“Mom!” Emily cried, her freckled face beaming with excitement. She held out Ginny’s purse. “The delivery truck just pulled in front of the boutique. The dresses are in!”
Ginny let out a little squeal, cast a quick glance toward the window and reached into her bag. “Okay, okay. Just give me a minute to freshen up.” She pulled a compact out and started touching up her lipstick, a shocking red color that looked surprisingly fabulous with her ginger-colored hair. “Oh, I can hardly wait! Emily’s cotillion dress. Can you imagine!” she gushed and glanced my way. “Come on, Nola. You said you’d come with us, right? You’ve just gotta see the gown we ordered.”
I peered anxiously at the stacks of wood for the unfinished shelving, the loose plaster, and the wood floors that were still only half-refinished. Knowing the renovation was too much for me to handle alone, I’d hired my friend, Cade McKenna, who owned a local contracting business, to help me transform the storage area into a quaint shop. One of the interior walls sported exposed red brick and would add the perfect touch to the country-chic look I wanted. But my vision versus reality didn’t mesh easily; I’d been scrubbing loose mortar from that wall for hours already. Cade said the loose stuff really needed to be removed before he could seal the rest. I sighed and glanced out the window. I’d already known my work would be interrupted later today when the delivery truck arrived; I’d been dragged into my dear friend and her daughter’s excitement since the get-go. But truth be told, I almost preferred flaking mortar to facing up to the debutante issues I knew would soon erupt into a community-wide frenzy. “I’d love to go,” I said. “But I really should keep at it.”
Ginny waved off my worry. “You’ve been at it all morning. You need a break.”
“Hey!” Frances turned her palms upward in protest. “I wasn’t done discussing the ad.”
“Oh, shush up, Frances,” Ginny shut her down. She reached back into her bag, this time pulling out a small bottle of cologne and giving herself a couple quick spritzes behind the ears.
“You’re fine, Mama,” Emily interrupted. “Let’s get going. I’m dying to try on my dress.”
Ginny finished primping and shouldered her bag. “All right, sweetie. Let’s go.” Her eyes glistened as she squeezed her daughter’s arm. “I just know you’re going to be the most beautiful debutante at the cotillion!” Then, turning to me, she added with a mischievous grin. “Are ya coming with us, or do you want to stay here and discuss the ad with Frances?”
Since she put it that way, I decided I could use a little break and proceeded to rip off my apron and remove the bandana covering my cropped hair. I ran my hand through the short strands, trying to give it a little lift, the extent of my personal primping routine, as I made my way to the back door. Opening it wide, I shrugged toward Frances, who was still standing in the middle of my would-be shop, a befuddled look on her face. “Sorry, Frances. Guess we’ll have to talk about the ad some other time.”
She opened and shut her mouth a few times but all that came out was a loud huff. Finally relenting, she threw up her hands and stormed out the door. I couldn’t help but stare after her with a grin on my face. Usually I didn’t take so much delight in being rude, but ever since Frances’s paper ran a smear campaign on my brother-in-law last August, I’d had a hard time being civil toward her. Who could blame me? At the time, she’d relentlessly pursued, harassed and tried to intimidate information from not only me, but my then-very-pregnant sister, Ida. And when Frances found she couldn’t coerce information from us, she printed libelous half-truths about Hollis—on the front page, nonetheless!—that all but landed him a lifetime prison sentence. Thank goodness all that misery was behind us now. What a relief knowing the only thing Frances could hound me about these days was a silly display ad for the back page of the paper.
*
EMILY WAS RIGHT; Hattie’s Boutique was already teeming with a small but enthusiastic pack of giggling debutantes and their equally excited mothers. They were pressing against the main counter like a horde of frenzied Black Friday shoppers while Hattie pulled billows of white satin and lace from long brown boxes. Carefully, she hung each dress on a rack behind the counter. “Ladies, please!” she pleaded. “Take a seat in the waiting area. I just need a few minutes to sort out the orders.”
One of the mothers, Maggie Jones, the preacher’s wife, was at the head of the pack sticking out her elbows like a linebacker in hopes of deterring the other gals from skirting around her in line. “Did the dress we ordered come in? Belle would like to try it on.”