Authors: Susan Furlong
“Sure enough. Just send them back to my station.”
In the back corner of the shop, Hattie had utilized a lovely folding screen with an inlaid floral motif to partition an area for alterations. Behind the partition, a large corner table held an industrial sewing machine, racks of thread spools, a myriad of scissors and a divided box of pins, buttons and
clasps. To the side of the workstation, a carpeted platform rested in front of an antique white cheval mirror.
Hattie disappeared behind the counter again, where she continued opening boxes and checking order slips while the rest of the girls waited impatiently. The first girls were coming out of the dressing room, proud mamas trailing after them, holding up their gowns as they made their way to Mrs. Busby for alterations. After a couple more girls disappeared to the dressing rooms with their gowns, the Peach Queen’s mother heaved a sigh and glanced disgustedly at her watch. “How much longer is this going to take? I have an appointment at the salon in about ten minutes.”
Hattie was still behind the counter, tearing through packing material, her expression panicked. “Of course, Mrs. Crenshaw. I’ll be right with you,” she answered with a strained voice.
Next to me, Ginny shifted and rolled her eyes, quietly mimicking the woman under her breath. “Can you believe how demanding that woman is?”
Ginny’s usually good-natured demeanor was being stretched thin by the overbearing woman. At the moment, she reminded me of a spark getting ready to ignite and explode. I patted her hand and mumbled under my breath, “Remember why you’re here. To show your daughter the importance of social grace, right?” I shot her a sly grin and stood. “I think I’ll just go over and see if Hattie needs a hand.” Hattie had seemed cool and controlled before, but she looked like maybe she could use a bit of help now.
Just as I reached the counter, the bells above the door jingled again. This time it was a model-thin woman wearing crisp linen pants and a matching jacket. Her silky silver hair was cut at a precise angle to accentuate her strong jawline and graceful neck. Upon seeing her, Hattie stopped her work,
straightened her shoulders and plastered on a huge smile. So did everyone else in the room. It was as if they were all marionettes and the puppet master had just pulled their strings.
“Mrs. Wheeler! Uh . . . you must be here to pick up your alterations.” Hattie’s voice was thinning even more, and her eyes darted nervously between her waiting customers and a rack of clothing lining her back wall. She took a little shuffle step as if she wasn’t sure which way to go first.
Mrs. Wheeler glanced over the crowded waiting area and, sensing Hattie’s stress, put on a gracious smile and said, “I didn’t realize you were so busy. Please don’t bother with my order right this minute. I’ve got business at the flower shop down the street. How about I stop by when I’m done there? Perhaps things will have settled down by then.”
Hattie let out her breath and nodded gratefully, promising to have her order ready when she returned. But as soon as the woman exited, Hattie turned to me with an even more panicked expression, her back to the impatient mothers still on the couch. “There’s a problem.”
“A problem? What?”
She nodded toward the box on the floor. “There’s only one dress left.”
I shrugged.
“You’re not getting it,” she hissed, discreetly pointing across the room. “One dress, but two girls.”
I could feel my eyes popping as I sucked in my breath. “Oh.”
Joining her behind the counter, I squatted down and started ripping through the mounds of packing paper. “Are you sure?” She slid down next to me. My mind flashed back to a competitive game of hide-and-seek we once played as kids. Hattie and I crouched together behind the peach crates in my daddy’s barn, suppressing giggles as her big brother, Cade, searched
and searched in vain. Only this situation wasn’t fun and games at all.
She chewed her lip and nodded. “I’m sure.”
“Well, whose dress is it?”
“Any chance you can hurry things up a bit?” Vivien Crenshaw called out from across the room. “Like I said, I’m on a tight schedule.”
Hattie raised up and peered over the counter. “Be right with ya!” Then, popping back down, she started to fall apart. “I just don’t know what’s happened. . . . Neither of the numbers on the order forms matches the one on the dress, but I think it’s Emily’s. It’s just been so crazy here. . . . Maybe I messed up when I placed the order. What am I going to do? Of all the dresses to be missing.”
“Relax. Just tell Mrs. Crenshaw there was a mistake. The cotillion is still a couple weeks away. There’s plenty of time to get Tara’s dress shipped and altered. Mistakes happen, right?”
She nodded, drew in a deep breath and stood up. “Mrs. Crenshaw, would you mind coming over here, please?”
