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A grey cloud hangs heavy over Hannibal today. She’s never seen him like this—eyes searching and uncertain, mouth tugged into a deep frown. It’s a pose she associates with the bereaved, or the recently unemployed.
But Hannibal hasn’t lost a loved one, or his job—merely his tailor.
“I know I should not begrudge Enzo his retirement,” Hannibal says, an uncharacteristic wistfulness in his voice. “He is nearly eighty after all. Still, I wish it were otherwise.”
Enzo. Bedelia tries to imagine him, the elderly Italian genius behind her patient’s windowpane check suits and garish paisley ties. She wonders if Hannibal’s tailor is as eccentric as his creations, or if he is merely the servant of Hannibal’s own design. “Will someone be taking over his business?” she asks.
“There is a nephew.” Hannibal shakes his head in a visible display of annoyance. “Let us say that the apprentice does not measure up to the master.”
Bedelia checks her watch. They have been speaking of Hannibal’s sartorial woes for nearly thirty minutes. “That is unfortunate,” she says neutrally.
“I have a few leads.” Hannibal puffs his chest, projecting optimism. “There is man who owns a shop on the Left Bank whose work seems quite promising.”
“The Left Bank.” Bedelia blinks. “In Paris.”
Though she always tries to keep her face schooled, her reactions masked, he pounces on her reaction like a cat on songbird. “You think that is too extravagant, I suppose.”
“What I think does not matter. What do you think?”
He leans back, crossing his legs so that his ankle rests upon his knee, imperceptibly tugging at his pantleg to reveal what are no doubt bespoke hand-knit socks held up by garters instead of plebian elastic. “I think that you think I am making too much of all of this. Isn’t that right, Dr. Du Maurier?”
“It is your hour, Hannibal. The loss of your tailor is obviously causing you distress.” When he continues to frown at her in that odd, wounded way, she adds, “It is often said clothes make the man. Perhaps the saying is more true in your case than in others.”
Having drawn attention to his wardrobe, Hannibal makes a noticeable show of buttoning his suit jacket—plum today—and smoothing his silk tie, pale peach swirled with a Mandlebrot-patterned paisley in chocolate and cerise. “American definitions of masculine fashion are so narrow. Academic departments full of corduroy and tweed. An army of sad grey and black flannel suits in every office tower. Jeans and khaki for weekend wear,” he says with obvious repulsion.
“But not for you,” Bedelia says. “You’re different.”
“I am.” Hannibal looks back at her with great seriousness. His eyes seem to both darken and glow, deep beckoning pools. Once again their conversation has pivoted on a dime, running up against the core reason for Hannibal’s therapy—his estrangement from the world.
The moment hangs between them, time suspended. She’d always thought his flashy suits were the display of a peacock, preening for attention. For the first time she wonders instead if they might be camouflage, an artful distraction from whatever Hannibal is hiding beneath his human veil.
The bells in the church across the square begin to toll the hour. The moment is gone, the spell broken.
“Perhaps it would be more helpful to regard your tailor’s retirement as an opportunity to explore a new style. Every ending can also be a beginning.”
He gives her an uncertain half smile. “I will try to keep that in mind.”
She ushers him to the door, the familiar farewell dance she does with all of her patients. “I’ll see you next week.”
He places his large palm on the door, but instead of leaving he turns to her, drinking her in with a couturier’s eye, from the tips of her silk Chanel sheath to the bottoms of her leather Ferragamo heels. “Clothes make the woman, too, Dr. Du Maurier,” he says with a knowing smile.
*
The following Sunday finds Bedelia before her wardrobe mirror, frowning. Dresses are strewn about her bed in tidal waves of chiffon and linen. It is Elspeth Komeda’s annual garden party this afternoon and she has nothing to wear. Hannibal’s words from the other day echo uncomfortably in her head: Clothes make the woman, too. What precisely was she made of? Of course she cared about her image, and might even concede to being a bit vain about her looks. But Bedelia had never considered herself to be one of those frivolous creatures of fashion, chasing trends and lost youth in the Nordstrom’s dressing room.
She casts her eye over her options, all somber colors, like the stages of mourning a Victorian widow might wear. She’d always avoided brighter hues, the pinks and yellows and sherbet pastels she knows will be on display today. With a sigh, she picks up a sleeveless navy dress with a full circle skirt. The blue, she knows, will bring out her eyes, and the white piping around the hem gives a hint of nautical flair. She will no doubt stick out among Baltimore’s socialites like a climbing ivy among petunias, but it is the best she can do.
