“I do some ready-to-wear pieces, too, Orphie,” I said. She’d glanced at some of the clothing on the portable rack. I preferred couture, like any designer, but the town of Bliss didn’t have much use for stagelike costuming or artistic statements through bold clothing. My Country Girl in the City collection was unique, practical, and truly represented my hybrid perspective. It wasn’t boudoir or urban jungle like Beaulieu, and it wasn’t Japanese punk or metropolis like Midori, but it was me, and I was proud of it.
I sank down on the loveseat opposite her, the coffee table that had been repurposed from an old door between us. My lookbook and another bowl of felt beads I’d been working on for my collection’s accessories sat in the middle of it. I stifled another yawn. I plumped a pillow under my head, and it suddenly felt like we were back in Manhattan in our minuscule loft apartment.
“Orphie,” I said, “why are you here? It’s the middle of the night.”
“You said your mom’s getting married to that cowboy sheriff,” she said drowsily.
I followed her lead, letting sleep slip over me like a veil. “Right.” My mother and Hoss McLaine were getting hitched, and it was going to be a really eclectic Southern wedding. I’d already made her dress and a dress for my sister-in-law, Darcie, who was to be a bridesmaid. I just had to make my own maid-of-honor dress and I’d be done, but I hadn’t come up with the right design yet.
Orphie’s eyes had begun to drift closed, but she pried them open again, her gaze falling on the red and black suitcase she’d set by the steps to the little dining area. “And you have the big photo shoot with your collection. I haven’t seen you in ages, and I figured you could use a little help with all of it.”
She was a true friend, and she sounded sincere, but there was a terseness to her voice, and I knew there was something she wasn’t telling me. Southern women had a slew of rules they lived by, one of which was being well-versed in double speak. True, Orphie wasn’t Southern—she was as Midwestern as they came—but she’d picked up some tricks from me over the years we’d spent together, and I suspected there was a little subtext under her statement. “Orphie?” I prompted, stretching out her name.
“Harlow,” she replied.
“What’s going on? You did not show up on my doorstep in the middle of the night unannounced to help me with my sewing, although, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re here.”
She sighed, sitting up and propping her pointy elbows on her knees. I mirrored her, but then she got up and trudged, as much as a five-foot-ten-inch lithe woman can trudge, to her suitcase. She plopped it down flat, unzipped it, and lifted a book off the top of the neatly folded clothes.
I recognized that book. Hard, black cover. Crisp white interior pages. Maximilian logo embossed on the front. I jumped up and backed away as if it were a coiled snake. “Orphie, what are you doing with that?”
“I never told you the reason I left Maximilian,” she said, her voice slow and tired.
I didn’t like the sound of that simple statement. The fact was, she’d just up and quit. Packed up one day and left with no explanation. “Family,” she’d said later when I’d pressed her.
“Why’d you leave?” I asked, not entirely sure I wanted to hear the answer.
She strode to me, book outstretched in her arms. “This is why,” she said solemnly.
And with those three words, I knew that Orphie hadn’t come to help me with Mama’s wedding to the sheriff, and she hadn’t come to be my assistant for the D Magazine photo shoot. No, she’d come because she’d stolen one of Maximilian’s prized design books in which he jotted down his ideas, sketches, and, if the rumors in New York were true, kept track of celebrity secrets and tidbits of information he’d gathered over time that he held over people. And Lord knew what else. From the grave look on her face, I knew it couldn’t be good.
Also Available in the Magical Dressmaking Series
Pleating for Mercy
A Fitting End
Deadly Patterns Page 26
