The Allegra Biscotti Collection

Her dad snorted. “I love Marjorie Kornbluth, but I don’t think the woman has worked late a day in her life. But if you want to ask her, be my guest.”

Emma raced by her father toward the reception area. Marjorie was reapplying her frosted pink lipstick—a sure sign she was about to leave. And considering how impatient Emma acted earlier, Marjorie probably wasn’t about to trip over herself to do something for Emma.

“Marjorie! Can you please do me the hugest favor in the world? Could you stay like another hour while I work on something? Noah needs to leave and—”

“He won’t let her stay here alone,” he finished for his daughter, as he joined them up front. His eyes twinkled in a mischievous way, as they often did. He thought it was funny that Emma was asking Marjorie.

Marjorie looked back and forth between Emma and Noah as she tucked her mirrored, enamel compact and lipstick tube back in her purse. “I don’t know about that. I have plans, and I—”

“Please?” Emma interlaced her hands together in front of her chest. “I promise to do all the billing for a week.” After my collection is done, she added in her head.

Marjorie tilted her wrist to look at her delicate antique watch. “I suppose I could stay a little longer. I’m not meeting my sister for dinner downtown until about eight, and it doesn’t make sense to go all the way uptown just to turn around an hour later. If this is all right with you, Noah. I’ll lock up and put her in a cab when I leave.”

Noah frowned slightly as he considered the plan. “You have cab money?” he asked Emma. She put out her hand and accepted the ten dollars he dropped into it, having spent every last penny on fabric. “Okay. Be home at seven-thirty, or your mom will kill us both.”

“Thanks, Dad.” She gave him a quick hug. “And thanks, Marjorie! I owe you one.” Emma returned to her sewing machine, adrenaline pumping and raring to sew.

But the fairly ancient machine wasn’t in the mood to cooperate with her need for speed-stitching. It fought back by pricking her finger with the needle over and over again. Her grandmother should’ve mentioned that the Singer had a temper! She wrapped her fingers in Band-Aids and pushed on. But the only thing that was moving forward was the time. It was now six-forty, but Emma wasn’t any closer to finishing the pockets.

“Arrgh!” Emma cried out after another needle prick, this time through the Band-Aid. “Why won’t you behave?”

“Who’s not behaving?” Marjorie asked, suddenly appearing out of the shadows of the darkened warehouse and into the pool of light flooding Emma’s work space.

“This…stupid…machine!” Emma blurted. “And these annoying vest pockets!”

“Hmm,” Marjorie said, taking in the scene, “you certainly seem to have your hands full here, honey. This is no rinky-dink operation. What’s all this for?”

Emma’s back stiffened as she remembered Marjorie didn’t know—couldn’t know—the truth. If Marjorie knew, then her dad would know, and then her mom would know, and then, well, Emma wasn’t sure how she’d react. And there was no way her dad would keep this kind of info from her mom. He was always saying they were a “team.”

“It’s, uh, an art project for school, and I really need an A. I didn’t complete some other assignments, and the teacher said that if I didn’t—”

Marjorie rolled her eyes and waved Emma off with her hand. “Spare me the soap opera. Who do you think has been dodging all those calls from Paige Young? Who didn’t let her back here when she came by the other day demanding to see Allegra Biscotti? I know I wasn’t born yesterday, but seriously, I wasn’t born yesterday.”

Emma gaped at Marjorie. Did she hear that correctly? Paige was looking for Allegra—here? Of course! It suddenly made total sense that Paige would come back to the place where she first saw Allegra’s designs to find her. No wonder Paige was having a total text-message meltdown.

“Don’t bother denying it,” Marjorie continued. “I’m not mad or anything. While you were in school, I saw what you had going on back here. I put two and two together. I’m smart like that,” she said, tapping her finger to her temple.

So Marjorie did figure it out!

After Noah had given Emma her work space, Marjorie had never once asked Emma what she was up to when she brought in shopping bags from Allure. Emma thought Marjorie hadn’t even noticed—or cared.

“Does…does my dad know?” Emma stammered.

“Nah.” Marjorie shrugged. “I figured you had your reasons not to tell him. Besides, I make it a rule never to get involved in office politics…or family matters,” she added with an arch of her eyebrow.

Emma felt her shoulders slide down a couple of inches away from her ears. “Oh, thank you!”

Marjorie reached for her reading glasses, which hung from her neck on a beaded chain, and placed them on the bridge of her nose. Then she picked up Emma’s design sketch of the vest, as well as the close-up sketches of how the pockets were meant to go, wrinkling her nose as she studied them.

“Slide over,” Marjorie commanded.

Still in shock over all the new information she just learned, Emma did as she was told, abandoning the chair in front of the sewing machine. Marjorie leaned over to inspect the two pockets Emma had sewn on.

“I think I see what’s going on here…” Marjorie said. Then she fiddled with some settings, lowered the presser foot and then the needle, revved up the motor, and let it rip.

“What are you doing?” Emma cried in horror. “Wait! Stop! You’ll ruin it!”

Chapter 12 It’s Technical

“Don’t worry!” Marjorie shouted over the hum of the sewing machine’s motor and the rapid-fire clack-clack- clack of the needle going up and down and in and out of the fabric. “I’m a professional. In my old life, I used to be a seamstress in the alterations department at Bergdorf Goodman.”

“Are you kidding me?” Emma stared in amazement as Marjorie whizzed over the seam, expertly going around the edge of the pocket piece at what seemed to Emma like hair-raising speed. “Why haven’t you ever told me?”

“Because you never asked,” Marjorie replied. “I did have a life before Laceland, you know.”

When Marjorie finished, she let up on the foot pedal, raised the needle and the presser foot, and pulled the vest out to the left. Then she took Emma’s scissors and snipped the two threads.

“Let’s see what we have here,” Marjorie said, examining her own seam, as well as Emma’s work on the rest of the piece. “Not bad here, honey. Nice even seams. Pockets can be tricky, so don’t beat yourself up.”

Emma leaped forward and grabbed the vest from Marjorie’s hands. “This is amazing! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Sure thing. If you’d like, I can sew the other one so you can see how I’m doing it…without mutilating my fingers in the process.” She nodded down at Emma’s Band-Aid covered hands. “I can even help you with those jacket sleeves.”

“How did you know I was having trouble with those?” Emma asked.

Marjorie pointed with a bony finger at the worktable where the body of the jacket and the still unconnected sleeves sat in a heap.

“They’re the worst if you’re not used to them. Used to trip me up all the time, too. Besides, from the looks of it, I’d say there isn’t much room on your fingers for more Band-Aids.”

Emma wanted to hug Marjorie. But Marjorie didn’t strike her as the embracing type. Instead Emma handed her the pieces of the fourth vest pocket.