ended up with Dalton Massie, my granddaddy, and Mrs. James had married Senator Jebediah James, a distant relation of Etta Place, the woman the Sundance Kid had loved. I found it ironic that our family stories intersected, but it all seemed to have worked out.
The sound of footsteps descending from upstairs interrupted us. We turned just as Will and Gracie rounded the corner into the main room of Buttons & Bows. “Mrs. James,” Will said, taking her offered hand.
“Always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Flores.” She nodded at Gracie. “Miss Flores,” she said to Gracie. “Do you know my granddaughter, Libby? You look to be about the same age.”
Gracie met Libby’s eyes. “Sure.” She lifted her hand in a casual greeting. “Hey.”
Libby kept her chin angled down, but flipped her hand up in a half wave. “Hey,” she said, her voice so soft I could hardly hear it. I had a feeling even the mere idea of being a Margaret was taking a huge toll on the shy girl.
“I love that one, but it doesn’t fit me,” Gracie said to Libby, pointing to a vintage-inspired swing dress. Stretch poplin, a gathered halter bodice with a back tie, side zipper, and a full circle skirt made it fun and flirty. The design had come to me one night and I’d been compelled to make it. It hadn’t been for me, but I hadn’t been willing to sell it.
Libby held it up, fanning the full skirt out. Her voice came out a little soft and breathy. “It’s pretty.”
“It’s totally you. Try it on!” Gracie pushed her toward the privacy screen in the workroom.
A splash of pink colored Libby’s cheeks. “Really? You think so?”
“Oh yeah. Wait a sec—you can wear it to the parade! Go ahead. See if it fits.”
Libby reappeared a minute later. An image of her shot like a bullet into my mind. In the vision her hair was pulled back, a big pink flower tucked behind her ear to match the retro pink rose fabric. My skin flushed with goose bumps as she spun around, the skirt scalloping out around her as she twirled. No wonder I hadn’t been able to sell it; it belonged to her. Of course I didn’t know how that was possible since I hadn’t known Libby when I’d made the dress.
“Looks like I’m buying that dress for my granddaughter,” Mrs. James said with a smile.
I nodded, pleased but preoccupied. Was my charm evolving, or was I just discovering a new facet to it? Either way, I didn’t understand how I could make the perfect garment for someone I didn’t know. But this dress, made before I’d ever met Libby, couldn’t be for anyone else.
Wearing the dress perked up Libby, and I could see a newfound confidence already flowing through her. She listened with wide-eyed admiration as Gracie chattered on about being a dressmaker’s apprentice.
Will, seizing the opportunity to get back to work, sidled by, grabbed his drill, and climbed up the ladder.
“What in tarnation is that?” Mrs. James asked, her gaze following him up the ladder until she was peering at the contraption against the ceiling.
“It’s a dress pulley,” I said. “My own invention—”
“More of a collaboration,” Will interjected, looking down at me. “Your idea, my execution.”
“I’m the brains. He’s the brawn,” I said with a laugh.
He scowled down at me, but a glimmer of playfulness shone in his eyes. “I’m gonna let that go for now, Cassidy, but we’re gonna talk about it later.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, giving him a salute. Turning back to Mrs. James, I continued. “We devised it so that I can work on gowns and not worry about the fabric dragging on the ground. Isn’t it great?”
She gazed up at it, a befuddled expression on her face. “How does it work?”
“The gown goes there,” I said, pointing to the wood-framed shape in the center with the lightweight dress form. “When I’m not working on it, I can activate the pulley and the whole thing will be secure at the ceiling.”
She nodded, her lips curved up in an impressed smile. “Quite ingenious, Harlow.”
I agreed, but my pride swelled at her praise. I didn’t know her well, but I’d already gathered that Mrs. James didn’t dole out many compliments.
“Libby,” I called. “Come see your Margaret dress.”
She and Gracie both appeared at the French doors that separated the workroom, formerly Meemaw’s dining room, from the main room of Buttons & Bows. “Is it ready?” Gracie asked. From the twinkle in her eyes, anyone would have thought it was her gown about to be revealed. Libby, on the other hand, stood a foot behind Gracie, her eyes never quite meeting mine.
