“Never thought about it.”
“I think about it all the time.” To prove my point, I rose and walked over to my worktable to grab my sketchpad. After flipping through the various pages, I finally landed on just the right one. “See?”
He took a couple of steps in my direction, then leaned in close, and I noticed the scent of his yummy cologne. As he glanced down at my somewhat messy drawing, I felt his breath on my neck, and a little tingle wriggled down my spine.
“Oh, wow. You’re really good.” His gaze traveled between my sketch and the poster on the wall. “I see what you mean now.”
“Thanks. But I’m really just fascinated with trying some of these older styles in a new way. Not in the same way that Demetri does. My designs are nothing like his.”
“Well, your friend was right about that. And now I see why she went to such efforts to sing your praises. You definitely deserve it. Does Demetri know that you—”
“No!” I cut him off with an evil-stepmother glare. “And he won’t. Ever. He would . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
“He would hire you to do some of his best work?” Jordan tried.
“Hardly. He would probably sue me, claiming that I was trying to steal his clients. Or worse, his designs.”
“What makes you say that?” Jordan took my sketchbook and turned the pages, giving each an admiring look. “Maybe he would come to his senses. Carry your line in his store. You never know.”
“Oh, I know all right.” Should I tell him the story? Share the details about Brenda Wainswright, a former employee who had lost her job after Demetri discovered her “unfaithfulness,” as he called it? No, that would be a tale for another day.
“Well, you’re too good a designer to be shut up in the back room hemming skirts, that’s all I have to say.”
“Th-thank you.” His words both embarrassed and inspired me. How could he, a perfect stranger, offer such insight and encouragement? Then again, he wasn’t a complete stranger, now was he? We’d already shared a tiny bit of getting-to-know-you time at the store.
I shook off my errant thoughts and glanced at the sketchpad. “You just have to trust me when I say that it’s better if Demetri doesn’t find out. Not that he ever really notices me anyway.”
Now Jordan’s eyes locked onto mine. “How could anyone not notice you?” His voice carried a hint of teasing, but I saw a definite look of interest in his eyes, and it totally stunned me.
For a moment, I couldn’t seem to find my tongue. I finally managed an answer. “I don’t think he can see past the Fab Five and the Dynamic Duo, to be honest.”
“Fab Five? Dynamic Duo?”
I spent the next several minutes filling Jordan in on the ABCs of the Fab Five and then shifted gears to Lydia and Corinne. I finally stopped, remembering his reporter status. “I . . . I think I’ve said too much, sorry. Promise me you won’t put any of this in your article?”
“I promise, Gabi.”
Something about the way he spoke my name with such tenderness made me believe him. For a minute, anyway. Just as quickly, doubt and fear grabbed hold of my heart. I’d given this guy way too much information. Sure, he was playing nice right now, but would he use this against me later? In print? I could live to regret my vulnerability.
“Don’t worry. We’re off the record here. I won’t be writing about any of this, I promise.” His words eased my mind, and the conversation turned back to the sewing machine, which still gave me fits.
Jordan grabbed the screwdriver and gestured for me to give him the chair. “Let me give it a try, okay?”
“Sure.”
We worked together until the tension in the bobbin finally evened out. At that point I took his place in the chair, then ran a beautiful row of white stitches down a colorful piece of fabric. Primo!
Holding it up for his approval, I couldn’t help but smile. “What do you think of that?”
“Not bad for a guy who knows nothing about sewing,” he said as he took the piece of fabric in hand. “Sometimes I amaze myself.”
“Apparently you have a real gift.”
“Don’t tell my dad, all right?” He paused. “He always wanted me to become a surgeon. Might pain him to know the only needles I’ve worked with are the kind on a sewing machine.”
He passed the fabric back to me, and I folded it and placed it on the desk next to the machine. “Well, I promise not to tell.”
“You would have a hard time tracking him down, anyway. My parents live in New York. They moved there a couple of years ago.”
“Well, that’s different.” I couldn’t imagine leaving Galveston, let alone traveling to a place as busy as New York.
