A woman knelt before the form, her mouth clamped over pins she was working into the hem of the green dress. Her blond hair curled in glossy waves over her ears. Mama would have approved of her hairstyle and the straight cream-colored dress that flared over her legs. A rope of pearls swung forward while she worked.
When the bells jangled, she looked up, spit the pins into her cupped palm, and stood up, smiling. After dropping the pins onto a nearby ironing board, she came to them with both hands outstretched.
“Ah, this will be the small Electra! You bring the sunshine on this cloudy day. Welcome!”
“This is Electra,” Grandpa agreed. “Lexie, meet Mam’selle Maxine.”
“So enchanting!” Mam’selle rushed on. “Grandpapa talks often of his little Electra who has come to stay with him and her grandmama.”
Lexie looked from her hands to the woman’s smiling eyes. For a moment, she felt overwhelmed. Then she remembered that Mam’selle Maxine was not really French. The visit became a game.
Instead of backing away, she said, “I like your shop, Mam’selle.”
“I believe you will soon like it even better.” Dimples appeared in the woman’s cheeks. Pearls swinging, she tugged Lexie toward a table heaped with magazines. “Grandpapa has talked of the dress you would make for a doll. Let us look at fashions to suit her, yes?”
The seamstress sparkled and talked as she turned pages. Lexie was surprised she had been quiet with pins in her mouth when they first came in. She seemed to be making up for it as she exclaimed over pictures in the fashion magazines, pointing out bows and pleats and ruffles.
When Lexie finally got a word in, she said, “It has to be a dress for everyday. Emily Grace — the doll — already has a fancy one.”
“Ah, too bad. We would have enjoyed the ruffles. But no matter. We will find just the right dress. This, perhaps? Notice the dropped waistline and the bow at the back with trailing ribbons from the waist to the hem.”
“I think the sleeves would be hard to set in,” Lexie said doubtfully, remembering the problems she had had before.
“But you have a modiste to help you, petite. We will set in the sleeves and pleat the bodice just so. And the neckline . . .”
She continued talking, but Lexie stopped listening. At first, relief had swept through her. Emily Grace would have her second dress. She had turned a grateful smile toward Grandpa as he settled onto a chair to wait.
But now she heard Mam’selle Maxine talking about pleats again. She sounded as if she would make the dress herself. I’ll be lucky if she lets me cut out the pieces, Lexie thought, her joy changing into disappointment. She remembered her worry about letting someone else write the letter . . . and about hurting Grandpa’s feelings.
“So let us begin,” Mam’selle exclaimed. “Where is the doll? We must have her measurements.”
“Umm, I know them,” Lexie said. “I measured her before. I remember.”
“Bon. You trust your memory, yes?”
“Yes,” Lexie said. “But . . .”
“I think cotton poplin,” Mam’selle said, rushing to a shelf and thumbing through a stack of folded fabrics. She pulled out a pink length with narrow violet stripes. “This, perhaps?” With a satisfied smile, she added, “I will display the little dress in my window. Until it becomes time for the costume to travel with Emily Grace to Japan.”
Lexie glanced at Grandpa. He sat back, smiling, happy with his surprise. She knew he believed he was making everything right. It would be easy to let her plans go, to smile and thank him. After all, the letter was more important. If Mam’selle made the dress, there would be more time to work on the letter.
But then she heard Grandma as if she stood in the doorway. Grandma would not be smiling. She would say, This is your assignment, Electra. You will complete it from the beginning.
Grandma would be right. The dress was her assignment. To let Mam’selle sew the dress would feel as wrong as taking the doll from Miss Tompkins’s room in the first place.
But what of Grandpa? If she turned down his surprise, the sparkle would leave his eyes. The pleased look would fade.
He would never answer questions about that mysterious letter.
“Now for the bow,” the seamstress said, turning to rolls of ribbon.
“Mam’selle.” Lexie steeled herself. She didn’t like feeling ungrateful to the seamstress and to Grandpa. It would be easier to leave the dress to an expert. It would be made the right way. She wouldn’t be embarrassed by her own effort. It would get done. Why shouldn’t she say yes?
