Pleating for Mercy (2 page)

What had been Loretta Mae’s dining room was now my cutting and work space. My five-year-old state-of-the-art digital Pfaff sewing machine and Meemaw’s old Singer sat side by side on their respective sewing tables. An eight-foot-long white-topped cutting table stood in the center of the room, unused as of yet. Meemaw had one old dress form, which I’d dragged down from the attic. I’d splurged and bought two more, anticipating a brisk dressmaking business, which had yet to materialize.

I’d taken to talking to her during the dull spots in my days. “Meemaw,” I said now, sitting in my workroom, hemming a pair of pants, “it’s lonesome without you. I sure wish you were here.”

A breeze suddenly blew in through the screen, fluttering the butter yellow sheers that hung on either side of the window as if Meemaw could hear me from the spirit world. It was no secret that she’d wanted me back in Bliss. Was it so far-fetched to think she’d be hanging around now that she’d finally gotten what she’d wanted?

I adjusted my square-framed glasses before pulling a needle through the pants leg. Gripping the thick synthetic fabric sent a shiver through me akin to fingernails scraping down a chalkboard. Bliss was not a mecca of fashion; so far I’d been asked to hem polyester pants, shorten the sleeves of polyester jackets, and repair countless other polyester garments. No one had hired me to design matching mother and daughter couture frocks, create a slinky dress for a night out on the town in Dallas, or anything else remotely challenging or interesting.

I kept the faith, though. Meemaw wouldn’t have brought me back home just to watch me fail.

As I finished the last stitch and tied off the thread, a flash of something outside caught my eye. I looked past the French doors that separated my work space from what had been Meemaw’s gathering room and was now the boutique portion of Buttons & Bows. The window gave a clear view of the front yard, the wisteria climbing up the sturdy trellis archway, and the street beyond. Just as I was about to dismiss it as my imagination, the bells I’d hung from the doorknob on a ribbon danced in a jingling frenzy and the front door flew open. I jumped, startled, dropping the slacks but still clutching the needle.

A woman sidled into the boutique. Her dark hair was pulled up into a messy but trendy bun and I noticed that her eyes were red and tired-looking despite the heavy makeup she wore. She had on jean shorts, a snap-front top that she’d gathered and tied in a knot below her breastbone, and wedge-heeled shoes. With her thumbs crooked in her back pockets and the way she sashayed across the room, she reminded me of Daisy Duke—with a muffin top.

Except for the Gucci bag slung over her shoulder. That purse was the real deal and had cost more than two thousand dollars, or I wasn’t Harlow Jane Cassidy.

A deep frown tugged at the corners of her shimmering pink lips as she scanned the room. “Huh—this isn’t at all what I pictured.”

Not knowing what she’d pictured, I said, “Can I help you?”

“Just browsing,” she said with a dismissive wave. She sauntered over to the opposite side of the room, where a matching olive green and gold paisley damask sofa and love seat snuggled in one corner. They’d been the nicest pieces of furniture Loretta Mae had owned and some of the few pieces I’d kept. I’d added a plush red velvet settee and a coffee table to the grouping. It was the consultation area of the boutique—though I’d yet to use it.

The woman bypassed the sitting area and went straight for the one-of-a-kind Harlow Cassidy creations that hung on a portable garment rack. She gave a low whistle as she ran her hand from one side to the other, fanning the sleeves of the pieces. “Did you make all of these?”

“I sure did,” I said, preening just a tad. Buttons & Bows was a custom boutique, but I had a handful of items leftover from my time in L.A. and New York to display and I’d scrambled to create samples to showcase.

She turned, peering over her shoulder and giving me a once-over. “You don’t
look
like a fashion designer.”

I pushed my glasses onto the top of my head so I could peer back at her, which served to hold my curls away from my face. Well,
she
didn’t look like she could afford a real Gucci, I thought, but I didn’t say it. Meemaw had always taught me not to judge a book by its cover. If this woman dragged around an expensive designer purse in little ol’ Bliss, she very well might need a fancy gown for something,
and
be able to pay for it.