“Maybe I should give up reporting and open a bridal studio in the Big Apple,” Jordan said. “Hire you as the designer. What do you think? Would you move up there if it would make you famous?”
“I don’t know, I . . .” Before I could think of a proper response, the aroma of Mimi Carmen’s enchiladas wafted in from the kitchen and captivated me.
Jordan glanced toward the door and sniffed the air. “What is that?”
My grandmother appeared in the doorway at that very moment. I noticed she had changed out of her housedress into a skirt and blouse. She’d also fixed her hair. Odd.
“It’s Mimi Carmen’s homemade enchiladas,” she said in a singsong voice. “It’s a family recipe. You stay for supper.” She spoke the words as a command, not a question.
Not that Jordan appeared to mind. Neither did I, for that matter. I’d never had a prince—a real, live prince—stay for dinner before.
“Before we eat, come and look at the machine, Mimi.” I gestured to the Singer.
She stepped into the room, sat at the chair in front of the machine, and then stitched a beautiful line onto a scrap of fabric. Her face lit into the loveliest smile. “Perfection! You have regained my trust!” She stood and gave Jordan a kiss on the cheek, then repeated her offer of food.
We followed her into the kitchen, where the aroma of spicy sauce greeted us. When Jordan saw the platter of enchiladas, his expression shifted to one of pure delight. He leaned down over it and drew in a deep breath.
“Smells great. I haven’t had real, authentic Mexican food since my grandmother passed.”
“God rest her soul.” Mimi Carmen and Jordan spoke the words in unison.
“Reminds me of the old days.” He gazed with longing at the yummy food.
“Mimi Carmen makes the best enchiladas on the island.” My mother’s voice sounded from the hallway, my first clue she’d arrived home from work. She entered the kitchen, took one look at Jordan, and the beginning of a smile tipped up the corners of her mouth. “Well now, who have we here?”
“Jordan Singer, ma’am.” He gave her a nod.
“The Singer sewing machine man,” Mimi threw in. “Come to fix what he broke the last time.”
My mother set her purse on the counter and looked at him with amused wonder. “I see.”
I could tell from the expression on Mama’s face that she didn’t see, but I decided not to chime in. We had enough confusion already. Thank goodness she took her seat at the table, bowed her head while Mimi Carmen offered up a lengthy prayer in Spanish—much of it related to my single status—and then dove in, no questions asked.
I glanced Jordan’s way to see if perhaps he had snuck out during the prayer, but he had not. Instead, he sat, eyes ever widening, as my grandmother scooped a large helping of enchiladas onto his plate. As he took his first bite, a look of contentment settled over him and I relaxed. There would be time to sort this out later. Right now, some steaming enchiladas called my name, and I must answer.
Top Hat
I love sewing and have plenty of material witnesses.
Author unknown
I had a hard time falling asleep the night Prince William came to dinner. Not that I could blame my sleeplessness on him, of course. With a day like I’d been through, sleeping was highly overrated.
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When I did doze, the craziest dreams taunted me. In one of them, Bella Neeley and Demetri duked it out in the middle of Parma John’s while Jordan—in reporter mode—captured the shenanigans in photographs. I did my best to steal the photos from him, but he escaped me at every turn.
In another dream, my grandmother sang hymns in Spanish with Jordan, who knew every word and harmonized perfectly. Figured.
Strangest of all, perhaps, was the final dream—the one that woke me up. In that one, Nicolette Cavanaugh marched down the aisle wearing not the dress that Demetri had crafted for her but one I had made, which was far better suited to her than the one I’d covered in chocolate.
Like that would ever happen.
Still, when I jolted awake, my conscience felt seared, as if I’d really stolen a customer from my boss. Er, former boss.
Or, make that current boss.
Demetri called at 7:43 a.m. to let me know that I would be expected in my alterations room at 8:00 sharp. No mention of yesterday’s fiasco. No apologies for humiliating me in front of the reporter. Nothing. Just “See you at eight sharp, Gabi. Don’t disappoint me. Again.”
