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“Anything for you, Ms. Spencer,” the aging tailor said, gripping my hand and giving it a squeeze. “I’ll have his tuxedo ready in time.”
I kissed his cheek. “You are, and always will be, the best.”
He flushed with pleasure. I continued to speak with Mr. Ambrose while Bones changed back into his street clothes.
Bones came out of the dressing room and met us at the counter. He reached into his wallet and pulled out his credit card and handed it to the tailor.
Mr. Ambrose held up his hand. “It’s been taken care of, sir.”
Bones looked at me.
“My rules.”
His expression remained passive, but his jaw clenched. He stuck his credit card back into his wallet.
The shop phone rang and Mr. Ambrose sent me a smile as he went to answer it. “Hello? Oh, hello, Mr. Buchanan. Yes, your tuxedo is ready. I’ll have it sent over to The Rex. You’re welcome. Goodbye.” Mr. Ambrose hung up the phone and returned his attention to us. “I apologize for the interruption. I need Mr., ah…Bones’ phone number so I can call for the final fitting and adjustments.”
Bones rattled off his phone number to Mr. Ambrose.
“Give your mother my best,” Mr. Ambrose said.
“I will.”
Bones and I left the Dallas shop that had been worth the hour-long drive. Mr. Ambrose was the best tailor in the state. His family of expert tailors and seamstresses had emigrated from England to New York City in the 1940s and set up shop in the Garment District. After decades in Manhattan, Mr. Ambrose had moved to Dallas to service the oil tycoons that were invited into polite society despite their new wealth.
He was in his eighties now, but the man still cut the best suits.
“You’re not paying for my tuxedo,” Bones said as we walked down the street. “And don’t you fucking say your world, your rules.”
“Custom tuxedos are expensive,” I said.
“And you think I can’t afford it.”
“You want to spend fifteen thousand dollars on a tuxedo?”
“Fifteen-fucking-thousand? Are you insane? For a God damned custom-made tuxedo?”
“Look,” I said, pulling him out of the walkway to stand in the doorway of a furniture store. “This isn’t your world. But for me, this is everyday life. Fifteen thousand dollars for tuxedos and charity functions at two thousand dollars a plate is the norm. That’s the world I live in. Please don’t let this be a pride thing. Let me pay for this, because I can’t in good conscience ask you to spend that kind of money knowing you’ll wear the tuxedo once and never have to put it on again. Okay?”
Bones stared at me. “I still don’t like it.”
“I know.”
“You’re rich.”
I sighed. “Yeah.”
“I mean, really rich…”
I nodded.
“Rich like they name buildings after your family kind of rich.”
“Only universities,” I joked.
Bones didn’t smile. “Fine. One condition though…”
“Name it.”
