I rummage through Claire’s underwear drawer, sorting by fabric even as I catalog the delicious colors: ice blue, orchid, butter yellow, ivory. A shocking black georgette slip with insets of handmade lace. One piece step-ins of peach satin with tiny bows at the straps. Bandeau brassieres in ballet pink crepe de chine with matching pants.
Pulling out a long, bias-cut slip in smoky lilac, I hold it against me, careful not to let my roughened fingertips catch on the satin. “Good lord, this is too pretty to cover with clothes.”
“It’s a negligee,” she says, ducking her head. “There’s a matching peignoir in the closet. With ostrich feather trim. Do you want to see it?”
“No.” I shake my head. “But something that lovely deserves to be seen.”
“Well, it is.” Claire’s color deepens. “It’s one of Harry’s favorites.”
It is my turn to blush. “I feel older and thicker by the moment.” I fold the gown and put it back with the rainbow of shining fabrics. “But I asked for it. If I’m going to sew for these women, I need to know what they wear under their clothes.”