The Dream Dress

by Janice Thompson

  “Yeah. I told him that he was wrong about what happened yesterday with the éclairs. Made him see the error of his ways.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Didn’t seem fair that you would take the blame for something you didn’t do.”

  Aha. So Jordan had arranged all of this.

  “Well, thank you for that.” I gave him a sheepish look. “I mean, this might not be my dream job, but it’s a way to pay the bills and gives me an opportunity to sew, so that’s good. Keeps me in the wedding business, which is the idea. I can’t imagine stepping away from that. It would kill me.”

  “Happy to be of service.” He sat in the chair across from me and gave me a thoughtful look. “Anyway, I’ve already got the info I need from Demetri for my article, and I plan to visit with the Fab Five and the Dynamic Duo”—he smiled—“a little later. But I thought it might be a good idea to interview you as well.”

  “Wait . . . interview me? Why?” What could I possibly offer? I hadn’t designed Nicolette’s dress. I’d only altered it and then coated it in chocolate. Surely he knew that.

  Jordan pulled out an iPad and turned it on. “I want to get your take on the industry. Maybe I could follow you through a day’s work to get your perspective on the alterations angle.”

  “Are you serious?” I fought the unladylike snort that threatened to escape. “I’m just the material girl. My work is pretty dull, trust me. I can’t think of anyone who would be interested in reading about my life.”

  “Even a material girl has her story.” He waggled his brows in playful fashion. “I want to know the untold tales. The dark secrets.”

  “Dark secrets?” My hands trembled and I pressed them to my sides. Hopefully Demetri wouldn’t happen by and hear about my passion for design.

  “Besides, life isn’t all work and no play. Surely you get out. Do things.”

  “Well, yeah.” I lowered my voice. “When I’m designing my own stuff—or sometimes when Demetri’s on a roll and needs something—I go to the fabric store. Woo-hoo.”

  “The fabric store. Well now, that sounds intriguing.”

  “Puh-leeze. It’s anything but.” I gestured to the messy room and sighed. “But I’m always happy to get out of here when I can. You can see how it is. This is my . . . domain, and I’m stuck here much of the time. Kind of like Cinderella locked in the dungeon on the night of the ball.”

  “Cinderella in the dungeon. I’ll have to use that in the article.”

  “Do so at your own peril!” I laughed. “You can call it anything but that. Please.”

  “Okay, okay. I might use the Cinderella angle, though.” His eyes—those dancing, joy-filled eyes—met mine. “But if I do, I’ll probably throw in a dashing prince. The ladies always like that sort of thing.”

  “Very funny.”

  He chuckled and fidgeted with his iPad. “Hey, I feel bad for you working in here, but I’m sure this space must feel like home after a while. It’s small but cozy.” He glanced around and shrugged. “Okay, more small than cozy. But things could be worse.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Sure they could. I did a story last month about a group of women in China who work for pennies on the dollar, sewing wedding items to be sold in America. You should see the photos of their work space. I feel horrible for them.”

  Suddenly, shame washed over me. I wanted to find those women and help them in some way.

  Jordan messed with the icons on his iPad. After a couple of seconds, he glanced my way. “Okay, I’m ready to start. Is it all right to ask a few questions?”

  I looked over at the open door, wondering when Nicolette’s dress would be delivered. Until it arrived, I might as well take a few minutes to answer some questions, right?

  Decision made, I set my work aside and focused on the handsome young man seated across from me. In that moment, the oddest thought occurred to me. Maybe, just maybe, his joke about adding a prince to my Cinderella story was more than just a far-fetched idea. Maybe this guy had arrived with glass slipper in tow.

  Slipper in tow. Ha!

  Then again, what would a girl with two left feet do with a glass slipper?

  I allowed the idea to percolate as I settled in to answer his questions.

  A Damsel in Distress

  Stitch your stress away.

  Author unknown

  Staring into Jordan’s gorgeous eyes was the easy part. Staying focused proved to be more difficult.

