Pleating for Mercy (3 page)

A little thrill went through me. A wedding! The idea of catering to brides hadn’t occurred to me, but now the possibility circled in my head. Vera Wang hadn’t started making wedding gowns until she was thirty-nine! I was only thirty-three.
And
I didn’t need or want Vera’s level of success. I’d be happy making a comfortable living doing what I loved to do. If I made a small, or maybe medium, mark on the fashion world, that would be the gravy on my biscuits.

Maybe Josie had some sort of family heirloom dress she needed altered. Or maybe it was just a small job. Sleeves she wanted removed or a train shortened. It didn’t matter. Even a small job was better than no job. My foot started tapping on the floor. There were so many possibilities.

“Congratulations,” I said calmly. I didn’t want to scare them off with my eagerness. “When’s the big day?”

“Assuming he doesn’t break her heart, you mean,” Nell said under her breath.

My chin snapped up and I met her steady gaze. Josie, Ruthann, and Karen didn’t look like they’d heard her, but I had. It was as though she’d whispered the words right into my ear. But she went on, casually resting one arm across the back of the love seat and the other on the armrest, and I wondered if I’d imagined it. After all, why would a man break his fiancée’s heart?

“It’s on the twenty-fourth . . . a little less than two weeks away,” Josie deadpanned, and just like that, all the air was suddenly sucked out of the room.

“Less than two weeks?” I repeated when I’d found my voice again.

Josie nodded, frowning. “Have you heard of the Bridal Outlet?”

Her friends, as if on cue, all groaned.

The Bridal Outlet. It didn’t ring a bell. “No,” I said.

“
Hate
that place,” Karen said, her freckled forehead crinkling.

Ruthann grimaced. “Highway robbery.”

Nell had turned her attention to the knot on her blouse. She’d undone it, and was rolling up the excess fabric, tying it again. “Lying lowlifes,” she muttered.

“It’s a bridal shop in Fort Worth—”

“Was,” Nell corrected, her eyes still cast downward.

“Right,” Josie said. “Was.”

I put one and one together and deduced that the Bridal Outlet had done a number on Josie. “Let me guess. It went out of business?”

Josie stared. “How’d you know?”

“Just a hunch,” I said, not telling her that it was far more common than people realized. Small businesses started up and failed in less time than it took to stock up on supplies at the nearest warehouse store. Bridal shops were particularly vulnerable since the bridal industry was seasonal.

Karen snapped her fingers. “It happened just like that. One day they were there, and the next day they were gone. It’s so unfair.”

So Josie probably needed me to finish up the alterations on her wedding gown. A small job, after all.

“I’m getting married in twelve days,” Josie said, her voice rising to near hysteria, “and I don’t have a dress!”

My thoughts came to a screeching halt. “What do you mean you don’t have a dress?”

“No bridal gown, no bridesmaid dresses, no nothing!” Josie clutched at the arm of the sofa. She breathed in and out through her nose. “See?” she said when she’d calmed down. “It’s like I jinxed myself when I told Loretta Mae about the wedding and said I wished you were here, but now you
are
here, so it’ll all be okay.” She winked. “Not that I ever should have doubted Loretta Mae. You can do it, right?”

They all stared expectantly at me. It felt like we were playing connect the dots, it was my turn, and a number was missing from the picture. I leaned forward. “Do
what
?”

Josie grabbed my hand and angled her head toward her bridesmaids. “Make our dresses,” she said. “I’ve been all over tarnation and there isn’t a single gown that’ll work. It all has to be just perfect.” She took my hand in hers and met my eyes. “You know,” she added, “I’m marrying Nate Kincaid. Of the Hood County Kincaids?”

A lightbulb went off in my head. “Ah,” I said. And suddenly I understood perfectly.

I never would have put Nate Kincaid and Josie Sandoval together as a couple. The Kincaids of Hood County were one of the oldest families in Bliss and Josie was from the wrong side of the tracks, an unfortunate fact I could relate to. I’d dated Derek Kincaid, Nate’s older brother. The breakup had been ugly.

“Show her the ring,” Ruthann said, nudging Josie’s arm.

Josie’s rosy cheeks brightened. She held her arm out, dangling her hand.