I busied myself behind the counter, folding up the packing materials, revealing more of the dress that was left in the box. I couldn’t help but smooth my hand over the shimmery satin of the gown. Actually, it gave me a little thrill to finally see the dress Emily had been talking about for so long. It was gorgeous! Viewing it up close gave me a slight prickle of regret. Due to a tragic, youthful mistake I didn’t really want to think about at that moment, I’d missed my own cotillion, something my mother had never quite forgiven me for. Actually, thinking back on it, I was always a bit of a tomboy and never put much stock in the debutante craze anyway. Charm classes, dance lessons . . . all that was never really my thing. Of course, being raised by a mother who prided
herself on her Southern heritage, I understood the reasoning behind such formalities. Like many things Southern, it was a ritual passed down since the days before Mr. Lincoln’s war. And, we Southerners lived and died by our traditions, whether it was sweet tea, SEC football or fancy cotillions.
I ran my hand over the fine lace accents on the bodice of Emily’s dress. Still, it would have been fun to wear something so elegant. . . .
“What do you mean her dress isn’t in yet? That’s it right there.”
My head snapped up. Vivien Crenshaw was pointing at the dress I was caressing. Her daughter Tara stood next to her, nodding enthusiastically as they both peered over the counter.
“Oh no. I don’t think so. I believe this is Emily Wiggins’s dress,” Hattie responded.
At the mention of her name, Emily started for the counter. Ginny was right behind her. Guessing by the wild look in Ginny’s eye and the slight flush of her cheeks, her hackles were up. I sucked in my breath.
“Let me see that,” Ginny demanded. I stood and held it upright. She took a quick look and turned to Vivien. “I’m sorry, Vivien, but you’re mistaken. That’s the dress Emily ordered. I’d know it anywhere.” And she would, too. She and Ginny had spent days scouring over the catalogs at Hattie’s, searching for Emily’s dream cotillion dress—special ordered all the way from Atlanta—which I’d heard described a thousand times as an off-shoulder satin sheath that would look so beautiful on Emily’s slim figure. Why, she was going to look just like a princess in it!
“No, you’re the one who’s mistaken,” Vivien countered. She reached across the counter and snatched the dress from
my hands. “Go try it on, Tara. And hurry. We’re pressed for time.”
“Now wait just a minute.” Ginny intercepted her, placing a hand on Vivien’s arm. “That’s my daughter’s dress and—”
“Ladies, please!” Hattie interrupted. “There’s an easier way to resolve this. Just give me a few minutes and I’ll call the dress company and get this straightened out.” She already had the phone in her hand and was dialing the number as she walked toward the back room for privacy.
In the meantime, a crowd was gathering. Mrs. Busby, pincushion in hand, came over to see about the ruckus. Right behind her shuffled one of the debs, dragging the hem of her too-long gown. Then, out of one of the dressing rooms came Belle Jones and her mother, Maggie, their eyes gleaming with anticipation. Even the dark-haired window-washing girl stopped working and came inside to gawk. I swear, the whole scene reminded me of schoolkids gathering on the playground to witness a smackdown.
Emily spoke up, her eyes full of concern. “That’s my dress, Mrs. Crenshaw. I’m sure of it.”
Vivien’s eyes shifted from Ginny and homed in on Emily. “This isn’t your dress, young lady, and you know it.”
Ginny recoiled and then sprang forward, her eyes full of venom. “Are you calling my girl a liar?”
“Just calm down, Ginny,” I pleaded, dashing out from behind the counter and grabbing ahold of my friend. “We’ll get this figured out.”
Under my grip, I could feel Ginny’s muscles tensing. She was ready to fight for this dress. Thank goodness, Hattie finally came out of the back room. She was carrying a large binder, her hands trembling as she flipped through the pages. “I’m afraid I’ve made a horrible mistake,” she started to confess.
Vivien raised a brow. “A mistake?”
Hattie nodded. “Yes, you see, I would never order two of the same style dress for a cotillion. Y’all know how embarrassing it would be for two girls have the same one.” She choked out a nervous little laugh before continuing, “But it seems both Tara and Emily picked the same dress from the catalog, but I somehow got the numbers on one of them mixed up, so I didn’t know there were two of the same. So when I ordered it, the company called for clarification on a number, and . . . well, the right catalog number was already ordered, even in the right size . . . so I thought I had everyone covered. . . .” She swallowed hard, unable to dredge up her usual shopkeeper’s smile.
