Cleve: Declan. There's the man.
I turned with my catalog half closed. Cleve Dorsey had his back to me already, talking to a man in a grey coat.
His voice carried. The whole east gallery could hear him.
Cleve: That balance came to her in pieces. Two other shops wouldn't even try.
Cleve: She cut a new part by hand. Four days. I heard it chime.
Cleve: Ask for Isla. Not the shop. The woman herself.
I heard my ex-wife's name before I saw her.
My thumb stopped on the catalog page. I hadn't known.
She never told me. I never asked. That was the part that sat wrong in my chest.
Cleve: I told her to come tonight. People should see who fixed it.
Something moved under my ribs. Not pride. Closer to shame.
I looked across the gallery for the first time, and there she was.
Lot forty-one. Loupe in her eye. Hands already at work.
From Isla's side.
I came to the preview because Cleve asked me to. I told myself that twice at the door.
The room smelled like polish and money. I knew that smell too well.
I walked the lots the way I walk a workbench. Case by case, hands behind my back.
Lot forty-one was a pretty Victorian piece. The note said the movement was original.
It wasn't. Someone had swapped the escapement, and a cheap one.
I found the clerk and pointed at the card.
Isla: That note is wrong. The pallet fork is a replacement from a lower grade.
Isla: Fix it before somebody pays for a lie.
A shadow fell across the case. Charcoal sleeve, clean white cuff.
I knew the soap before I knew the man. I didn't turn my head.
Declan: The escapement looks original to me.
Isla: It isn't. Look at the finish on the fork.
Isla: No original part was ever polished that badly. The note should say replacement.
My hands stayed flat on the glass. I still hadn't looked at him.
He leaned in close enough that his shoulder nearly touched mine.
Declan: You're right.
Declan: Cleve says you cut the Hargreaves balance by hand. I didn't know you could do that.
Half a year under his roof, and he never once asked what my work was.
Before I could answer, cream silk moved into the light beside the case.
Long auburn hair, pale blue eyes, a smile with a manicure behind it.
Vivienne: Declan. Introduce me.
He said her name like a step he had to take. Vivienne.
Declan: Vivienne, this is Isla. She restored the Hargreaves watch.
Vivienne: The watchmaker. Of course.
Vivienne: From this angle, you look so familiar.
Her eyes moved over my face slowly, like she was holding two photos side by side.
Vivienne: Declan always did have one type. Dark hair. Strong hands.
Vivienne: That look of a woman who works for her living.
Bitch, I thought, and kept my fingers still on the case.
Isla: I'm not a type. I'm the one who fixed the watch.
Isla: The note is wrong. Tell the clerk before a buyer gets cheated.
I said it to the case first. Then I looked at Declan.
His jaw was tight. He didn't tell her to stop.
Vivienne: I'm only being friendly. Small city. Everyone knows everyone's history.
She said history like a door she was holding open for me.
She walked off, and the crowd made room. Declan stayed.
Declan: That's not how she meant it.
Isla: Then tell me how she meant it.
He didn't. He stood there with his hands in his pockets like a witness.
I went to the window at the end of the gallery to get my breath.
My hands were steady. They are always steady when it matters. That's the trick.
But her voice was still in my head. From this angle.
One type. That look of working for a living.
I looked at my reflection in the dark glass. Dark hair. Strong hands.
The fear I carried out of the lawyer's office sat up. What if I was only ever a copy?
No. I cut that balance by hand. Nobody gave me that.
But the question had teeth now, and it didn't let go.
Vivienne raised her glass at me across the gallery. A promise.
I raised my chin, then went back and got the note fixed.