The Allegra Biscotti Collection

“Cancel them.” Her mother wasn’t going to budge—that was obvious.

“Dad?” Emma gulped, looking helplessly at him.

“Sorry, Em. You’re home studying—all day. Your mom and I, we’re a team, you know.”

“So I’ve heard,” Emma grumbled. She stomped to her bedroom, but not before shooting William an icy stare.

I am not giving up, she promised herself, as she lay on her bed. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes, but she pushed them away with the back of her hand and squeezed her lids tightly shut.

Coco would not cry, she knew.

Neither would Allegra Biscotti.

Coco would push on, defying despair and disbelievers in order to create that famous little black dress.

Allegra Biscotti, too, would do whatever it took to finish the pieces.

And so will I, she decided.

Chapter 13 Living In The Now

On Saturday morning, Emma awoke, still determined but without a plan.

She had called Charlie right after the big fight, and he was thinking of a way out. Literally. But so far he had nothing good. His newest plan had him meeting Marjorie at Laceland and smuggling her heavy sewing machine and the partially finished clothes to the apartment. It wasn’t the most devious or ingenious idea, but all Emma knew was, no matter what, she had to get to her sewing machine.

She walked into the kitchen, deciding to ignore what happened last night. Today, she’d be the sweet, studious daughter. It was easier that way.

“Morning, Mom.” Emma broke off a piece of one of the blueberry muffins on the table. Her mom was actually a good baker. Emma wondered if baking wasn’t a schoolteacher thing for her mom, too, with following a recipe maybe just like reading another novel. Except with baking, Emma decided, the story ended much better—with cookies or muffins.

Her mother took a sip of her giant mug of coffee, the weekend section of the newspaper unfolded in front of her. “You’re up early for a Saturday. Going to hit the books?”

Emma knew that wasn’t a question. “Yeah,” she responded, filling a glass with orange juice. “Where’s Dad?”

“He had to take William to his tutoring session across town. Then I’m going to meet up with them to do some errands. You’ll have the whole apartment to yourself for studying. No interruptions. Or distractions.” She eyed Emma over the top of her glasses.

“Okay, great.” Emma grabbed the rest of the muffin. She began to calculate the possibilities. If her parents were going to be out all day, she could go to Laceland. They wouldn’t even have to know she was gone. Emma hesitated. On the sneaky scale, this was pretty high. But she also couldn’t risk losing a whole day of sewing— especially when she was so close to finishing.

Back in her room, she called Charlie. He liked the plan, of course. She felt guilty. Of course.

“If I get caught, I can’t even imagine the enormous trouble I’ll be in,” she told Charlie.

“Em, you’ve done too much. You’re too far in. There’s no choice, really. You have to finish. So you have to sneak out.”

Charlie always made everything sound so connect-the-dots easy.

“There’ll be consequences,” she warned.

“Look, you worry too much about what’s going to happen. You need to live in now.”

“True,” Emma reasoned. “And my collection will be done on Monday. Then everything will go back to normal.”

“And your parents will never know,” Charlie concluded.

“Charlie.” Emma paused, trying desperately not to get swept up in the wave of self-doubt that was trying so hard to flood her brain this week. “What if Paige hates my new stuff? What then?”

“Then no more Allegra Biscotti. You make honor roll and take that Western civ class. And you still live happily ever after.”

“I’d be happier if she liked them.”

“Then get out of that apartment.”

Two hours later, she met Marjorie and Charlie at Laceland.

“What’s in the mystery case?” Emma asked. Marjorie stood in the middle of Emma’s studio in what must be her weekend outfit—black knit pants and a black ribbed turtleneck—with a large black rectangular case by her side.

“My sewing machine.”

Emma’s eyes widened. Of all the people in her life to become her fashion angel, Emma never would have picked Marjorie. “Oh, wow, Marjorie. That’s the most amazing thing. You didn’t have to, you know.”

“I know, believe me. But I’m here anyway, so I might as well really help. I didn’t travel fifty blocks downtown just to open a door. Let’s get to work.”

Side by side, they sewed silently back in Emma’s studio. Emma constructed each piece, meticulously double- checking each nearly invisible intersecting seam. After every seam or dart was added, she carefully tried the garment on the dress form, making minute alterations for a perfect fit.

She wished she had a fit model—a living, moving person—instead of a fabric dress-form replica, but her own body was far from the willowy model type. And Marjorie’s was even farther. There were no other options, so she’d just have to cross her fingers that the garments would drape and move properly when worn by a real person.

Marjorie worked the iron, carefully pressing each section of fabric so it wouldn’t wrinkle or pucker. She also handled the finishing work—adjusting hemlines, removing the basting seams, and then adding the permanent ones.

Charlie was in charge of tunes and food. He was on a run now to a nearby deli for sandwiches, drinks, and real coffee for Marjorie.

“What’s next?” Marjorie asked Emma.

“I’ve finished most of the dress, but I’m having some trouble getting the slit right without pulling this fabric. It’s so delicate…but I had to have it.”

“Here, hand it over.” Marjorie reached for the pinned pieces of fabric. She spent a few minutes reviewing Emma’s detailed sketches and patterns before gently placing the pieces in her own sewing machine.

Emma glanced around her studio. There was still a lot left to do—attaching closures, adding cuffs, making the belt, and of course, sewing in the finished linings on all three pieces—and she felt odd, just watching Marjorie perfect the slit for her.

“This isn’t cheating, is it? By having you help me sew?” Emma asked.

Marjorie took her foot off the pedal, and the whirring motor slowing stopped. “Of course not, honey. I’m just the worker bee here. You don’t think Ralph Lauren does all his own sewing, do you?”

Suddenly, they heard the creaking of floorboards.

Marjorie raised her eyebrows at Emma. Emma shrugged, unsure of the noise.

Then they heard the footsteps. The unmistakable rhythm of footsteps approaching the back of the warehouse. Approaching them.

Emma’s eyes grew wide. “It doesn’t sound like Charlie,” she whispered. That was, not unless he brought the deli staff back with him. There was definitely more than one person.

The footsteps moved forward, the sound of shoes hitting the floorboards echoing off the high ceilings.