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. But seeing it up close also gave me a little 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 mama 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 mama who prided herself in 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 Wiggin’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 Emily had spent days scouring over the catalogs at Hattie’s Boutique, 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 all 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 tooling over to see about the ruckus. Right behind her shuffled one of the debs, dragging the hem of her too-long gown. 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 school kids 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 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?”