It was a platinum band with a single princess-cut diamond. Light seemed to bounce up through the cut, highlighting its brilliance. “It’s perfect.”

“Isn’t it?” Karen gazed at it from over Josie’s shoulder. “It was Nate’s grandmother’s.”

“So much better than the first one,” Nell said.

“The first one?”

Josie’s blush deepened. “Nate was trying to impress me.”

Nell tilted her head to the side. “He got this amazing diamond and had a ring made for her. Spectacular. Huge radiant-cut rock and a bunch of little diamonds in a channel setting. That ring was gorgeous—”

“But Josie didn’t like it,” Karen said, shaking her head like she still couldn’t believe it. “That diamond . . . What was it, like three carats?”

Josie looked like she wanted to disappear. “It wasn’t
me
. I’m not all highbrow—”

“You’re just a small-town girl,” Ruthann said with a laugh. “You sure you should marry a Kincaid?”

“Very funny,” Josie said. “Of course I’m sure. Nate totally understood. His dad took it back and said not to worry.”

“This one is absolutely you,” Ruthann finished, holding up Josie’s left hand. The ring was simple, but brilliant and sparkling. Size, it turned out, didn’t matter.

The next hour passed in a blur. Three women who were out for a stroll around the town square and had heard about Buttons & Bows blew into the shop. I excused myself from Josie and her entourage to answer a slew of questions from them.
How would you describe your style? What actresses have you designed dresses for? Have you had a dress on the red carpet at the Oscars?

I answered as best I could, listening to each group with one ear until Lori Kincaid, Josie’s soon-to-be mother-in-law, waltzed in, another woman by her side. She turned and waved out the door, a signal to her driver that she’d be a little while, no doubt. Then she put her arm through Josie’s. They chatted quietly, and I heard her say, “Are you sure about this?”

Josie’s expression clouded. “Of course I’m sure. Harlow’s all set—”

“There’s a bridal show in Fort Worth this weekend,” Mrs. Kincaid said, interrupting her. “It might be fun to go, don’t you think? And you might find something you adore.” She turned to the bridesmaids. “Nell, dear, are you available Saturday?”

Nell stared, lips parted. She seemed at a loss for words, but finally found her voice. “Um, no. Sorry. I have plans on Saturday.”

Mrs. Kincaid gave an encouraging smile. “But we can make a day of it,” she nudged. “We could have lunch at Reata in Sundance Square. Karen, Ruthann, have you been there?”

Ruthann piped up. “I have.”

“Not me,” Karen said, “but my husband’s been plenty of times for work. He loves it.”

“Nell?” Mrs. Kincaid asked.

Nell had started riffling through the rack of ready-to-wear separates. “Don’t think so,” she said over her shoulder. “Mrs. Abernathy, what do you think of this?” she called to Mrs. Kincaid’s friend.

The woman wrinkled her nose. “Pardon me?” she said, as if she could hardly stand to utter two words to Nell.

Nell held out a dress I’d created using Escher as inspiration. It was an architectural design with an optical illusion effect. Black and white and a definite mixed bag of textiles and textures.

Mrs. Abernathy coughed, scoffed, and turned her back on Nell.

“Really, Nell,” Mrs. Kincaid scolded. She looked her up and down and frowned. “It takes time and effort to maintain an image. It’s like a house of cards. One bent corner, and the whole thing comes toppling down. Helen Abernathy is
not
going to throw away her reputation by wearing a dress like that.”

Nell’s nostrils flared like a bull facing a matador, but Josie stepped in before anybody charged. “We can go to lunch at Reata sometime, Lori,” she said hurriedly, “but there just isn’t time before the wedding. Harlow will need us all around for fittings—”

“Fine.” Lori Kincaid’s expression turned to stone. With a stiff spine, she glided over to study the pictures on the display wall. I’d used a rectangular sheet of galvanized steel and trimmed it with a length of spectacular black beaded cording I’d found in Meemaw’s collection. Photographs of models wearing my designs, or ones I’d worked on, were held in place on the wall by tiny magnetic dots.

Mrs. Kincaid seemed to be taking in every last detail of my work, from my construction and technique to my creative flair, comparing it all to whatever high-priced Dallas designer she favored. I suddenly realized she needed to give her blessing before I could go forward with the dresses.

She turned to me a moment later, smiling. “These are quite lovely.”