Ginny lifted her chin. “Well, it’s simple enough. Which one of us placed the order first?”
Hattie turned back a couple pages in the binder. “It looks like Emily did.”
Vivien clutched the dress tighter. “Why does it matter who ordered first? We picked it up first. Besides, I’m sure Emily can find something else to suit her.”
Two bright crimson circles suddenly appeared on Ginny’s cheeks. “No way! You heard Hattie. That’s our dress.”
“I don’t think so,” Vivien countered.
Ginny reached for the gown, but Emily stopped her. “Don’t, Mama. Please. It’s all right. I’ll pick out another.” Tears welled in her eyes, and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she scanned the room and took in the reactions of the other girls.
Ginny wheeled and glared at her daughter. “Why should you? They’re just trying to bully us.”
Emily didn’t respond. Instead, she pleaded silently with the most heartbreaking expression I’d ever witnessed. I knew exactly what she was feeling. If Tara Crenshaw was the most
popular girl in school, crossing her would mean social suicide. The same thing must have dawned on Ginny, too, because instantly her expression softened and she backed away from Vivien and the coveted dress.
Taking the change in Ginny’s demeanor as a sign of surrender, Vivien triumphantly handed the dress over to Tara and pointed to the dressing rooms. “Hurry now, sweetie. We don’t have much time to spare.” Then Vivien turned a sugary sweet smile toward Mrs. Busby. “Like I said, Tara and I are on a tight schedule, so if you wouldn’t mind quickly pinning the dress. It probably won’t need much, just a little tuck here and there. . . .” She eyed Ginny out of the corner of her eye. “After all, we’ve known all along that it would be the perfect fit for Tara’s figure.”
Ginny clenched her fists and let out a long harrumph.
“We should go,” I suggested.
Ginny bristled, her eyes darting across the room to where Emily was now hunched over the dress catalog with a friend. “Let’s give Emily a few minutes, okay?”
I sighed and shook my head, remaining close by just in case quick intervention was needed. After a few minutes, Tara came back out of the dressing room, prancing in front of her friends, who serenaded her with a round of oohs and aahs.
Vivien lifted her head proudly and helped her daughter onto the carpeted block. “Just like I thought,” she said. “Almost a perfect fit.” She pinched a bit of fabric in the back. “Maybe take in just a little here, and the hem of course. And if you could work quickly, Mrs. Busby, so we can be on our way. We’ll come back in this evening for a second fitting. Let’s say around six thirty.”
Mrs. Busby looked shell-shocked. “Six thirty?”
Hattie piped up. “I’m afraid we close at six tonight, Mrs. Crenshaw. You’ll have to—”
Mrs. Busby held up her hand. “It’s all right. I don’t mind staying a little longer.”
“But, Mama!” Vivien’s daughter cut in. “I’m supposed to meet my friends at the library. We won’t be done by six thirty.”
Vivien didn’t bat a lash at her daughter’s outburst. Instead, to my astonishment, she said, “Of course, sweetheart. You go ahead and hang out with your friends. I’ll stop back and pick it up, and you can try it on at home. You probably won’t need a second fitting anyway.” Then she turned back to Mrs. Busby and demanded, “But have it ready tonight, so I can make sure the alterations are done correctly. If we do happen to need another fitting, I’ll want to set it up right away. Our schedule is impossibly full these days.”
“
Impossibly
full,” Ginny mimicked under her breath. I cringed and looked around, hoping no one else had heard her. Across the room, I saw that Emily and her friend were still poring over the dress catalog. “Hey, we should go have another look at that catalog,” I told Ginny. “Bet we can still find the perfect dress for Emily.”
But my friend didn’t budge. She was rooted in place, a scowl on her face as she watched Tara gloatingly parade back to the dressing room, carefully holding the pinned hem away from her ankles. “We already found Emily’s perfect dress,” Ginny bit out. “And that little snip is wearing it.”
Unfortunately, that comment was heard loud and clear. Once again, everyone’s attention focused on Ginny, including Emily’s. She quickly abandoned the dress catalog and sidled up to her mother. “I’m ready to go, if you are, Mama.”
“Sure you don’t need to look at the catalog some more?” Ginny asked tightly.
Emily shook her head. “We can do that anytime.” She tugged on her mother’s arm, but to no avail. Ginny and Vivien seemed to be locked in a menacing stare down. Seconds
passed without a single blink from either of them. Emily tugged some more and shot a pleading look my way.