Nell had not embodied the same philosophy with her accessories.
Josie pulled out her checkbook and the next second she was tearing out a check and handing it to me. “We didn’t talk price,” she said, “but I hope this’ll be enough to get started on the dresses.”
I faltered, recoiling as if the check was one of the hundred-plus varieties of snakes in Texas. “The wedding’s on?” I hated to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I was not an opportunist, either. One more reason I wasn’t a good fit in the cutthroat world of New York fashion.
Her olive skin was sallow. “We can’t postpone it,” she said. “Nate’s brother and father have been gone for almost three months, on and off. His dad’s flying in from Angola to be here. Too many out-of-town guests coming, arrangements that can’t be canceled . . .” She sounded like she was repeating verbatim what had been drilled into her. “No, I talked to Nate this morning. We’re going ahead with the wedding.”
I glanced at the check—a thousand dollars—and lost my breath. That, combined with the final bill for the gown and three—er, two—dresses, would be enough to keep Buttons & Bows afloat for a while. But the slip of paper felt like a lead weight in my hand.
I handed it back to her, suddenly remembering what Nell had said about hoping Nate didn’t break Josie’s heart. Things happened for a reason. If Nell’s death was a way for Josie to have more time, she needed to take it. And if Nate loved her, he’d understand. “Josie, you don’t have to rush it.”
She paled even more. Her lips quivered. “How can I smile and celebrate when she’s gone? She was going to be my maid of honor.”
Right. Would Ruthann or Karen fill that role now?
A rogue thought occurred to me. I remembered overhearing something about a shotgun wedding yesterday. If we were in the 1950s, I’d be wondering if Josie was pregnant and the hurried wedding was to save the family’s reputation.
Of course we were in small-town Texas, so it was sort of the same thing. “You’re not . . . um . . . Are you . . .” I couldn’t figure out how to ask her tactfully.
She leaned forward with each of my starts and stops like she could pull the words out of me.
I cupped my hands over my belly. “You know—”
She flung herself back on the couch. “God, no! We don’t want kids right away. We want to be a family, him and me, before we add that to the mix.”
I breathed out a sigh of relief. “So there’s no hurry. If you don’t feel right about it . . .” This time I trailed off. Who was I to tell her to postpone her fairy-tale nuptials?
She laid the check on the coffee table. “Harlow,” she said, “I need you to make my bridal gown, and Karen and Ruthann’s bridesmaid dresses. The wedding is on.”
As I hesitated, a gentle puff of air, nothing stronger than an afternoon breeze, swept under the check Josie had written. The paper fluttered off the coffee table and landed in my lap.
A shiver stole through me. The windows in here were definitely closed. I had the sudden feeling that Josie and I weren’t alone in the house, that the check had been picked up and placed on my lap by some ghostly presence.
Meemaw.
Josie put her hand on mine. “Please, Harlow. I want to marry Nate.”
I took her hand and nodded, hoping it was sincerity I felt emanating from her and not desperation. The dress I made for her would have to be beyond perfect. Every seam I stitched would hold together her dreams. Every bead I sewed would bring sparkle back into her life. And every pleat I added would help her fold her grief into manageable pieces.
I went into the workroom, grabbed a package from a cardboard box I hadn’t had the chance to unload yet, and handed it to her. “Go put this on.”
She flipped it over. “Spanx?”
I’d become a shapewear convert when Maximilian gave a sampler pack to his employees for Christmas one year. I’d witnessed the before and after with my own eyes. My “now you see them” jiggles had been transformed into a sleek silhouette.
She opened the envelope and pulled out the Hide & Sleek Hi-Rise Body Smoother, the perfect thing for her to wear under her strapless Empire dress. I’d be giving her the illusion of a longer, leaner line with the high waist. No regular hose or shaper would do.
“Um, are you sure?” she asked skeptically.
“One hundred percent.” I steered her to the distressed red wooden privacy screen off to the right of the room. The screen looked like old oversized window shutters hung together with antique hinges. Lengths of fabric draped over one side. Clothes hangers were hooked onto the slats, displaying samples of some of my favorite designs. “Even Jessica Simpson wears Spanx.”
Her eyes popped wide. “Really?”
Jessica was a Texan. That gave her extra credibility with other Texans.
I winked. “It’s gonna be great. Trust me.”
A minute later she came out from behind the screen practically glowing. “It works!”
“Of course it does.” She went on, raving about how comfortable she was, that she’d still be able to dance, how much better it was than the girdle her mom had bought from Walmart, and how Karen and Ruthann, but especially Karen, were going to flip when they discovered these. “They’re always talking about their tummies. Karen’s got her husband, but Ruthann says she better find herself a man quick before her looks go. And Nell . . .”
Her gaze darkened, but she pulled herself together. “Nell would have loved this,” she finally said. “She was forever complaining about her muffin top. Said there was no stopping it.”
I’d noticed Nell’s midsection. She would have been a Spanx convert for sure. I’d decided long ago that every woman needed to feel good about her body, and if it took shapewear to accomplish that, then so be it.
I spent the next hour measuring Josie’s beautifully compressed curves and going over the final design when she was dressed again. She peered at the sketch I’d done. “I don’t really get the pleating,” she said.
I’d played with our original design and had come up with the perfect dress for her. The pleats ran horizontally. I’d changed the sweetheart neckline to a slightly scalloped cut. It would fit her beautifully, accenting her in all the right places. “The pleats give it structure,” I said. “The sketch is rough, I know, but it’s going to be fantastic, Josie. You’ll look like a princess. Trust me.”
“But strapless?” Her shoulders hunched slightly, as if she was imagining herself in it right this minute, and she couldn’t quite picture it. “Are you sure? I’ll never do it justice.”
I turned her around to face the full-length oval mirror in the corner. “Look at you! You’re beautiful.” One of Meemaw’s maxims came to me, another bit of wisdom I lived by. “This dress is going to complement you perfectly, Josie. It’s not meant to steal the show.”
Her spine straightened and she threw her shoulders back. Bless her heart, she was trying her best to envision it and feel confident. After all, I was a designer. I could see the dress in my mind. It wouldn’t be so easy for someone who didn’t live and breathe fashion, clothing, and design. “So it’ll have beads?” she asked.
“Plenty of sparkle,” I confirmed.
She smiled—an honest-to-goodness grin—for the first time since she’d arrived here this morning. “I trust you, Harlow.”
“Good,” I said just as a knock sounded on the front door.
My ragtag appearance hadn’t improved over the last hour and a half. As I padded toward the door, I made a new rule for myself. Be presentable before I came downstairs, just in case this trend of early visitors continued.
I peeked through the glass of the front door and gasped. Sheriff Hoss McClaine stood there, cowboy hat in hand, toothpick between his teeth, looking like he was ready to hang someone with a brand-new rope.