Chapter Text
People do that thing all the time where they get excited by beginnings. Or, they imagine themselves to be an expert when they aren’t even a novice. The shorts Carmy used to draw in third period algebra were like that. And then the jackets in fifth period english. He didn’t really step foot into a fabric or craft store to do anything about it, but, he had his bic and he thought that maybe, someday, he could have made a really nice wool suit.
It, like, got lost along the way. Before he moved out of his bedroom he kind of forgot about his pens and notebooks. Thom Browne coming into Empire didn’t feel like divine intervention; Carmy didn’t want to do that thing of building castles in the sky again. It felt like he was a million miles from home and from what he got up to in high school. It felt like the other side of growing up and wondering what you’d do for a living.
Sometimes people come up to him during a kitchen tour to tell him about what they like to cook at home, with their gadgets that they collect from Williams-Sonoma. Or they suggest pairings or ask these faux deep questions about fermentation and butter and sourdough starters. The hospitality gene in him has him nodding along, the professional who has given years of his life to advanced craftsmanship rolls his eyes when their guests leave.
So, after meeting Thom, after talking, after remembering spiral notebooks and cheap ink pens, it’s a surprise to Carmy that there was a small ember to reignite. A surprise that it all came back out: blank pages filled in with markers, pens, pencils, thoughts. That he had providence on a page. It was in service of food this time, but, it was back. Without anyone over his shoulder monitoring, it was back.
+
It takes a week of retirement, and one date to a ramen pop-up with Syd before he accidentally draws another jacket. Before friends and family, he described what he wanted in her Thom Browne jacket; made a really rough sketch for the favor the team was pulling for him. But, now, this time, after seeing Syd in a simple coat that he wished were a little warmer, a little more accommodating to the tote on her shoulder, something that was more her style, wishing she had something to make her happier, he just- created. Made something again. Syd was spending the night at her place, to Carmy’s quiet protest. And with nothing to do- without a reason to get up early, with a too quiet apartment, with the memory of the day, he formed a sketch for a quilted pop-over. He imagined it with an insulated core, sleeves two inches longer than standard, and japanese zippers. Wants it to be a cashmere wool blend the color of the sunset after that first date with embroidery the same blue as her favorite scarf.
And the thing is, with retirement, with a little extra time, with a little extra privacy, he finally does go into a fabric shop. Picks out an exact bolt of cashmere for it. Prices zippers, feels batting for the insulation. He leaves with a pack of needles, thread, and the cashmere, but also a few yards from a bolt of cotton to practice on before he actually makes it.
Carmy finds a second hand sewing machine that he hides in his spare bedroom, and makes one successful button down shirt after 4 tries. In the living room, for fun, he practices his hand stitches- running, back stitch, blanket, basting. It’s like knife cuts all over again. Parmentier, julliene, brunoise; his hands make the work relative.
He and Syd evolve, their dates last longer, become more frequent, she visits the apartment more. Stays over, starts living there, discovers the jacket he makes a month after they start sleeping together. Maybe he left it out on purpose. She knows he draws, she knows the story now about how he drew the same shorts that are archival Thom Browne. She knows he sometimes brings out an embroidery hoop like his nonna, but, she hasn’t seen the actual work off the pages. Or, she didn’t know what she was looking at. Syd doesn’t realize that he made the pillowcases, that some of their kitchen towels are failed projects; that the lumpy blanket she tried her hand at is sitting on top of his own crochet pattern.
One day, with more ceremony than it should have been afforded, when she was at work and he stayed back, he finished that jacket for her. Ironed it for final touches, put it on a hanger in the hall closet, and waited.
She wears it everywhere. He’ll be sad to see parka season come, the popover isn’t warm enough for a Chicago winter, but she’ll have it for autumn and spring. They take a walk on Sunday and he feels a certain pride and awe at how beautiful she looks in it; how he’s managed to make something that takes care of her, that makes her happy.
++
Their wedding is small, held at city hall- a simple change of their legal status, an exchange of rings. Her dad is there to witness their new family being made, and they take the weekend off for the honeymoon.
He thought that when he asked, he’d be physically shaking. There was a point in life when he couldn’t get up the courage to ask her to coffee, but by the time he asks her to formally, legally spend her life with him, to tie herself to him, to have people see them, together, it’s as simple as whispering to her on their couch. Tells her he loves her, asks: please, will she marry him.
It takes a month to get from the couch to the courthouse. They’re on the same page about a small ceremony, about getting their families together later for a reception, but she surprises him by asking for him to make her dress. He’d asked what her dress would look like and she tossed the question back at him.
He picks a few yards of Mikado fabric that hold in their spare bedroom for 3 weeks before he asks if she’s ready to try it on. It’s maybe strange, but, a signature of theirs that the groom sees the bride like this; a week before the wedding and he’s the one doing final fittings. She’s luminous with a single window and some lamplight shining on her. She’s luminous in that courthouse signing her name next to his, and she’s luminous on the walk back home.
She preserves everything. The Thom Browne jacket is in acid-free paper just like the wedding dress is, just like the lace veil he hand-stitched, just like a random skirt he made when she complained she couldn’t find what she wanted in her usual haunts.
+++
They have some of the most creative toddlers alive. Their halloween costumes are the kinds of requests neither parent sees coming. In the early years, the pre-language years, Carmy made them into pumpkins or surfers, teddy bears, a bat, one year when they celebrated another Michelin Star for the bear, Carmy made a Michelin man onesie for their chubby chunky newborn.
But then when they ask ‘what do you want to be for Halloween and their 5 year old says a paper towel, well, okay, Carmy gets stumped. Carmy gets help on that one. His client (his 5-year-old) prefers Syd’s rendition that involved both felt and poster board and a fluffy towel; he was going to be paid in twix bars from their trick or treat bag, so, getting fired wasn’t a huge drop from grace. He just took a few while no one was watching for dad tax, so, all was well in the end.
++++
He’s made quilts, blankets, jackets, onesies, Halloween costumes, scarves, pants, shirts, a leather tote that Syd uses daily, skirts, scrunchies, once, memorably, a hammock for their chihuahua. But his biggest challenge comes in a third grade school play. He has 4 weeks to make 20 costumes for his daughter and her classmates. He feels, daily, like he’s competing in Project Runway. Shears, sewing needles, bolts upon bolts of fabric, a decent imitation of a tutu, and he makes his deadline. Syd takes pictures from the audience, he takes pictures backstage, where he’s holding in case someone needs an alteration or a safety pin or a juice box. He feels, literally, like Christmas has been saved, and then really feels it when Syd hands him a new journal on Christmas Eve for his efforts.