  He balanced the iPad on his knees, fingers perched and ready on the keys as if expecting me to give him some sort of breaking news story. “Okay, first question: how did you get the job working for Demetri?”

  Ugh. He would have to start there. To answer this question would bring a certain degree of humiliation. “I, um, well, I applied to be one of his design seamstresses.”

  “Ah. One of the Fab Five.” Jordan typed the information and then looked at me. “You told me about them.”

  “Yes. But there were only three of them at the time. I wanted to be the fourth. Didn’t happen. But to answer your question, I had originally applied to be one of those seamstresses, not an alterations specialist.”

  “I see.”

  “Even though I came in with a really strong portfolio and good samples of my work, Demetri still felt I should start here and work my way up.” Memories flooded over me as I spoke. Turned out Demetri’s idea of working my way up involved several years of paying my dues with a pincushion attached to my wrist and a measuring tape in hand. “Please don’t put that last part in your article, though. Okay?”

  “Gotcha.” Jordan’s eyes lit up. “But I have to believe it’s just a matter of time until he comes to his senses.”

  “Comes to his senses?” Have you met Demetri Markowitz?

  “Yeah. I’ve really been thinking about this, ever since I looked at your sketches. They’re really good, Gabi. It won’t be long before you end up in his studio, creating dresses like the other ladies.”

  I shook my head and attempted to offer an explanation. “It’s been three years.” Three long, difficult years buried in hems and waistlines. Three years of proving myself, of wasting my efforts trying to please an unpleaseable boss. “Trust me, I’m not moving up the corporate ladder here. If anything, I’ve been nudged farther down the rungs.” Relegated to the dark recesses of the janitor closet.

  I gave myself a proverbial slap in the face to stay focused. Snap out of it, Gabi. Chin up.

  No point in getting down, not with Jordan looking on, anyway. He glanced across the room at the female dress form adorned with an ivory tulle gown and rose to have a closer look. “This is fascinating. You use these a lot?”

  “What? The dress forms?” I nodded. “Yeah. They’re adjustable, so I set them to the bride’s measurements and then tweak the gown to fit it. Those forms are mine, by the way. I brought them with me. They belonged to Mimi Carmen.” I’d never made the connection until I spoke the words aloud. She had given them to me when I was twelve. The same year my father left. Interesting.

  “I see.” He shoved his iPad under his arm.

  “They’re like old friends.” I couldn’t help the smile that followed. It warmed my heart to know that Mimi Carmen had used the dress forms even before I was born, and her mother before her. They were a part of our family, and their presence brought a certain degree of comfort.

  “So, if they’re old friends, do they have names?” He sat once more and perched his fingers on the digital keyboard, poised to type.

  “Of course.” I laughed. “Some people name their cars. I name my dress forms.” I pointed to the one with the ivory dress. “I call this one Ginger. But you might’ve guessed that after our last conversation.”

  “Oh, right, right. I almost forgot you’ve got a thing for Fred and Ginger.” He jotted it down on the iPad and chuckled. “Because you’re secretly a dancer.”

  “With two left feet.”

  “Still dying to see that.” He glanced down at my feet, an
d I felt my cheeks warm in embarrassment. His gaze lingered for a moment on my ankles, then eventually moved up to my face. He pointed at the male dress form, which I’d shoved in the corner. “So, I’m going to take a wild guess here and assume this must be Fred?”

  “No, actually.”

  “Interesting. I would’ve gone with the whole Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers angle. He must have a name too, right?”

  Jordan returned his attention to the digital keys, ready to type my response, and I flinched. I couldn’t share this answer with him. Instead, I opted for, “Yeah, he’s got a name, but it’s not important.”

  “Not important?” His narrowed gaze clued me in to the fact that he didn’t believe me.

  “Well, you know what I mean. What’s so important about a name, anyway? It’s just silly. It’s kind of like naming your car. Doesn’t really have a lot of significance.”

  “I named my car after my first dog, Lucky, who got run over when I was seven. But you’re avoiding the question.” Jordan leaned in so close the smell of his cologne made my head spin. “The reporter in me smells a story here.”