*
The guests at Mrs. Komeda’s party are decked out in candy-colored hues, pale pistachio and rosewater, lilac and buttercream. It is as if everyone had collectively decided to dress as a bag of Jordan almonds, even the men. As usual, she had failed to get the memo. She longs for something stronger than the sweet May wine in her hand to fortify her for the rest of the afternoon.
Instead of catching the eye of a passing waiter, she spies Hannibal among the roses. He is quite rosy himself, decked head to toe in what appears to be pink seersucker. A splash of peony spills from his left breast pocket, straw boater in hand. He looks like an Edwardian gentleman escaped from some BBC costume drama, the most dandyish she has ever seen him.
“He’s quite the peacock, isn’t he?” Elspeth says, sidling up to her, cocktail in hand.
“One wonders who the display is for,” Bedelia muses.
“And what a fine display it is. Even finer once he’s shed all those cumbersome outer layers, hmmm?”
“I’ve never thought of him that way.” It was true. Hannibal was her patient and therefore off limits. What’s more, she had trouble taking someone who dressed so ostentatiously seriously.
“I certainly do, my dear,” Elspeth replies, lecherous lilt in her voice. “I’d wager three quarters of Baltimore society does, men, women, and all that’s in between.”
“Hannibal is my colleague, nothing more.”
“You needn’t be coy with me, Bedelia. His Bentley has been seen parked outside your home twice a week since Christmas.”
Unable to break therapeutic confidence, Bedelia remains silent. Ever quick on the uptake, realization dawns on Elspeth. “Oh, you mean to say he’s one of yours. How fascinating. The psychiatrist’s psychiatrist.”
“It is not uncommon in our profession.”
Elspeth favors her with a hungry look—her appetite for gossip is truly unparalleled. “I bet you know all kinds of juicy bits about our most eligible bachelor.”
“They are all confidential, Elspeth,” Bedelia says smoothly.
“But still—you must know him so intimately. All of that time, the two of you alone together—”
Bedelia quashes Elspeth’s flights of romantic fantasy. “That would be a violation of therapeutic boundaries. It is forbidden for me to even think about a patient that way.”
Elspeth looks at her pityingly and pats her hand. “Well, I’m not saying you should break those boundaries, dear, but perhaps you should consider bending them a little.”
“Elspeth.” Hannibal greets them, favoring his hostess with a dapper kiss on her hand. “Dr. Du Maurier, what a pleasure to see you as well.”
“Speak of the devil and he appears, eh, Bedelia?” Elspeth says with a puckish grin, before swanning away. “Ta ta, my darlings.”
Hannibal smiles, puzzled she can tell at Elspeth’s quick exit. “How pleasant to see you outside of office hours. Are you enjoying the party?”
Truthfully, she is not. Large boisterous social occasions are not Bedelia’s cup of tea. But Elspeth always made it so difficult to say no. “It’s a lovely afternoon,” she says diplomatically, wondering if Hannibal can detect it for the half truth it is.
He nods at her nearly empty glass. “Perhaps you’d like to try the punch? It’s a very refreshing strawberry gin fizz.”
“Please.”
The moment Hannibal turns to fetch her drink, he collides with the waiter she’d been hoping to catch before. The crash happens almost in slow motion, yet too quick for Bedelia to stop, and Hannibal is left wearing strawberry gin fizz all over his pale suit. It looks not unlike blood, she thinks.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” the young waiter apologizes profusely. Pimples dot his brow; he looks to be barely out of high school. She wonders if Elspeth’s soiree is his first day on the job. “I didn’t mean to, I’m so clumsy. Let me help you, sir.”
Hannibal rebuffs the young man’s assistance. “No need,” he says gruffly. His manner is cool and reserved, but Bedelia can tell he is somehow heated. “It is quite all right, I’ll just remove my jacket.”
Hannibal’s jacket took the worst of the blow, but some of the stain has seeped through to the shirt beneath. Instinctively, Bedelia finds a cloth napkin and dips it the ice cold water at the bottom of a nearby champagne bucket. She dabs it at the rosy stain spreading across Hannibal’s dress shirt. Her hand meets the hard muscle of his chest; the intimacy of it sends an unexpected lightning strike down her spine. She pauses, suddenly self-conscious, and looks up at Hannibal. His hair has fallen loosely into his face, burnished slightly gold in the afternoon sun. The shirt is so fine, a pink so pale it is almost translucent, and does nothing to hide his broad shoulders and defined physique. Without the layers of wool and paisley between them, she is all too aware of the warmth of his body.
She recoils with a blush, handing Hannibal the damp napkin. “Here. Perhaps you’d better.”