Um, okay. He probably needed a quick fix on a gown and couldn’t get one of the Fab Five to lower themselves to material girl status long enough to deal with it. Still, who did he think he was? And who did he think I was? Did he really think I’d lower myself to come crawling back after the ugly way he’d treated me in front of people?
Likely.
Still half asleep during our phone call, I found myself saying, “I’ll be in as quick as I can.”
Really? Who said that the day after being fired? Only someone who had no respect for herself. Someone desperate to pay the light bill. Someone willing to suck it up, tuck her tail between her legs, and crawl back to the dungeon.
Still, on some level, I had to think this was an answer to the frantic prayers I’d hollered up to the ceiling while bathing yesterday. Maybe there really was a God up there who put the rest of the world’s problems on hold long enough to deal with one neurotic seamstress. Had he opened a door for me to return to the land of hyperventilating brides and over-the-top designers? If so, then he had a fascinating sense of humor.
When I got to the shop, Kitty greeted me just as she did on any normal day. If not for the chocolate stain on the carpet, I might’ve thought I’d imagined the whole incident. I’d just started to wonder if she was going to mention the situation at all when she chuckled.
“After you left yesterday, Demetri disappeared into his office and we never saw him again,” she said. “Not sure when he came to his senses and decided to hire you back, but you’d better offer up a few Hail Marys as a thank-you for that one.”
“I’m not Catholic,” I said.
“Yeah, I know. But don’t you find it weird that he seems to be moving ahead as if nothing ever happened? Very strange indeed. For Demetri, I mean.”
“Right, but we haven’t come face-to-face yet, so I’m not counting out a confrontation. No telling what he might do to me when he sees me in person.”
“I’d bet the farm he won’t do anything. He needs you too much.”
“True. I’m the only material—er, alterations girl he’s got.”
“Speaking of which, you might want to go by the studio before you settle in,” she said, looking prim and proper with every hair in place. “Beatrix needs to give you some instructions about Nicolette’s dress. Sounded pretty important.”
“Okay, I’ll do that.” The words came out a little shaky. And I couldn’t stop thinking about Kitty’s hairpiece flying through the air. How surreal it all seemed now.
After offering her a hope-you’re-not-mad-at-me smile, I walked through the dress shop, beyond the hundreds of lovely dresses, past the Dynamic Duo as they reeled in a new customer, to the door at the back. I crossed the little alley and entered the door leading to the back entrance of Demetri’s prized studio. Though I hated to face the Fab Five, especially after yesterday’s fiasco, it had to be done, and the sooner the better.
Seconds later, after swallowing hard and offering up another frantic prayer for mercy, I entered their hallowed territory.
To my right, Antonia—from Spain—cut out a pattern for a new design. She was the dreamer of the group, the youngest and the most inclined to lose herself in over-the-top creativity. Still, I always admired her work.
To her right, Beatrix pinned fabric pieces on a dress form. Ack. I hated to bother her, especially since the wrinkles on her forehead ran so deep.
Across the room, Chantal, the one I most envied, spoke to a client on the phone in fluent French. No surprise there, since the svelte blonde, who could’ve had a career in modeling, had arrived from Paris just six months ago. What would it be like, I wondered, to live in Paris? To study fashion among the greats? I’d love to pick her brain . . . if only she liked me.
At least one of the Fab Five did.
I smiled as I clapped eyes on Doria, the motherly one in the bunch. The plump older woman fussed with the bodice of a new design, talking to herself all the while. Her lovely Greek accent held me spellbound, and the sweetness in her voice was palpable. As she looked my way, I saw compassion in her soft blue eyes.
And then there was Emiko, fresh off the plane from Tokyo. The petite workaholic labored away on a panel of intricate beadwork exquisitely done. I’d never seen anything but sheer perfection from her. She might look like a teenager, but in reality, she probably had more skill than all the rest of us put together. Talk about weirdly smart. And reclusive. The woman had never spoken a word to me that I could recall. She leaned down over her work, the lights overhead casting a lovely sheen on her long, black hair.