  The single girl in me smells someone’s yummy cologne here.

  He leaned a bit closer, his voice now lowered to a sexy drawl. “You gonna tell me his name, or am I going to have to weasel the story out of you?”

  “Not a chance.” I flashed what I hoped was a please-end-this-conversation-right-here smile. If the guy knew I’d named the male dress form Demetri, he’d want to know why. “Because I get to stick pins in him” would be a dead giveaway about how I felt about my boss. That was a whole different article, one for a mental health magazine, not Texas Bride.

  “Just trust me when I say that I’ve given him a fitting name,” I said at last. “For a guy, anyway.”

  “For a guy? Dying to know what that means.”

  “Sorry.” I groaned. “I’m not a man hater or anything. But if I tell you his name, you’ll think I am.”

  “So, you’re not a man hater, but you have issues with men? Maybe that’s the real story here. Now that would be a fascinating slant for a bridal magazine. Most of our readers are happy to have a guy in their life.”

  Could this situation slide downhill any faster?

  “I’m really not a man hater. It’s just that . . . some things don’t seem fair. You know?” A deep sigh followed as I gestured to my office space. “The size of my workroom should clue you in. I have to work twice as hard to get half the recognition.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “But at least I take comfort in the fact that I’m not alone. Lots of other women throughout time could relate to what I’m going through. Take Ginger there.” I pointed to the female dress form. “Poor thing. She did everything Fred did, but backwards.”

  “And in high heels. I’ve heard that one before.”

  “Well, it’s true. She was a hard worker.” Like me.

  “Right. Got it. So, back to this battle of the sexes thing . . .”

  “Wait, I didn’t call it that.”

  “Didn’t have to.” He typed something and then looked back at me. “Tell me where it started. In your situation, I mean.”

  “No way.” Embarrassment rushed over me. “You’re not putting anything personal about me in that article of yours.”

  “No, of course not.” He laid down the iPad. “I’m just being nosy now, that’s all. We’re off the record. Just dying to know why you have such a thing against guys.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Sounds like you do.” He gave me an accusing look, but I could still read the teasing in his eyes.

  Frustration settled over me like a dark cloud. “I won’t say I’m biased against men. It’s just that . . . surely you see how things are at my house. Mama. Mimi Carmen. Me. It’s just us. Not that that’s a bad thing. We’re the Delgado women, after all. We’re tough.”

  “Sounds like the name of a television show: The Delgado Women.”

  “We’ve had enough drama for a TV show, that’s for sure.”

  “Really? So you ladies have your own Jersey Shore thing going on?”

  “Um, no. The furthest thing from it. We’re just three generations of women who all live together and try to make the best of things with no men in the picture, so I probably have a skewed perspective. Our experience with men, as a whole, has not been favorable.”

  “I see. So, the Delgado women. You, your mom, and your grandmother?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Interesting.” He paused and his tone grew more inquisitive. “By the way, your mother looks nothing like her mom. I mean, I know they’re twenty years apart in age.”

  “Thirty,” I said quickly.

  “Thirty. But I never would’ve guessed them to be mother and daughter.”

  I couldn’t help the laugh that came rippling out. “Oh, they’re not related.” I quickly collected my thoughts. “I mean, they’re related, of course, but not like you think. Mimi Carmen is my father’s mother.”

  “Oh. Your father is . . .” I could practically hear the wheels clicking in his head.

  “No, no. He’s alive.” My heart twisted as I spoke the words. For no more often than I heard from him, I assumed he was alive. Shaking off my reverie, I continued with my explanation. “He and my mom got divorced years ago when I was just twelve.”

  Impressionable, tender twelve. The worst possible time for a girl to lose her father. And to watch him slip so easily into a new, ready-made family—one complete with two sons and a daughter my same age—was horrible. Many times I’d cried myself to sleep at night, wondering what the new daughter had that I didn’t.

  “Man.”

  “My memories of my dad are vague, but I’ve heard Mimi Carmen use the words ‘he thinks he’s God’s gift to women’ enough times to get the picture. He’s quite the ladies’ man. Only, not the sort to do right by the ladies, if that makes sense.”

