I Made His Wife’s Dress Now I’ll Marry Another Chapter 64
Paolo died on the ninth day after we reached Paris.
Sofia didn’t fly back to New York immediately.
First, she spoke to her lawyer. Then she sat alone in the studio for an entire afternoon. At dusk, she came to me with her return itinerary.
“I want to go back for the funeral. Then I want to come back and finish the six weeks.”
“All right.”
“You’re not going to ask if I’m sure?”
“You already told me you were.”
She looked at me for a long moment, then held out her phone. “Then help me check the connection time. I don’t want Julien arranging a private plane.”
“I wouldn’t, either.”
We booked an ordinary commercial flight.
The funeral was held in the old factory workshop. The retired workers laid out all the blue tailor’s chalk they hadn’t used across the cutting tables. There were no wreaths. No brand logos.
My mother placed the final roll Paolo had given her beside his apron.
“Thank you for that year,” she said.
She didn’t apologize on Grandfather’s behalf, and she didn’t ask a dead man to forgive Whitmore.
In the end, Sofia brought the old shears back to Paris—but she didn’t hang them over her own worktable.
She put them in the communal tool cabinet and taped a note to the handle:
*Borrow if you need to. Put them back when you’re done.*
For the first time in Paolo’s life, his tools belonged to no one’s debt.