“No, not ready. But close.” I winked at Libby, and beckoned her into the workroom. “Look,” I said, pointing to the dress in the corner. It hung, inside out, on Meemaw’s old dress form, the skirt of the gown pluming at the hem. “I’ll be ready to do another fitting day after tomorrow. Can you come back?”
Libby nodded as Mrs. James said, “Her mother can bring her.”
“Perfect,” I said, carefully unpinning the shoulder seams of the 1820s-style dress and folding back the lining to give them a glimpse of the bodice. Margaret Moffette Lea had been born in 1819, so the dress was an earlier style from what the original Margaret would have worn, but I thought I could get away with it. There were no Margaret police, as far as I knew.
I’d basted the sections together before I’d stitched them, but now the crisscross long basting threads weren’t necessary. “Let me cut these so you can get a better look,” I said, searching the room for my sewing bag. Then I remembered. “Darn. I left it at the country club—”
The buzz of the drill sounded and Will called down from the ladder, “Gonna be loud for a quick minute.”
I found another pair of scissors, my favorite red-handled Ginghers that Gracie had been using lately, and started snipping the basting stitches while Will drilled a handful of screws into the pulley’s frame. I pulled the dress off the form and carefully turned it right side out so Libby could get a good look at the design. The short sleeves were gathered with strips of vertical ruffles and a twisted and layered trim at the squared neckline. The bodice would have a heavy patterned applique, and the straight skirt, when it was finished, would have two rows of small ruffles. It was from the early 1820s rather than the later decades when hoops and corsets really took hold in the fashion world. When I’d met Libby the first time, I knew a simpler pattern would make her feel more comfortable. She’d be one of the most beautiful belles at the ball—of that, I was certain.
“It’s lovely, Harlow,” Mrs. James shouted above the drill. The grating sound stopped as she added, “Just lovely,” her voice loud in the suddenly quiet room.
Will holstered his drill, starting down the ladder as Mrs. James lowered her voice and turned to her granddaughter. “Libby, what do you think?”
“I love it!” Gracie gushed. “That color is totally perfect for you.”
Libby’s cheeks turned rosy and a little dimple dented the left side of her face as she smiled slightly. Her lips parted when she looked back at the gown. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked to me like a mix of thrill and nerves on her face. “I—I like it,” she said, lightly touching the sky blue silk with the pads of her fingertips. “A lot.”
Mrs. James pulled me aside as the girls looked at the detail work on the gown and Will packed up his tools for the day. “Sorry you didn’t make it to see me yesterday,” she said. One side of her mouth lifted and she smiled. Her face looked rather worn and wrinkled. She was usually fresh as a daisy, as Meemaw would say, but not today.
“Oh, well…” I trailed off, hoping she wouldn’t press me. I didn’t want to tell her I’d overheard the argument she’d had.
“It’s a good thing,” she continued. “The workmen brought a runway instead of a stage extension, if you can believe it. Completely wrong. They’ll be replacing it in a day or two.”
I heaved a Texas-sized sigh. “Oh, good. A runway!” I said, throwing all my effort into pretending I hadn’t seen the catwalk. “That wouldn’t have worked at all.” I drew in a bolstering breath. Now was as good a time as any to broach the subject of Gracie participating in the festival. “Mrs. James,” I said quietly, “Gracie was thinking she might like to be a Margaret. I know it’s late, but I was hoping…”
I’d spoken softly so no one else would hear me, and I didn’t see Will’s ears perk or his attention shift from his toolbox, but I sensed that he was suddenly focused on hearing Mrs. James’s response.
The senator’s wife didn’t bat an eyelash. “It
I felt my eyes glaze as she rattled off a few more stipulations. Being a Margaret was serious business.
Will’s shoulders had relaxed and he’d gone back to packing up his tools. His daughter was in the pageant.
Mrs. James wrapped up with me. “Come by the club tomorrow. If Gracie is going to be a Margaret, I’ll need
