“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 and holding up their gowns as they made their way to Mrs. Busby for alterations. After a couple more girls disappeared into the dressing rooms, 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 to offer my assistance, 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 the order ready when she returned. But as soon as the woman left, Hattie turned back to me with an even more panicked expression. “There’s a problem,” she whispered.
“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.”
My eyes grew wide. “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 match 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?”