Easy would be wrong. She didn’t need to hear Grandma say the words. In her heart, she knew what she had to do. “Mam’selle, I have to make the dress myself. It’s . . . expected.”
Mam’selle exchanged a glance with Grandpa. “I believe your grandmama helped you before.”
Lexie thought of Miss Tompkins saying, “Your grandmother may help you.” But Mam’selle would do more than help. She wanted the dress to be perfect, a dress she could display in her window to show her skill. Lexie wouldn’t have any part in making that dress.
If Mam’selle Maxine makes the dress, I’ll be disappointed, Lexie realized, and before she could change her mind, she said, “Help is allowed, but I have to make it myself.”
To her surprise, Mam’selle’s smile dimpled again. “Grandpapa can be proud. You are young for such strong character.”
Grandpa got to his feet. Lexie waited for him to say he wasn’t proud at all, that she had refused his special surprise. But he put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed gently. “I wasn’t thinking, honey. The dress should be yours to make. But you can let Mam’selle advise you.”
The stiffness vanished from Lexie’s shoulders. She smiled up at Grandpa as Mam’selle Maxine clasped her hands together. “Bon! Good! We will begin with the fabric. This striped pattern, yes?”
Doubt rushed back. How could she accept expensive fabric Mam’selle Maxine could sell to a customer? It might have been worthwhile to Mam’selle for a dress to display in her window. She could probably sew it together in a day. Lexie knew it would take her the entire week to finish.
She felt like she was closing a door on Emily Grace, but she shook her head. “It wouldn’t be right.”
“The stripes are not right? Then perhaps this one with flowers?”
“No,” Lexie said, trying not to look at the beautiful fabric. “I mean, I can’t take your nice material. I . . . I’ll find something.”
As Grandpa squeezed her shoulder again, Mam’selle laughed, reminding Lexie of the musical bells over the doorway. “This one will go far in life,” she said to Grandpa. “You must tell me how she does.” Then her smile widened. “But I have the inspiration! A doll does not require great lengths of fabric. You will pick through my scrap bin. Among the cut bits and roll ends, you are sure to find enough material!”
When the modiste pulled out a basket brimming with pieces of cut fabric, the colors and textures looked like a treasure trove. Lexie could hardly believe that her problems were unraveling as fast as the stitches in her knit scarf.
But thinking of the scarf made her think of Grandma, and the bright feeling faded. Grandma would say that she had to make the dress all by herself as a punishment for taking the doll from Miss Tompkins’s room. Maybe she could keep Grandma from knowing about Mam’selle Maxine’s help? She might even be allowed to sew the dress here in the shop.
No. Keeping things from Grandma had gotten her into trouble in the first place. And that lie, even though it was an accident, had hurt Grandma and her. “Whatever happens,” she whispered to herself as she picked through the fabric scraps, “this time I’m going to tell Grandma everything.”
While Grandpa returned to the bank, Lexie all but danced down the street, clutching her bundle of fabric. In Mam’selle’s scrap basket, she had found a sizable piece of the same violet-striped cloth so perfect for Emily Grace. She was sure there was enough for a doll dress.
Her luc
k held. Grandma stood next door, talking to a neighbor who was sweeping her walk and didn’t notice Lexie with her bundle.
Lexie hurried into the house. She would start on the new dress before Grandma could learn about it and think up a reason to object.
Scissors, she told herself. They were in the sewing-machine cabinet.
She ran into the kitchen, then glanced toward the front door. Grandma was still outside. She pulled open the top drawer of the cabinet. The scissors were there, but her fingers wouldn’t let go of the drawer to reach for them. An envelope lay across the scissors, a familiar envelope.
In her mind, everything else fell away. All she could see was her mother’s handwriting.
This was the letter Grandma had shoved into her apron pocket on Friday. She must have put it here later, when she put the apron into the laundry hamper. She would think a drawer of the sewing-machine cabinet was the last place Lexie would look after seeing her doll’s dress burned in the kitchen stove.
