Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79087 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79087 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
I was my own man, and she was her own woman. And that was the way it was going to stay.
****
Freya
Breakfast wasn’t too bad. I noticed my husband spent most of it with a frown on his face. Ivan looked cheery, and The Butcher was very talkative.
Umberto brought out the coffee as we started our breakfast, which I was thankful for, as I was so tired. I did not sleep at all last night. I’m hoping no one could tell.
I was a little surprised for both of our guests to show an interest in my dress. I didn’t actually own anything from the stores. I stopped buying clothes a long time ago. Ever since I started sewing, my mission has been to have a completely homemade wardrobe.
After breakfast, Victor and Ivan had some business to attend to, and this meant I had to spend time with The Butcher. Usually, I went out to the garden to help Rafael, but taking our guest to work didn’t exactly feel appropriate. Instead, I took her on the tour of the house. Victor never showed me around. He just showed me my room, and the place he stored my sewing, and that was it.
Our month of marriage hadn’t exactly been ideal. I don’t believe my husband could stand me. I think he hated me. I’m not sure what I’d done to inspire such hatred, but clearly, I must have done something. You don’t hate someone for no good reason.
“So, that is every room, and the pool. At least downstairs,” I said.
The Butcher looked at me and smiled. “You’re not good at this, are you?”
“What?”
“Being the center of attention,” The Butcher said.
“No, uh, I’m not. I’m sorry. I honestly don’t know what I’m doing.”
“It’s good,” The Butcher said. “You want to show me your sewing room? Maybe show me some of the stuff you made?”
“You’d want to see that?”
“Why not?” The Butcher asked.
“It is kind of boring.”
The Butcher folded her arms across her chest. “I’m getting kind of irritated with you saying it’s boring. Do you enjoy it?”
“Well, yeah—”
“Then shut the fuck up and show me. Trust me, if I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be.”
And so, I took The Butcher up to my sewing room, and I let her step inside. I hadn’t come in here since last night. Since I delivered the quilt as a gift. I didn’t know what I expected as I stepped over the threshold. Some kind of ... feeling. Sadness? Sick? Tired? Hatred?
Victor tearing up his quilt did not affect this room. I couldn’t help but smile as I quickly moved toward the window and opened it to allow some air to circulate.
You know what, fuck him. Victor was a dick—a giant dick—and I was not going to allow it to affect my love of sewing. If he didn’t like what I made, then it was on him, not me. Just thinking that made me feel so much better.
I turned to see The Butcher looking at me.
“Stick with that feeling,” The Butcher said.
“Huh?”
“You look happy. It’s a good look.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just, you know, you’re right, I shouldn’t allow what other people say or do to hinder my love of what I do.” It felt good.
The Butcher laughed. “I’m glad I could inspire you. So, this is where all your sewing happens?”
“Right now, yes. Back home, I mean, I had a similar sewing space. Victor actually made it look and seem so much better.”
There was no point in denying it. The furniture he made was beautiful. Even the cabinets for the fabric. He had paid so much care and attention to detail, which is why I wanted to make him something special, to say thank you. I thought he would understand.
“What got you into sewing?” The Butcher asked. “I’ve heard about your father, and he doesn’t exactly strike me as the kind of guy who would like this kind of hobby.”
Between my father and husband, when it came to my hobby, they were real pieces of work—destroying what I loved in different ways. Victor destroyed my gift to him. My dad attempted to destroy my hobby.
“It was a long time ago, actually. I...” I frowned as I thought back. “One of the women who worked for my dad loved to sew. Whenever I saw her, she would be stitching something in her lap. It was her way to create. I had nothing to do. I got through all my work, and my nannies never wanted me around. She didn’t seem to mind.” I frowned. She didn’t stay with my father very long. “I didn’t even know her name, but she would call me Pumpkin.”
“And from there, you got the bug?”
“Yeah, I was ten years old, so I’ve been sewing for nearly fifteen years. Wow,” I said, my eyes going wide as I thought about how long it had been.