long meant no one could really love her. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy, you know?”
Oh, yeah, I knew. I’d met dozens of people in the fashion world who were on collision courses of self- destruction and they all had their warped, twisted reasons. Not enough love. Too much love. Power. Money. Jealousy. Binging and purging. Drugs instead of food. All the dirt comes out in the wash, as Meemaw would say.
“She said she found Mr. Right, but I think he was just using her,” Josie continued.
“What makes you think that?” I asked.
“He just came and went as he pleased. She’d meet him every day for a few weeks, then nothing for a month. He couldn’t commit, but didn’t want to give up the fun.”
I’d met plenty of that kind of man. “Why buy the cow when you’re getting the milk for free?” Meemaw said when I complained to her about the guys I was dating.
“I’m not giving anybody any milk!” I’d been indignant, and also untruthful. I’m sure she knew I’d poured a glass or two over the years, but I’d learned my lesson. I was past the point of settling for someone who wasn’t in it for the long haul.
“What if he’s the one that . . . that . . .” Josie looked at me and said, “What if he did this to her?”
I was asking myself the very same question. “Did you tell the sheriff all of this?”
She nodded. “He said they’d look into it. They’d search her apartment. Look through her computer.”
“If they took her computer, I’m sure they’ll be able to find out who she dated and see if there’s a connection. Can I get you something?” Josie looked like she could use a stiff drink, but I offered tea or coffee.
“Coffee,” she said.
I went into the kitchen, grabbed a couple of black-and-gold Maximilian mugs from the cupboard, and opened my coffee drawer to contemplate the selections. Emeril’s Vanilla Bean, Extra Bold Dark Magic, Mudslide, and Southern Pecan were my favorites. I took a wild guess as to which Josie would prefer and went with Southern Pecan. I popped the sealed pod of flavored coffee into the machine, pressed a button, the coffeemaker purred to life, and thirty seconds later a steaming cup of brewed coffee was ready. I didn’t know if the wedding was on or off, but right now, it seemed Josie just needed a friend.
I brewed the Dark Magic for myself, added cream, and carried both cups back to the sitting area. “Here you go,” I said, sounding much more chipper than I felt. Josie had painted a picture of Nell as a damaged woman. She’d never found the happiness she’d been searching for. This realization felt like a cold fist closing around my heart.
We sipped in silence for a few minutes. Finally Josie set her mug down on the coffee table and reached for her purse. Hers was not designer like Nell’s had been, which made me curious. “Where did Nell get her Gucci purse? One of her boyfriends, maybe?”
“From Mr. Right.”
Even though Josie was marrying one of the richest bachelors in town, she carried an ordinary inexpensive cloth handbag. It had tiny little colorful flowers on a cream background—and it fit her, just like everything else she wore. Maybe it was like the engagement ring. Josie knew who she was and what she liked. It was all comfortable, casual, and understated. No pretense.
Nell had not embodied the same philosophy with her accessories.
Josie pulled out her checkbook and the next second she was tearing out a check and handing it to me. “We didn’t talk price,” she said, “but I hope this’ll be enough to get started on the dresses.”
I faltered, recoiling as if the check was one of the hundred-plus varieties of snakes in Texas. “The wedding’s on?” I hated to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I was not an opportunist, either. One more reason I wasn’t a good fit in the cutthroat world of New York fashion.
Her olive skin was sallow. “We can’t postpone it,” she said. “Nate’s brother and father have been gone for almost three months, on and off. His dad’s flying in from Angola to be here. Too many out-of-town guests coming, arrangements that can’t be canceled . . .” She sounded like she was repeating verbatim what had been drilled into her. “No, I talked to Nate this morning. We’re going ahead with the wedding.”
I glanced at the check—a thousand dollars—and lost my breath. That, combined with the final bill for the gown and three—er, two—dresses, would be enough to keep Buttons & Bows afloat for a while. But the slip of paper felt like a lead weight in my hand.
I handed it back to her, suddenly remembering what Nell had said about hoping Nate didn’t break Josie’s heart. Things happened for a reason. If Nell’s death was a way for Josie to have more time, she needed to take it. And if Nate loved her, he’d understand. “Josie, you don’t have to rush it.”
She paled even more. Her lips quivered. “How can I smile and celebrate when she’s gone? She was going to be my maid of honor.”
Right. Would Ruthann or Karen fill that role now?
A rogue thought occurred to me. I remembered overhearing something about a shotgun wedding yesterday. If we were in the 1950s, I’d be wondering if Josie was pregnant and the hurried wedding was to save the family’s reputation.
Of course we were in small-town Texas, so it was sort of the same thing. “You’re not . . . um . . . Are you . . .” I couldn’t figure out how to ask her tactfully.
She leaned forward with each of my starts and stops like she could pull the words out of me.
I cupped my hands over my belly. “You know—”
She flung herself back on the couch. “God, no! We don’t want kids right away. We want to be a family, him and me, before we add that to the mix.”
I breathed out a sigh of relief. “So there’s no hurry. If you don’t feel right about it . . .” This time I trailed off. Who was I to tell her to postpone her fairy-tale nuptials?
She laid the check on the coffee table. “Harlow,” she said, “I need you to make my bridal gown, and Karen and Ruthann’s bridesmaid dresses. The wedding is on.”
As I hesitated, a gentle puff of air, nothing stronger than an afternoon breeze, swept under the check Josie had written. The paper fluttered off the coffee table and landed in my lap.
A shiver stole through me. The windows in here were definitely closed. I had the sudden feeling that Josie and I weren’t alone in the house, that the check had been picked up and placed on my lap by some ghostly presence.
Josie put her hand on mine. “Please, Harlow. I want to marry Nate.”
I took her hand and nodded, hoping it was sincerity I felt emanating from her and not desperation. The dress I made for her would have to be beyond perfect. Every seam I stitched would hold together her dreams. Every bead I sewed would bring sparkle back into her life. And every pleat I added would help her fold her grief into manageable pieces.
I went into the workroom, grabbed a package from a cardboard box I hadn’t had the chance to unload yet, and handed it to her. “Go put this on.”
She flipped it over. “Spanx?”
I’d become a shapewear convert when Maximilian gave a sampler pack to his employees for Christmas one year. I’d witnessed the before and after with my own eyes. My “now you see them” jiggles had been transformed into a sleek silhouette.
She opened the envelope and pulled out the Hide & Sleek Hi-Rise Body Smoother, the perfect thing for her to wear under her strapless Empire dress. I’d be giving her the illusion of a longer, leaner line with the high waist. No regular hose or shaper would do.
“Um, are you sure?” she asked skeptically.
“One hundred percent.” I steered her to the distressed red wooden privacy screen off to the right of the room. The screen looked like old oversized window shutters hung together with antique hinges. Lengths of fabric draped over one side. Clothes hangers were hooked onto the slats, displaying samples of some of my favorite designs. “Even Jessica Simpson wears Spanx.”
Her eyes popped wide. “Really?”
Jessica was a Texan. That gave her extra credibility with other Texans.
I winked. “It’s gonna be great. Trust me.”