“I’d better open it before Grandma comes back.” Lexie reached for the letter. Her breath ached through her chest. “Mama wrote something about me,” she said softly. “She asked me to come to San Francisco.”
Wasn’t that what Grandma had been saying, that they couldn’t afford a steamship ticket?
Lexie had to know. Her fingers trembled as she lifted the envelope flap. It was wrong to read a letter meant for someone else. “But it’s about me,” she whispered. “I know it is. Doesn’t that make it right? Why shouldn’t I read a letter about me?”
She heard Grandma on the front porch, calling good-bye to the neighbor. Shoving the letter under the bundle of fabric, Lexie darted for the stairs. As she reached the first step, Grandma came into the hall.
The letter and the violet-striped cloth felt enormous in Lexie’s hands. She could not have been more aware of them if she had held Emily Grace, tilting and crying out, “Mama!”
She didn’t know how to tell Grandma about the fabric. There was no way to explain the letter.
“Here you are!” Grandma said. “Did you and Grandpa enjoy your ice cream?”
Lexie felt her heart beating against her chest like a trapped bird. Sometimes the only way out was straight ahead. She plunged into the truth. “Grandpa took me to see the dressmaker, Miss Maxine. I mean, Mam’selle.”
“Oh?” Grandma’s smile said she was amused by the dressmaker’s pretense at being French, but her eyes held hard questions. “Is she going to make the new dress for you?”
“No!” Lexie clutched the fabric bundle closer. “She let me dig through her scrap bin for material. And she showed me pictures in her book.”
“Hmm.” Grandma slipped her shawl from her shoulders and hung it on the coat tree beside the front door.
“I told her I had to make it myself,” Lexie added.
Grandma nodded. “Did you find scraps you could use?”
Lexie glanced down at the bundle. “Yes. Some of the pieces came from ends of her rolls of cloth. They were too small to make dresses for ladies. I’m sure there’s enough for a doll.”
“Good.” This time, Grandma’s smile held approval. “I’m glad to see you are resourceful. You had best get started. I’ll be up to see if you need help laying out the pattern before you make the first cuts.”
The letter loomed in Lexie’s mind. When Grandma thought about the scissors, she would remember that letter. Courage fled. Turning, Lexie rushed up the stairs to her room.
She shoved the letter under her pillow. She longed to read it but felt guilty for taking it. Would Grandma think that was as bad as taking the doll? Maybe I can pretend I haven’t seen the letter at all. Grandma would know that wasn’t true.
Questions led to more questions, and none of them had answers. Lexie put the whole swirling problem from her mind and carefully smoothed the violet-striped cloth on her bed. “Look, Annie. Won’t this make a pretty dress for Emily Grace?”
She thought her old doll looked sad and added quickly, “There may be enough for you, too.”
The awfulness of burning the first dress rushed back. She made herself think instead of making a new pattern from a newspaper she would take from the trash. She needed to make the pattern while she still remembered the size for each piece.
But that pattern was for the first dress, the one that burned. Would the pattern pieces she remembered work for the dress in the picture Mam’selle Maxine had shown her?
The door opened and Grandma stepped inside. “Those are the scraps? My goodness, Maxine wastes a good bit of her material to be throwing away all of that. Well, I suppose her prices are high enough to cover her cost.”
Lexie wondered if she should speak up for Mam’selle, who had been kind. As she hesitated, Grandma looked toward the bed. Her eyes narrowed. “What is that?”
“What?” Lexie got off the bed, feeling as if she were made of wood. The letter must be showing under the pillow. Why hadn’t she been more careful?
Maybe she wouldn’t have to ask to go to Mama in San Francisco. Maybe Grandma would send her there to be rid of her. That should have been a happy thought. Somehow, it wasn’t, not if Grandma sent her away in anger.
But Grandma lifted the side of the mattress and pulled out the ruined pink knit scarf. Lexie had almost forgotten it was there.
“I tried to make a dress for Emily Grace,” she said, talking fast. “I thought it could go over her head and have a belt, but when I cut it, all the stitches started unraveling and I couldn’t make them stop.”