  “I’m sorry, Gabi.” Jordan’s expression showed me that he really cared.

  “We don’t see him much,” I explained. “Trust me, there were at least a dozen reasons he had to go.”

  Jordan’s brow wrinkled. “So, your father left but forgot to take his mother with him?”

  I had to laugh at that. “No. Just the opposite. My mom booted him out and Mimi Carmen helped her do it. They packed up his bags and put them on the front porch.”

  “Wow. Must’ve been a tough night for all involved.”

  “Yeah.” I sighed as the memory of that awful night flitted over me. “And yes, my grandmother stayed. I think it would have devastated me to lose her too. It was bad enough . . .” I shook off my frustration. “Anyway, she stayed and has been a lifesaver for Mama and me. She’s quirky, as I’m sure you noticed, but we love her.”

  “That’s good. I get the feeling she’d be easy to love.”

  “My mother still struggles with being single, I think. Even though it’s been years.” My mind reeled back to the day she got her job at the travel agency. She’d always dreamed of traveling the world with my dad. These days she sent other people off on trips that she would never get to go on.

  Sadness swept over me. It must’ve shown on my face, because Jordan gave me a sympathetic look. I figured I’d better get back to talking or else I might just spring a leak and spout a few tears. That would make this awkward conversation even more nerve-racking. I’d already given him far too much information, anyway.

  I gave him a curt nod. “Anyway, like I said, we are the Delgado women. One for all and all for one. It’s what binds us together.”

  I didn’t bother mentioning that I flinched every time I heard the Delgado name. Of all things—to carry the name of a man who’d walked away from my life. Should I tell Jordan about how detached my dad had always been? How he couldn’t hold down a real job? How he never offered a penny of child support?

  “I like that you’re so close to your grandmother.” He sighed. “I miss mine. She was the hardest-working woman I’ve ever met in my life.” Jorda
n glanced around my alterations room. “Until now, I mean. I’d have to say you’re a pretty close second, based on all of the dresses in here.”

  “I do enjoy my work.” For whatever reason, I yawned. “But I enjoy my nighttime more, because that’s when I get to design my own gowns.” This prompted a lengthy, joyous conversation about the hours I spent with my sketchpad and at Mimi’s Singer sewing machine in the wee hours of the night. At some point along the way I realized how animated my voice had become and decided to lower the volume a bit. What if Demetri happened to be standing outside the door, listening in? Ugh.

  “Enjoying your work isn’t a problem, especially when you get to focus on what you love,” Jordan said. “But it sounds like you work around the clock.”

  “I pretty much do.” Another unexpected yawn followed.

  Really? I had to embarrass myself in front of him?

  “Just promise me you’ll get the rest you need,” Jordan said, his eyes reflecting concern. “Keep things in balance.”

  “Me? Balanced?” I chuckled. “Hardly.”

  “Well, remember, even God took one day off. Ya know?” He grinned. “That’s a challenge, by the way. When you’re able to step away for a while, take a day off. Get out. Think about something other than work. Live a little.”

  “But I have my own work to do when I leave here. That’s what I was trying to explain just now.”

  “I know.” He put a finger up. “I’m not saying you should give that up. Just take one day. Or, if you can’t spare a day, take one hour. Go to . . .” His brow creased. “The beach. Or the park. Someplace where you can get alone with God and just . . . be. It will free up your creativity, I promise.”

  Getting alone with God would free up my creativity? How did one go about getting alone with the Almighty, anyway? Climb a ladder to heaven? Ask Saint Peter for a private audience in the inner sanctum? I’d learned enough from Mimi Carmen to know that people couldn’t even get in to see the pope without special dispensation.

  “Spend time with him, Gabi. You might be surprised at what happens.”

  Strange how Jordan talked about God with such ease, as if the two of them were BFFs or something. For that matter, Scarlet and Bella had the same free-spirited way of talking about the Lord, like he was sitting in the chair across the table sipping sweet tea and chatting about the weather.