Not that anyone seemed to notice. They were all too preoccupied with their work. Well, all but one. I felt relief flood my soul as Doria swept me into her arms.
“My little Gabi! You’re back! What a blessing. God is smiling on us!”
From the smirk on Beatrix’s face, she didn’t feel the same. Her snide comment, “So it’s true—the black sheep has returned to the fold,” left little to the imagination. No doubt she saw my rehiring—if one could call it that after only missing a half day’s work—as a mistake on Demetri’s part. Or maybe she just felt I didn’t belong in their hallowed territory.
But wait—wasn’t she the one who had summoned me to come to the studio?
“Yes, I’m back,” I managed after finding the courage to speak. With my head held high and my backbone stiff, I added, “Kitty said you wanted me?”
“Well, I’m not sure I would’ve phrased it that way exactly.” Beatrix shoved her reading glasses on top of her head as she turned to face me. “I need to speak with you about Nicolette’s gown. We’ve sent it to be cleaned, and it is expected back this afternoon at three. When it arrives, you must completely rework the hem.”
“Rework the hem? But it’s the perfect length.”
“It was, before the . . .” Beatrix rolled her eyes. “Accident. You are obviously unaware of the fact that Nicolette caught the hem in her shoe when the unfortunate incident occurred. The entire front section pulled loose. The stitching is a mess.”
“Oh no!” I could hardly believe it. On top of everything else, now I had to tackle Nicolette’s gown again?
“Demetri, as you might imagine, is beside himself over this.” Beatrix began to carry on about our boss’s fragile nerves, but she lost me about halfway into it. I just couldn’t get the image of the ripped hem out of my mind.
Squaring my shoulders, I thanked her for the information, then headed back to the safety of my little closet.
Minutes later, Demetri stopped by my room long enough to give me choppy instructions regarding an incoming bride who needed an emergency fitting. No mention of yesterday’s incident whatsoever, no lecture about repairing Nicolette’s hemline. So weird. He left the room muttering about his nerves, and life as I knew it shifted back to normal. Well, the Haute Couture version of normal, anyway.
&nb
sp; Until midafternoon, when an unexpected visitor arrived at my door. As the words “Singer man at your service! Need any sewing machines repaired in here?” sounded, I glanced up from my project. Jordan stood in the open doorway, a boyish grin on his face.
I couldn’t help but return smile for smile, and all the more when I noticed the playful look in his eyes. “Well, hello. Long time, no see.” My words came out a little hopeful sounding, but he didn’t seem to notice. I gestured for him to enter the tiny room and pushed my alterations aside. “Sorry, but your services will not be required today. My sewing machines are all in working order.”
“Well, that’s a shame. I happen to be an expert in bobbin . . . bobbin . . . what do you call it again?”
“Tension?”
“Yes. I’m an expert in tension.” He took a couple of tentative steps inside, likely boggled by the tight space. “So, you’re back at work, I see.”
“Looks that way.”
“Told you he couldn’t function without you.” Jordan’s right brow elevated mischievously.
I put my finger to my lips to encourage him to lower his voice, but he just laughed.
“You’re too good for this, you know,” he said as he gestured to the closet space filled with dress forms and half-finished projects. “But I’ve got to believe you’re supposed to be here until God opens a door for you to do your own thing.”
Seriously? More God talk?
If I didn’t know better, I’d think that Bella, Scarlet, and now Jordan were conspiring against me. Maybe they’d teamed up with the Almighty to . . .
To what? Encourage me?
I relaxed, and a feeling of contentment washed over me as I realized they were all on my team. I’d never really had a team before, and it felt good.
“So, Demetri and I had a long chat this morning.” Jordan reached over to touch a long strand of crystals I’d loosely pinned to a satin bridal hat. “We went to breakfast and I interviewed him for my article. But I also did something else.”
“You did?”
The Dream Dress Page 6