“Oh, my goodness.” Grandma held up the scarf. Light showed through the ladder-like strips where the stitches had unknitted. She seemed to be fighting a smile. How could she think the ruined scarf was funny?
As Lexie stared at the scarf, Grandma patted her shoulder. “Some lessons have to be learned the hard way. I expect this scarf taught you a good deal about knitted fabric.”
“Yes,” Lexie said on a rush of breath.
Grandma looked thoughtful, tilting her head as she turned the scarf one way, then another. “I don’t believe this is entirely a lost cause.”
“It isn’t?” Lexie hardly dared believe the gentleness in Grandma’s voice.
“The stitches ran from the cut in the center, but the sides are still intact. Suppose we use the machine to sew a tight line a few inches from each end,” Grandma said. “And we’ll sew along the sides of the part that hasn’t unraveled. Then we’ll cut off the rest and let the edges fringe. The pink should make a pretty scarf for that violet-striped material when it’s made into a dress.”
Lexie felt as though Miss Tompkins had decided to cancel a math test on a day when Lexie wasn’t ready for it. “That will work.” She glanced at her old soft doll. “Do you think Annie could have one, too?”
Grandma’s smile warmed her whole face. “There will be plenty left to make a scarf for Annie.”
Lexie could almost relax, but she knew this moment was fragile. As soon as Grandma thought about scissors, she was going to remember that letter. And the scissors were lying right there on the bed with the fabric.
She drew in a breath for courage. “Grandma, there’s something else. When I got the scissors . . . I found Mama’s letter. I didn’t read it, though.”
That probably wouldn’t mean much to Grandma. They both knew she had meant to read the letter, even though it wasn’t addressed to her.
Grandma’s brows lifted. Lexie braced for a scolding. To her surprise, Grandma sighed and said instead, “You may read it. Your grandfather and I had doubts because we didn’t want to get your hopes up. Your mother sometimes sees things as she wants them to be, not the way they really are.”
Lexie wasn’t sure what that meant and didn’t care. Grandma wasn’t angry. That single thought warmed her like a hug as she reached for the letter. Mama’s handwriting, even her scent, were so vivid that just holding the envelope brought her into the room as if she were standing there.
Longing clung so tightly for a moment, Le
xie couldn’t think. She blinked hard to clear misty eyes, then slipped out the single page.
California greetings, Mother and Father Lewis, the letter read in Mama’s breezy voice, as if she stood beside Lexie saying her words aloud.
I know you’re having a swell time with Lexie, but here’s nifty news! Lexie must have told you I’ll be warbling good-bye to the dolls when they leave for Japan. Now the program people have come up with a keen idea!
They think it would be a hoot for one of the girls who helped collect pennies to buy and dress the dolls to sing the good-bye song with me. Ain’t that the cat’s pajamas? So if you’ll put Lexie on a steamer to San Francisco, we’ll sing the dolls off to Japan together!
“As you see,” Grandma said, her voice sounding far away to Lexie, “your mother has suggested you join her.”
Happiness soared through Lexie. To sing with Mama! To be with her again!
“In my day,” Grandma said, “proper young ladies did not perform in public.”
“But I have already,” Lexie protested. “There’s a restaurant in our building — I mean where we used to live. Mama and I sang together for people there. They liked us!”
“Humph.” Grandma shook her head. “Leaving aside whether your singing in public would be proper, there’s the matter of the cost. Your grandfather and I would never allow you to travel alone. It would not be safe. And steamship tickets are expensive.”
Grandma’s forehead creased the way it did when she worked over the household accounts. “The price for two passages to San Francisco and back . . .”
“I’ll help. I have two dimes and a nickel saved up from my birthday.”
Grandma shook her head. “Maybe in another year we can make the trip. We could plan for a spring month, when the weather would be nice.”
“The dolls are leaving this year,” Lexie said. “On January seventh!”
“You’ll join the party to say good-bye to Emily Grace and the others leaving from Portland. I can hear my mother now saying that will be celebration enough for a young girl.”
Ship of Dolls Page 7
