The tinkling of the bell above her shop door alerted her to the presence of a new customer and Jean looked up, a smile on her face. It widened at the sight of her favorite-and most frequent-customer: Dr. Lucien Blake.
"'Lo, Jean." He stood before her, bouncing lightly on his heels like an overexcited toddler. Lucien had been coming to her once a week, every week, since she had opened a few months ago.
Ballarat was hardly a hub of societal growth and there were not many clothing stores, not to mention larger department stores, and Jean's seamstress skills were more than welcomed by the town.
But no one had welcomed her services more than Lucien. He had blown into her store, face contorted in anger, demanding someone help him mend a rip in his faintly floral, silk robe. It was apparently a rather sentimental robe and he was in quite the tizzy until Jean's fast-working fingers had stitched the hole and handed it back to him with a raised eyebrow, "Crisis averted."
The anger and anxiousness had melted away and left behind a rather sheepish, jovial man. His apology had been swift and he explained shyly that the robe had been purchased with his wife and it since his wife had died, it was all he had left of her. Jean had covered his hand with hers and offered him a tea and a sympathetic ear. He had declined, looking rather shocked at himself for sharing such a personal detail with her.
Lucien was a strange man and she thought that would be the last time she saw him. But he had returned the next day, eyes clear and inquisitive. He commissioned her to sew him a new lab coat and requested that she hand stitch his name onto the chest.
The time it took to take his measurements-chest, arms, shoulders, waist-was filled by an incessant list of questions for her: How long had she lived in Ballarat? ("All my life.") Did she enjoy her work? ("It passes the day and helps pay the bills.") What did her husband think of her working? ("Why shouldn't a woman work? And in any case, my husband passed away quite some time ago. It's just me and my sons, now.")
He was fascinated with her and he seemed quite put out when her measurements were taken and she had sent him packing with a note to come back in a week. The following week, he was waiting outside her shop first thing in the morning, waiting for her to arrive.
And so it continued for weeks. Jean had hand-sewn him a quilt, a few new shirts, two new suit jackets, a pair of trousers, and had darned every pair of socks he owned.
Each consultation and pick-up was filled with questions and conversation. Sometimes he brought along tea and fresh scones from the bakery around the corner and he seemed surprised when she asked which services he needed from her this time.
He was a strange man-pushing and prying into her life, as if determined to learn everything about her. It was overwhelming to be the focus of his attention, but not unwelcome. She never begrudged his visit and found herself looking forward to them (not just for the boost to her business, but for the pleasure of seeing him).
Especially if it meant she needed to wrap her arms around his body in the guise of taking his measurements. He had teased her for it, after all, his measurements hadn't changed week to week. She had simply smiled at him and looked pointedly at the bag of scones next to them. "Well, keep eating like this and your waist measurements will be changing."
And now he stood in front of her, no bag of scones, no tea, and a smile upon his face. "Lucien! Don't tell me you need any more clothes!" she said, exasperated. "You're single-handedly keeping me in business. You must have an entire wardrobe of clothes by now!"
Lucien looked down bashfully, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the floor. "Ah, no, not today. I'm actually here because, well because, I was wondering if-," he was stuttering now, his face turning red, and Jean was struggling not to laugh.
"Lucien, what are you going on about?"
He looked up at her, cheeks tinged pink. "I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner. With me." There was a pause. "As in, a date. With me."
Jean's heart picked up speed and she grinned at him, "This isn't an attempt to get a discount on your clothes and tailoring, is it?"
Lucien laughed, the nerves seeming to dissipate in the face of her teasing. "Love, I'm a doctor with about three wardrobes worth of clothing now. It was never about the clothes with you."
The pet name slipped from his lips with well-practiced ease, as if he'd been referring to her as such in his head for so long and now finding the freedom to use it. Jean felt happiness and laughter bubbling up within her and she grinned at him, "Well, in that case, yes, I'd quite enjoy a dinner date with you."
Lucien stepped forward to take her hand in his and brought it to his lips, pressing a single kiss to the back of her hand. "I'll pick you up from here? Tonight?"
She felt breathless and dizzy with excitement. "Eager, are you?"
Lucien shrugged, not quite ready to let go of her quite yet. "Well, I happen to have a wardrobe full of clothing I'd quite like to wear and show off. There's a new seamstress in town and she's rather talented."
Jean blushed at the compliment. Lucien was looking at her with sparkling, teasing eyes and she wondered how she could have missed what was standing in front of her all these weeks: a man, not in need of new shirts and trousers, but a man in need of her.
Yes, Lucien Blake was definitely her favorite customer.