I continue. “If we need more than a couple inches, I could panel in more fabric. I don’t have anything matching, but I might have a complementary color, and we could hide some of it under the tulle.”

Hope and wonder fill his eyes. “You could do that?”

“Sure.” I shrug. “I used to be a seamstress, just for fun. Before I started my real career.” The phrase is rote, something I’ve said numerous times. I smile but it’s strained. I suppose I should have said it was my real career. That turned out well, didn’t it? I might have a roof over my head but does it matter if I’m living in purgatory?

“Who are you?” His voice is gravel, threaded with curiosity.

“I’m your neighbor.” I stick out my hand. “Jane Stewart.”

“Hugo Lamaire.” He takes my hand and offers a courtly bow over my fingers that doesn’t quite match his intimidating appearance.

I laugh. “Well, Hugo. Nice to meet you. Now let’s see if we can get this fixed up.”

“How long have you been performing?” I ask Hugo while I tug a needle through the delicate fabric.

“Five years. Harry got me into it.” He points a spatula at me. “But we’re not talking about Harry.”

“No Harry. Got it.”

I’m sitting at Hugo’s kitchen table while he makes us brunch, which is grilled cheese because it’s all he knows how to make. Harry used to do all the cooking. But we’re not talking about Harry.

“How long will it take to fix the dress?”

“Not much longer. When is the audition?”

“It starts at noon.”

“Perfect.” I give him my best reassuring smile, which might be more of a grimace. This situation is a little anxiety inducing, but I’m dealing. The only thing keeping me from shaking with nerves is the fact that I’m using my hands to fix his dress and sewing is all soothing, repetitive movements. Plus it’s something to focus on other than my incessant monologue of worries. “This won’t take more than another few minutes. I’m nearly done.”

He brings over a plate with a grilled cheese and sets it next to me. “Did you want some coffee or—? Oh wait. I don’t have any coffee. I stopped drinking it when Harry ran off with that barista from Oakland.”

Hugo has a real gift for talking about something we’re not talking about. “I’m sorry.”