I balled my fists, jerking when I accidentally pricked my palm with the needle I still held. My smile tightened—from her attitude as well as from the lingering sting on my hand—as I caught a quick glimpse of myself in the freestanding oval mirror next to the garment rack. I looked comfortable and stylish, not an easy accomplishment. Designer jeans. White blouse and color-blocked black-and-white jacket—made by me. Sandals with twoinch heels that probably cost more than this woman’s entire wardrobe. Not that I’d had to pay for them, mind you. Even a bottom-of-the-ladder fashion designer employed by Maximilian got to shop at the company’s end-ofseason sales, which meant fabulous clothes and accessories at a steal. It was a perk I was going to sorely miss.

I kept my voice pleasant despite the bristling sensation I felt creep up inside me. “Sorry to disappoint. What does a fashion designer look like?”

She shrugged, a new strand of hair falling from the clip at the back of her head and framing her face. “Guess I thought you’d look all done up, ya know? Or be a gay man.” She tittered.

Huh. She had a point about the gay man thing. “Are you looking for anything in particular? Buttons and Bows is a custom boutique. I design garments specifically for the customer. Other than those items,” I said, gesturing to the dresses she was flipping through, “it’s not an off-the-rack shop.”

Before she could respond, the bells jingled again and the door banged open, hitting the wall. I made a mental note to get a spring or a doorstop. There were a million things to fix around the old farmhouse. The list was already as long as my arm.

A woman stood in the doorway, the bright light from outside sneaking in around her, creating her silhouette. “Harlow Cassidy!” she cried out. “I didn’t believe it could really be true, but it is! Oh, thank God! I desperately need your help!”

I
knew
that voice. Recollection tickled the edge of my brain. I forgot about Daisy Duke and walked toward the door. It took a second, and then it came to me. Josephine Sandoval. She’d been a year behind me in elementary school and had spent second grade following me around telling me that she wished she could be part of the Cassidy family.
“Josie?”

She stepped inside and I could see that she was nodding, but before I could get a look at the woman Josie’d grown to be, two more women elbowed their way in behind her, shoving her forward. Her feet tangled and she lost her balance, crashing into me.

My arms flew up to block the impact, but she kept coming. I felt resistance as the needle I was still holding plunged into her arm.

She screeched. “Ow!”

“Oh! Oh!” I pried her grip from my arm, pushed her off of me, and pulled the tip of the needle out of her flesh. Her hand flew up and a cluster of beaded bracelets slid down her arm as her fingertips pressed against the microscopic wound.

A cacophony of high-pitched voices came all at once. “Are you all right?” one of the women asked, her voice rising above the others. They’d surrounded us like clucking hens.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said, backing away from me. “Are
you
okay, Harlow?”

I looked around for a place to ditch the needle. There was a puffy pink pincushion on top of the antique secretary desk just outside the workroom. I didn’t remember setting it there, but I quickly stabbed my needle into it and turned back to the women. “I’m okay.” I squinted at the bubble of blood on Josie’s arm. “Do you need a bandage?”

She shook her head. “It’s fine.” Her face broke into a toothy smile. “I can’t believe it’s really true. I told Loretta Mae how great it would be if you came back. We talked about it just before she passed.” She paused, quickly crossing herself, from forehead to breastbone, left shoulder to right. “God rest her soul.” She hurried on. “She came into Seed-n-Bead—that’s where I work—and I told her I wished you would come back to Bliss. And do you know what she told me? She said, “Josie, honey, don’t fret. Harlow’s on her way back.”

I stared. “Really? She said that?”

“Exactly that,” Josie confirmed. “I’m not surprised she was right. She was always right.”

More proof that Loretta Mae Cassidy really did have the gift of foresight and knew what would happen long before it ever did.

I’d listened intently to Josie’s rapid narrative, all the while taking a better look at her. She was a little shorter than my five feet seven inches. Her coffee-colored hair hit just past her shoulders. She had full cheeks and was rounder than I remembered, and also prettier. She was very Jennifer Lopez, all womanly curves, and those curves were in all the right places.