A slow smile spreads across his lips as if he has discovered something fascinating. She feels her insides begin to melt, dripping like an ice sculpture in the sun.
Clothes make the man, but in Hannibal’s case she never imagined how much they were concealing.
*
Bedelia shifts in her chair, eyes trained on her notepad. Her fountain pen spills ink in dark arabesques across the page. Fingers caress the snowy paper as they once touched Hannibal’s fine dress shirt. A sense memory of the dream she had the night before blooms unbidden behind her eyes, sweet sinful heat flaming through her core. His body pressed against hers, her tiny body sheltered in his arms. She had looked up at him as the sunlight blazed around his head like a corona, and she had melted for him. Even after she had awoken in her cold bed, she could still feel the warmth of him against her skin.
Her eccentric patient had secretly been an Adonis all along. Now that she had seen it, it could not be unseen.
Her knocker thuds in two heavy raps, as it always does on Thursday afternoons. But this time, it sends an unexpected frisson of pleasure down her spine. As she walks to the door, Bedelia tries to think cool thoughts—ponds in winter, a snowcapped peak—while a volcano of heat simmers within her.
“Dr. Du Maurier,” Hannibal greets her with an appreciative twinkle in his eye.
It’s impossible that he knows. He’s a psychiatrist not a psychic, she reminds herself. But still.
“Please come in,” she says, sticking to her familiar script.
When they are seated, she can’t help but notice there’s something different about him. Gone the flashy checked suits and ornate paisley ties. Instead, Hannibal is dressed head to toe in a simple, but immaculately tailored, peacock blue suit. The color and the goldenrod silk handkerchief protruding from his breast pocket seem to be his sole concessions to vanity. It’s peculiar.
Hannibal shoots his cuffs, showing off his latest sartorial acquisition. “Our previous conversation inspired me to try a local tailor. Are you pleased with the results?”
She would not be baited so easily. “Are you?”
He smiles fondly at her, folding his hands in his lap in a therapeutic posture that is oddly familiar. “I would have thought this would appeal more to your tastes.”
Bedelia smothers a blush, crushing the memory of that afternoon in the garden. “Are my tastes important to you, Hannibal?”
Hannibal’s eyes flick about the room, deliberately eyeing her plain furniture, her wood floors, and the watercolors on her walls. “You appreciate simplicity. It is not my own taste, but I can respect that. When something is simple, it requires a high degree of perfection. Because there is nothing to hide behind. Nothing to distract.”
“Yes,” she finds herself saying, unable and unwilling to avoid the lie, unsure of how to parry this conversational thrust.
He smiles and pats the seat cushion of his arm chair and nods at dark navy skirt suit. “You like the color blue.”
“I do.”
“Ultramarine,” Hannibal says, hypnotic lilt in his voice. “That is what the Renaissance masters called it, because it came from beyond the sea. The color was worth more than gold, so prized it was deemed suitable only for adorning the Virgin Mary.”
She is unsure of where he is going with this impromptu art history lesson, but decides to indulge him. “I’ve always found it comforting.”
“Lapis. The Virgin. And your eyes, of course—ultramarine.”
He speaks softly, but firmly, making his words seem a matter of fact rather than simply just a boldfaced flirtation. For a moment she is breathless, unable to respond, either as a woman or as a psychiatrist. She sees it then, his deep blue suit with the gold accents—he has fit himself to her home, to her. It is charming, and unnerving, to be so seen. But she feels a pinprick of loss, too.
“I do not need you to tailor yourself to suit my tastes, Hannibal,” she says, as gently as she knows how. “As your therapist, I have a duty to help you pursue your own desires and interests.”
“And as a woman?”
“I would feel sad to see you bow to convention.” The words once she has said them aloud seem to surprise them both into silence.
He looks at her very solemnly. For a moment, some emotion seems to rise to the surface of his dark eyes, trembling and wet. Her words have triggered some unspeakable reaction that has cut through to the marrow of Hannibal’s person suit. Together they hover at the brink of some abyss, and she longs to help him bridge the gap, to hold out her hand and drag him from beyond the veil. But it is his choice, not hers.
“Speaking of convention, have you heard about the new changes, or lack thereof, to the new DSM-V?” His face hardens back into is usual collegial mask. The moment is gone.
They banter back and forth for the rest of Hannibal’s hour. She tries not to think of how well he fits in her home and does not ask about why he longs to fit there.
After Hannibal is gone, Bedelia pours herself a cool glass of sauvignon blanc. Perhaps it is fortunate that the man hides himself in a labyrinth of plaid and paisley; an unvarnished Hannibal would surely drive her to erotic distraction.