I released the breath I’d been holding and a wave of surprise flowed through me. Blessing given. And not a speck of worry on her face over some imaginary curse I might put on her. Maybe rumors about the Cassidy women had finally stopped. “Thank you.”

A happy feeling settled over the shop as another handful of women—more of Josie’s friends, her mother, and another woman I took to be an aunt or a family friend—popped into the shop. I explained to my captive audience that no, I’d never had one of my designs worn to the Oscars, and no, I had no plans to go on
Project Runway,
but yes, to see Heidi Klum in one of my designs would be like a dream come true.

The front door opened again, the faint jingling of the bells making me wonder what the fire code for occupancy was. The room suddenly went completely silent. I followed the gazes of the fifteen or so people in the shop, stopping for a second when I thought I recognized Miriam Kincaid, Josie’s soon-to-be sister-in-law. A squeal broke the silence; then a blur passed in front of me, pulling my attention away from the crowd that had gathered. It was Josie racing toward the man now leaning in at the door. He hesitated, as if he was afraid of actually setting foot inside such a girlie shop, but she threw her arms around him and practically dragged him across the threshold.

I searched his face for signs of familiarity. His blond hair was short and spiky on top and neatly trimmed; he was clean shaven and his chin was solidly marked by a vertical cleft. It looked like the perfect spot to rest a thumb. If a thumb needed resting, that is. His complexion was slightly ruddy, but it worked for him. Not dropdead gorgeous, but handsome enough. He looked an awful lot like I remembered Derek looking. This must be Nate Kincaid.

His look of discomfort threw me for a loop. Would the idea of being inside Buttons & Bows be that disconcerting to every man, or was it just Nate Kincaid? I glanced at the room, saw Lori Kincaid again, and realized that my eyes had played a trick on me. Miriam wasn’t here, but the mother and daughter looked an awful lot alike . . . at least from what I remembered of Miriam.

The disarray in the room stirred up a ball of anxiety in my gut. A small box was overturned on the coffee table, buttons spilling onto the floor. Rolls of trims and spools of ribbons that had been neatly lined up on a shelf against the wall were scattered around. Pillows had fallen off the couch and instead of picking them up, the excited wedding party stepped over them.

My head swirled. When had I lost control of my shop?

“I’m sorry. What?” I said, realizing that one of the women I’d been talking with was beckoning to me.

Mrs. Zinnia James was pointing to one of the pictures on the design board behind the love seat.

“This is just lovely,” she said again.

It was a novelty dress that Maximilian had designed for an Earth Day fashion show the previous year. “That’s made entirely of recycled mater—”

I stopped short as a loud bang shook the wall between the workroom and the boutique, quickly followed by the unmistakable sound of shattering glass.

“No! Oh, crap!” someone yelled from the workroom. “No, no, no.”

My heart stopped. Meemaw’s old Singer was in there, as well as jar after jar of buttons, trims, and other notions. “Excuse me,” I cried over my shoulder to Zinnia James and her friends as I rushed to the workroom. I stopped short at the French doors, barely managing to stifle the scream that climbed up my throat. It looked like the room had been the victim of an isolated earthquake. Buttons, mixed with the chunky glass pieces of the broken jars, splayed across the floor.

For just a moment the boutique was utterly silent. I could have heard an antique button drop. But like a funnel cloud slowly swirling and building strength, the silence transitioned into a low prattle that then grew into a frenzied chatter.

“Nell!” Josie’s voice rose above the jabbering. “Are you okay?”

Nell stood like a wax statue in the middle of the mess, looking more than a little shell-shocked. The antique shelf now resembled the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Buttons and glass were fanned out on the pecan-planked floor around her, a lone mason jar of colorful buttons in one of her hands.

She nodded, her expression going from stunned to sheepish to indignant in the blink of an eye. “I was just looking at your collection,” she said. “Then
bam!
It collapsed, just like that! Piece of crap,” she muttered, setting the jar on the ground. “It’s a hazard in here. No wonder people say to watch out for the Cassidys,” she said under her breath.

I bristled, quickly glancing around to see if anyone was listening. The last thing I needed was rumors about Buttons & Bows being dangerous or run-down—or about magic happenings in the shop. I guessed the Cassidy legacy lived on after all.