The other two women looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place them. “This is Karen,” Josie said, gesturing to the shorter woman on her right, “and this is Ruthann.” Ruthann unwound the Grace Kelly scarf she had draped over her head and tucked it into her purse. She was tall, probably five feet eleven inches. Perfect bone structure and not an ounce of fat on her body. She could have made it as a model if she’d been twelve instead of thirtysomething. Karen, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. Five-five, round, but without the perfect curves that Josie was blessed with, and flyaway hair that hadn’t been protected from the wind.

I kept
my
hair in two ponytails just below my ears most of the time so I didn’t have to fuss with it. Like all the Cassidy women, I had thick chestnut ringlets with distinct streaks of blond woven throughout, one quite prominent strip right in front, like the stripe of a skunk. Not even a sophisticated Jackie O or Princess Grace scarf would keep it tamed.

“Nice to meet you—”

“We went to school together,” Karen said with a little laugh. “Karen Lowe. Now Mitchell. Guess I wasn’t too memorable.”

Like all Cassidy women, I’d kept to myself in high school to stay under the radar, not that I had anything to hide or a secret to protect. I smiled as big as I could, waving away her comment. “Karen Lowe! Of course. It’s been a long time.” Almost fourteen years, to be exact. I’d left for college when I was almost twenty.

We chatted for a few minutes before Ruthann, who was perched on the edge of the settee and looked like she belonged in the swanky Preston Hollow neighborhood of Dallas, asked, “What brought you back here?”

I spread my arms wide. “Seems my great-grandmother deeded the house to me on the day I was born. I’ve owned this place all my life and I never knew it.”

“Your mother didn’t want to move in instead? So you could stay in New York?” Ruthann, with her perfectly coiffed hair and neat-as-a-pin summer dress, asked the question so innocently. Little did she know that life in New York was no picnic.

“No.” I shook my head, remembering the conversation I’d had with my mother. “Harlow Jane,” she’d said to me over the phone when I’d asked her that very question, “when you were born, Meemaw took one look at your face and she said she could see your whole life laid out. She put your name on the deed that very day. She said that that old house was your future. ‘She might not understand it at first, Tessa Cassidy,’ she told me, ‘but one day she will.’ ”

“So you quit your job in New York and moved back here, huh?” The voice came from behind me.

“Nell!” Josie jumped up as the Daisy Duke look-alike joined the group around the coffee table. “You’re here!” She turned to me. “So you’ve met?”

Daisy, who I now knew was Nell, had practically disappeared into the rack of clothes and I’d forgotten all about her. “Not officially,” I said, and I thought to myself what a misfit group of friends Josie had.

“Nell Gellen, Harlow Cassidy,” Josie said. We nodded at each other, and Josie went on. “Nell owns Seed-n-Bead.”

I had to force my mouth not to drop open in surprise. This
really
did not compute. Josie, with her full white skirt and springlike yellow top, looked crisp and together.
She
looked like a store owner. Nell, on the other hand, looked like she’d ridden into town on the back of a hay truck. “I love beads,” I said, trying to remember that things are not always as they seem.

Sitting back on the paisley couch, I crossed my legs. Hopefully they had some dressmaking need I could fulfill. “So, what can I do for you ladies?” I asked when the chattering had died down.

I might as well have opened the floodgates of a dam. They all began talking at once, each voice straining to be the loudest. My head jerked from one moving mouth to the next, trying to figure out which one I should be listening to.

A shrill whistle broke through the noise. Josie was next to me on the couch and had her thumb and index finger in her mouth. She let out another high-pitched sound. “Shut it!” she shouted and, amazingly, they did. “Harlow,” she said turning to face me.

I leaned forward. “Yes?”

“I’m getting married.”

From the way she’d blurted the news to the way her frenzied hands twisted around each other as she spoke, I didn’t know whether to congratulate her or say I was sorry.

But Karen laughed, clapping her hands, and I noticed the nondescript wedding band on her left hand.
Mitchell
, I mused. I couldn’t remember any Mitchells from school. I felt disconnected from my hometown. “So exciting!” she said.

Nell nodded. She’d tucked one heeled foot up under her on the love seat and her lips curved into a pleased, if subdued, little smile. Ruthann sat primly on the settee. Her ring finger was bare, but her smile looked genuine. As different as they were, they all seemed happy for Josie.