Pleating for Mercy

friends with your grandmother in school. And of course there was the Margaret Festival. We were in it together.”

I gaped. “Really? Nana was a Margaret?” Bliss was famous—or infamous, depending on the source—for its annual Margaret Moffette Lea Pageant and Ball. The debutantes were called Margarets after Margaret Moffette Lea herself. She’d been the third wife to Texas’s favorite son, Sam Houston, former president of the Republic of Texas, back when Texas tried to be its own country. She’d become a respected first lady of the state when he’d been governor, though being shy, she’d probably roll over in her grave at the celebration we’d created in her name.

“Reluctantly,” she said, “but yes, she was. You should have seen her gown. Spectacular. I spent my fair share of time right here in this house.”

I’d spent my whole childhood here, but I’d never seen hide nor hair of Zinnia James visiting Nana when I was growing up. Or a pageant gown fit for a Margaret.

She continued, as if she’d read my mind. “We had a little . . . falling-out. I remember it to the very hour of the very day it happened.” Her voice took on a hint of regret. “We both had a crush on the same young man. We said we’d never let it break up our friendship, and I think we both meant it, but then he asked her to homecoming instead of me. I’m ashamed to admit it now, but jealousy reared its ugly head.”

“You and Nana liked the same boy?”

She laughed, nodding. “Hard to believe, looking at us now.”

Yes, it was. She’d ended up with a good-ol’-boy politician and my grandmother had married a cowboy and talked to goats. I couldn’t imagine the type of man who would attract them both.

“When he asked her to marry him, well, that was it. We haven’t spoken since.”

I stared and poked my finger in my ear. Had I heard her right? “You were in love with my grandfather?”

She nodded sheepishly. “I got over him, of course. Jeb and I are quite happy. But, yes, Wood Jenkins was my first love.”

“And you and Nana never made up?”

“It was one of those touchy situations. When Coleta tried, I wasn’t ready. When I tried, she wasn’t ready. Loretta Mae acted as a go-between once or twice, but it just never quite worked.”

I couldn’t believe I’d never heard this story. Did Mama know her father had had two women fighting over him? “Wow. Meemaw was right.”

“About what?”

“Every day, you learn something you never knew before. The day you don’t is the day you die.”

“Things happen for a reason,” Mrs. James said. “I do believe that. And I think Coleta and I will reconnect one day. Loretta Mae believed it would happen.”

“If Meemaw wanted you and Nana to be friends again, it will happen. Trust me on that.”

“Oh, believe me, I do,” she said with a little laugh. “Now, I did come here for a reason.” She pointed to the display board. “I want to commission a gown. The senator and I are hosting a fund-raising event. It’s not until late summer, but I wanted to make sure I’m on your calendar.”

Months away. That was good because I couldn’t possibly add another dress to my current schedule. “You’re the only one on my agenda.”

“Also, I have a few other events up my sleeve,” she said, a glint in her soft gray eyes. “An event at Christmas, but before that, the festival and pageant.”

“The Margarets?” If I remembered correctly, it was held around the Fourth of July, when Texas was nearing the top of the heat index.

“I’d like to commission you to make my granddaughter’s gown.”

I sputtered. “Um . . . aren’t the Margarets’ dresses period pieces?” Straight from the mid-1800s, if memory served. I had nothing like that in my portfolio.

She nodded, her lips thinning as she smiled. “Indeed, and Libby will look lovely in one. I’ll give you more details soon, but put that on your books, too.”

She didn’t give me a chance to argue. “You’re a delight, Harlow Jane,” she told me as she walked down the steps. “Loretta Mae would be proud.”

Those two sentences filled me with equal parts joy and sadness, but knowing Meemaw would be proud of me—and that she was here, somewhere—edged away a little of the grief.

I pushed the festival and pageant out of my mind and went back to the workroom. The subtle scent of vanilla floated in the air. Everything Zinnia James had said about Miriam, Will, Gracie, Nana, Nell, and Reata bounced around in my head. Was there something in the jumble that would point me toward Nell’s killer?

Gracie watched my every move as I laid pieces of fabric over the dress form, trying to get a sense of the garment I was going to make for Karen.

“Your dad keeps pretty busy,” I said, making conversation. Gracie had gone too quiet. “I wouldn’t have thought that many people would need handyman work done.”

“Handyman?”

“I have a pretty good list of things for him to tackle.”

She cocked her head to the side and looked at me. “My dad’s not a handyman.”

The pin I’d been poking through the muslin slipped and pricked my thumb. I stuck it between my lips to soothe the sharp pain. “He’s not a handyman?”

She shook her head, her hair falling in front of her shoulders. “N-o-o-o. He just did that stuff for Loretta Mae.”

I jumped, my heart leaping to my throat, as my Pfaff powered up out of nowhere, the needle slowly moving up and down, up and down, in a steady rhythm that sounded suspiciously like Meemaw guffawing. I marched over and pressed the power button, turning the machine off. “Funny,” I muttered.

Gracie froze. “Is the machine, like, programmed?”

“Just has a funny glitch, sometimes,” I said, glossing over it. “Remember what I said—this old house has spirit.”

“It’s like it’s haunted,” she said. Her cheeks had paled and her arms were folded over her chest.

I waved away the very idea. “Gracie, you’ve been watching too many movies,” I said. “The house is not haunted—”

I drew in a sharp breath as the lights flickered on and off. The sewing machine needle moved up and down again.

“Are you sure?” she asked shrilly.

“It’s just a cranky old house,” I said, reassuringly. Then, to distract her, I asked, “What does your dad do?”

Another creak came from the ceiling and her nostrils flared, but she said, “He works for the city. Plus he’s on the Bliss Historical Society.”

“What does he do for the city?”

“He’s the architect.”

I stared, speechless. From handyman to architect in the blink of an eye. I had whiplash.

With impeccable timing, the bells on the front door jingled. Karen and Ruthann had arrived for their fittings.

Chapter 25

Karen stood on the milk crate with me on one side of her and Gracie on the other. I wrapped a lavender measuring tape around her waist, noted the number, then repeated it aloud.

Karen covered her ears with her hands. “Don’t tell me the number. I don’t want to know.”

“It’s just a number,” I said.

“But I want it to be a smaller number,” she complained.

I stifled the reprimand that had started sliding up my throat. I’d spent years working with models who were