“I took the light rail,” Nan said.
“And I took surface streets instead of the highway, drove over the hill. It’s faster from my neighborhood.”
Monica sighed. “I should have done that. I was just sure that there’d be enough time.”
“Will you quit beating yourself up?” I said. “It’s not like he didn’t have a cheering section. The two of us made a ton of noise. We were actually kind of obnoxious. Did you know that Nan can do that thing where you stick your fingers in your mouth and whistle super loud?”
Monica’s eyebrows popped up as she turned to look at Nan.
“Very helpful for calling dogs,” Nan said.
“I don’t believe it. Prove it,” Monica demanded.
“Not now,” Nan said self-consciously, glancing around at the other spectators. “Not until he’s getting close to the finish line.”
“How long will that be?” I asked, staring toward the clump of coaches on the far edge of the field.
Monica glanced at her phone. “About eleven minutes, give or take. So, let’s get to it. Tell me everything. I feel like I haven’t talked to you two in forever.”
Eleven minutes divided by three friends isn’t much time, so we all tried to do a sort of bullet-point version of our usual conversation, just hitting the highlights.
Nan was thrilled that seventy-two Dogmother’s Ball tickets had been sold so far and that three college kids from the neighborhood had offered to help park cars for the event. With the advent of spring, the chickens were laying more eggs, and she was down to only three dogs. Mildred and Morgan, the black Labs, as well as Peaches and Cream, the basset hounds, had all been adopted.
“I miss them,” she said, “but they went to very good homes.”
“So that just leaves Lovey and Nelson. Poor Nelson,” Monica said. “Isn’t anybody ever going to adopt him?”
“He’s already spoken for,” Nan said. “I called Donna on Tuesday and told her I wanted to keep him. He’s such a sweet boy. I just couldn’t give him up.”
“With only three dogs is Malcolm still coming to help?”
“Oh, yes,” Nan replied. “Every morning and evening.”
“So you’re adopting him too?”
“Very funny. Your turn,” Nan said.
“Same old, same old,” Monica replied.
The restaurant business was busy, Alex was still rotten, her sous-chef was acting like a prima donna, and the mothers of the bride and groom at the wedding she was to cater the following weekend couldn’t agree on the salad course.
“And,” Monica said wearily, “Zoe got sent home from school for wearing a T-shirt with an inappropriate slogan.”
“What did it say?” I asked.
Monica closed her eyes and moved her head from side to side. “Let’s not even go there. The shirt has been burned and now, every morning, I check Zoe’s backpack for contraband. But there’s at least a little good news. Guess who dropped by the restaurant yesterday?”
“Hmm . . .” I tapped my chin with my finger, pretending to think, but Monica’s smug little smile was a dead giveaway. “Could it be . . . Dr. Dreamboat?”
“Bingo! And he is still so, so dreamy.” She sighed and clapped her hand to her heart. “He showed up just before closing, we shared a plate of linguini and a bottle of Chianti. He’s got another late shift on Thursday and is going to drop by after to take me to a movie.”
“Oh.” Nan, who had been watching the grove of trees for sight of the returning runners, turned to look at Monica. “Really?”
Monica tipped her head to one side. “Yes, really. Why do you sound so surprised?”
“Oh, no reason,” Nan replied.
“Nan,” Monica said flatly. “You’re a terrible liar. What is it?”
“It’s nothing, only that I thought . . .” Nan looked toward the grove of trees again and the cluster of coaches who stood nearby, waiting to cheer their runners to the finish line. “You know . . . Bob.”
“Bob?” Monica’s eyes widened. “Bob is a nice guy and everything, but . . . he’s Bob. He’s good to Alex. And good to me, too, I guess. But I don’t think about him like that. He’s just a friend. He’s . . . Bob.”
“You said that before,” Nan reminded her. “Fine. If you’re happy, I’m happy. Forget I mentioned it.”
Nan turned her attention back to the trees. Monica looked at me and rolled her eyes, shooting me a sort of can-you-believe-her glance before changing the subject.
“So, Grace? What’ve you been up to?”
“Besides sewing?” I laughed. “Not much, including sleeping. But Luke . . .”
They already knew about the amazing sewing table and the adjustments he’d helped me make to my business plan, but they didn’t know about the accounting software he’d recommended to help me keep track of my expenses, or the great, inexpensive website design company he’d steered me to, or how he’d helped walk me through the process of finding and buying a domain name.
Most importantly, he got me thinking about how to speed up my production. Even though I was running a factory with only one worker, I had to start thinking in terms of an assembly line.
Now I spent every morning cutting, making only one size that day—small, medium, large, or extra large—and layering fabric so I could cut two garments at once. Also, I cut all the individual pieces at the same time—the sleeves, then the yokes, then the skirts. Working that way enabled me to have six garments ready for sewing by lunchtime. Sewing took longer and by chain stitching all six pieces, one after the other, I’d cut hours off my garment production time. Luke was the one who’d pointed me in the right direction, gotten me to think like a businesswoman instead of a hobbyist. Without him, I’d never have been able to do it.
“My, my,” Monica said, batting her eyelids. “Isn’t he helpful? Sounds like Luke is trying to worm his way into your affections.”
“Stop,” I said,
