impossible. She told me not to in-fairness her."

There's a pause that might be affection if I didn't know better. "Five hundred dollars says you can't bring her around by Sunday."

"I don't take bets I haven't won."