Pleating for Mercy

borderline anorexic and obsessed with numbers. Weight, waist, hips, thighs. You name it, they were trying to make it smaller. “Smaller numbers won’t change who you are.” I gestured up and down her body. “This is you. You have to rock what you’ve got, Karen Mitchell.”

“But I’ve got too much of this.” She pouted, patting her hips. One hand slid to her belly. “And this.”

Gracie was taking in every last detail of the conversation, listening with undivided attention. “You’re beautiful,” I told Karen, knowing it would sink into Gracie, too.

Karen frowned. “Josie’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.” She pointed to the front room, where Ruthann was browsing, her measurements done. “Ruthann’s beautiful. Me? I’m frumpy.”

“Sugar, half that frump you’re feeling is coming straight from inside,” I said, sounding more like Loretta Mae than I ever had before. The right design and styling could transform her figure, emphasizing the best things while downplaying the problem areas. “It’s attitude. What you feel in here,” I said, hand to my heart, “shines through in everything you do.”

Ruthann popped her head around the French door and said, “That’s right, Karen. It’s all attitude. You can get whatever you want if you act like you deserve it.”

“Right. Think it and you’ll start to believe it,” I said, piggybacking on Ruthann’s encouragement. The Cassidy women—Nana, in particular—had always been strong believers in the power of affirmations.

Karen didn’t look convinced, but she straightened her posture and held her chin a trifle higher. It was a start.

I reached around her hips. “Measure twice, cut once,” I said, rattling off the number for Gracie to jot down in my sketchbook.

Gracie stared at me like I suddenly had a nose piercing and lip rings. “You, too?”

“Me, too, what?”

“Measure twice, cut once. That’s what my dad says whenever he builds anything. Oh, my God, he has all these models around the house. You should see them. They’re crazy.” She gave a little roll of her eyes. “Took him forever to build them because he does everything two or three times to make sure it’s perfect.”

“Guess it works for sewing and building. Loretta Mae taught me it’s better to be safe than sorry.” She was a trickster, but where quilting and sewing were concerned, she’d mapped everything out. “That way, there’s never a surprise,” she’d say.

I’d wondered, more than once, if things always turned out the way she wanted them to not because she was charmed, but because she dotted her i’s and crossed her t’s. Twice.

When we finished, Karen stepped down from the crate and took a closer look at the small rack of shapewear in the corner. “Is this what Josie was talking about?” she asked.

“It’s like magic,” I said, nodding. It would hold Karen’s jigglies in place. I took a package off the shelf and handed it to her as Ruthann came back into the workroom.

“My husband might not like this,” Karen said, scratching the back of her head with her fingertips.

Ruthann scoffed. “He’s not going to be the one wearing it, is he?”

Karen had opened the package and pulled out the lingerie slip. She tugged at the fabric, stretching it across her splayed fingers. “No, but will he know it’s there?”

Ruthann arched an eyebrow. “Does it matter?”

“He won’t know it’s there,” I said, “but Ruthann’s right. It doesn’t matter. It just firms everything up so you’ll feel a little more—”

“Poised,” Ruthann finished. Perched on a stool next to the shelf of buttons and trims, absently poking her fingers into a mason jar, she was the epitome of composure. I couldn’t help but think that when she was a kid, she should have responded to those open-audition radio spots calling for child actors or auditioned for America’s Next Top Model. Appearance and self-possession could open doors. Being smart enough to walk through them could take a woman far in life. Either the doors hadn’t opened for Ruthann or she’d chosen not to walk through them.

“Trust me, Karen,” I said. I didn’t design clothes for other people to oooh and ahhh over and steal the show. I designed clothes that complemented the person wearing them, that made her glow and shine, and made her ready to walk through any door, head held high.

From the corner of my eye, I could see Gracie scribbling in a miniature notebook. A funny zing—like I was a sensei and she was my karate kid—shot through my core and a feeling of responsibility blossomed.

“What do you think of this?” I slid my open sketchbook over so Ruthann could see the design I’d come up with in the middle of the night. “I know you said wraparound, but I had this idea.” It was a strapless dress, still cut at the knee, but with a full skirt made of a pale green chiffon. The torso and waist were accentuated by a wide fitted sash starting just under the bustline and ending at the waist. The bodice itself had vertical pleats, complementing Josie’s dress, and it would add a little va-va-voom volume to Ruthann’s toothpick body.

She took one look at it, pressed her hand to her heart, and nodded enthusiastically. “That’s the one. I want you to make me that dress!”

I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath until I exhaled. I’d known it was perfect for her, but often women chose clothes that didn’t complement their figures. Thankfully, Ruthann wasn’t one of those women.

She slipped behind the privacy screen to try on something she’d pulled from the ready-to-wear rack up front —a sleek army green jumper with an abundance of zippers and hardware. I pulled out a bolt of muslin, plopping it on the cutting table and unwinding the fabric until I had a good length of it to drape with.

“It just doesn’t feel right without Nell here,” Karen said glumly.

We all murmured in agreement. It wasn’t hard to pretend for a just a little while that things were normal, but the pretense couldn’t last long. Someone had killed Nell.

“I heard the sheriff questioned Nate,” Ruthann called.

“For three hours,” Karen said, her expression dubious. She absently played with a scattering of buttons.

I frowned. Already the story had grown. By tomorrow, the rumors would have him in lockup, perched on the edge of an electric chair.

Ruthann’s voice drifted to us through the angled slats of the screen. “A little birdie told me that Nate told Josie about him and Nell.”

A few buttons scattered from Karen’s lap to the hardwood floor. “Sorry,” she muttered. The stool scraped against the floor as she slid off it. She crouched and scooped the buttons up. “What birdie?”

Ruthann popped her head out from her changing room. “George Taylor.”

“Who’s George Taylor?” Gracie asked. I was taking in every word, adding it to what I already knew about Nell in order to help Josie, but Gracie—she was in high hog heaven. She’d leaned two bolts of fabric in front of her buttons and glass cleanup project to help me measure, and now she pinned and listened, pinned and listened, and all I could think was that this probably wasn’t what Will had had in mind when he’d arranged for her to take sewing lessons with me.

Ruthann sauntered into view. The jumper fit her like a glove, like I’d made it just for her. It hugged her body, transforming the hard lines of her hips into hourglass curves, no small feat for such a thin woman. She glided straight over to Gracie, placed a hand on her shoulder, winked, and said, “George Taylor is only the most eligible bachelor in Bliss next to Derek and—”

“Nate,” Karen finished with a little laugh.

“Right, but Derek’s in the Middle East and Josie took Nate off the market, so that leaves George.” Ruthann moved in front of the full-length mirror, slowly spinning around, taking in every inch of her figure in the jumper. The angles of her face transformed as she broke into a giddy smile. “This is magical, Harlow.” She spun around, peering at her backside over her shoulder. “It’s for sale, right?”

“I don’t think another soul could wear that,” I said, “and I can’t let you leave without buying it.”

Karen let the buttons she played with fall through her fingers. “What else did George say?”

Ruthann turned away from the mirror. “Well, apparently he told Louie Flapman, who told Janine Crandle, who told me that it looked like he and Nate had—” She grimaced and made quote marks in the air with her fingers as she said, “fished in the same pond.”

I cleared away the indignant lump in my throat. “For the record, George Taylor does not sound like the most charming bachelor in town.” I’d almost be tempted to choose