“That’s better,” Nana said; then she held out her arm, palm up, waiting.
Tears pricked behind my eyelids as Meemaw slowly raised her arm and placed her hand in her daughter’s. As she moved her head, shifting her gaze from Nana to Mama, and finally to me, her form flickered. I held my breath, silently willing her to stay put.
“Meemaw,” I said, taking a tentative step toward her. The flickering grew erratic and I stopped short. It felt like a thread of static electricity ran between us. When I stopped, her flickering stopped. When I moved forward again, her form shuddered and I had that same image of Princess Leia. Only Meemaw wasn’t asking for help.
Or was she?
I ran up to the dining table, ran my hand over a lavender stalk just like Mama had done a minute earlier, then raced back to her. She quivered, her shape disappearing and reappearing, as if we needed to adjust an antennae so she could ground herself.
“Meemaw?” I struggled to keep my voice steady and my tears at bay.
Her eyes looked vacant, like gray spots in her misty, white shape, but I felt her gaze. I knew she could see me far better than I could see her. Her mouth opened and a low, whispery sound, like a breeze rustling through tree branches, slipped out.
“Are you okay?” I had to know if she was where she wanted to be, or if she was caught in some kind of limbo.
She nodded, her head slowly moving up and down, that same breathy sound escaping her lips, but this time I knew she was saying, “Yes.”
Like a handful of confetti, I tossed the lavender buds up and watched them scatter over her, through her, and around her until they settled on the floor at her feet. Her flickering stopped and she became more opaque.
I racked my brain, trying to figure out where to begin. What did you say to the ghost of your great-grandmother? She was the woman who’d single-handedly brought me back home to Bliss, had helped me realize my passion when she taught me to sew, and had tried to keep secrets from me even as a ghost. I had a wagon full of questions, but not a single one formed in my mind.
“Harlow has work to do, Meemaw. You need to let her be,” Mama said, weaving her arm through mine and sounding as if she were chastising a rascally child.
Meemaw, true to her personality when she’d been alive, simply shook her misty head as she opened her mouth and said, “Nooooo.”
I stumbled back a step, fighting the thumping pressure in my temples. “That lavender’s not working very well,” I said under my breath. “She doesn’t seem very harmonious or cooperative.”
Mama’s eyes flashed. “No, she doesn’t.” Behind me, I heard a faint sound. I turned to see the lavender growing before my eyes. It was as if someone had set up a video camera and filmed the plant over a period of weeks, and I was watching the playback. I’d seen the effect Mama had on plants thousands of times, but this… this felt different. This felt controlled.
It felt easier to breathe, like the air in the room had become cleaner and lighter. Meemaw’s form still flickered and shimmered, like it wasn’t quite stable. I was pretty sure she—and maybe Nana and Mama, too— would shut down on me again if I brought up the gowns from the armoire. Instead, I brought up the other subject I couldn’t get off my mind. “Zinnia James is in jail.”
Mama shook her head as if she couldn’t believe the news. “I heard. What’s gotten into this town—”
“She was arrested?” Nana cut in, stopping Mama midsentence.
“For killing Macon Vance, the golf pro at the club.”
The low moan of Meemaw’s forlorn voice filled the room.
I stepped closer to Meemaw, nodding. “I know. She couldn’t have done it.”
Nana sank down on the nearest chair, staring off into the distance. “No, that’s not right.”
“Murder’s never right,” Mama said.
“Of course it’s not,” she said, “but that’s not what I mean.”
Meemaw disappeared. A split second later, the skirt on Libby’s dress, hanging on the pulley contraption in the workroom, fluttered as a trail of misty air swooped up under it. Instantly, the bodice puffed out and filled, as if there were a person suddenly wearing the gown. Meemaw’s ghostly face appeared, the collar of her cowgirl blouse like an undergarment for the dress.
Nana started, her face draining. “You knew?” she said to Meemaw in the dress.
I stood at the French doors separating the workroom from the front room, looking from Meemaw in the dress to Nana, ashen-faced and wide-eyed—a disconcerting look from my grandmother. Mama came to stand by my side. “More secrets?” I muttered. Then to both of them, I said, “Knew what?”
But Nana didn’t answer me. Instead, she said, “She couldn’t have killed him. She wouldn’t have killed him.”
I stared at her. “How do you know?”
Nana’s hands shook. “I heard the report on the news. The man was killed between six and ten that night. Zinnia… Zinnia and I were at Miss June’s that night. We had dinner.”
“For four hours?”
Whatever color was left in Nana’s skin drained. “We had some things to discuss. A little bit of history. That’s not important,” she said, waving her hand around. “Zinnia was with me that night. She couldn’t have killed Macon Vance.”
Chapter 18
A few minutes later, Mama, Nana, and I sat around the dining table, each of us doing something to keep our hands and nerves calm. Mama held an embroidery hoop, poking her needle and floss through a muslin tea towel. Nana clicked her tiny knitting needles together, slowly working through the long row of the scarf she was making. A length of fabric spread across my lap, the mere feel of it giving me strength. We all stared at the lavender plant in the middle of the table. A wispy Meemaw hovered in Libby’s dress on the pulley, sounds slipping from her lips when she wanted to speak, but the words completely unintelligible.
“Mrs. James told me you hadn’t talked to each other since you were teenagers, ever since you fought over Granddaddy. So now you’re friends again?” I finally said to Nana. That didn’t seem quite right. I knew my grandmother, and while she didn’t necessarily hold a grudge and she could forgive, she never forgot. One time, when we were ornery teenagers, Red and I had opened the gate and let all Nana’s Nubian goats out. “We couldn’t stand the stink anymore,” we’d complained to her when she’d figured out what we’d done.
“It’s only once a year that they smell bad, poor babies, and it’s only the males.” She’d wagged her finger, scolded us like there was no tomorrow, and made sure we rounded up every last goat we’d set free. I knew she’d forgiven Red and me for our antics, but she’d never forgotten.
“‘Friends’ ain’t the right word, Harlow Jane. More like we’re stuck with each other.”
“Why would you be stuck with each other? She’s married to a senator. It’s not like you run in the same circles.”
“There’s things you don’t understand, Ladybug. Let’s just leave it at that.”
I smiled. “You haven’t called me that in a good, long while.” Not since Meemaw had first passed. Nana had given me the nickname when I’d been a little bitty thing. She’d told me stories about Granny Cressida, and I’d asked, “Where’d she go?” Nana had been tongue-tied and couldn’t explain death to a chatterbox toddler. She’d almost given up, but not a second after I’d asked where Granny Cress was now, a ladybug suddenly landed on the back of my hand.
“She didn’t go anywhere. She’s right there with you,” Nana had said, pointing to the red-and-black ladybug. Just as suddenly as it had appeared, it vanished. “Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home,” she said, laughing and ruffling my hair. “Now you’ll have good luck, Ladybug.”
Libby’s dress grew limp as Meemaw’s form slipped out of it. She floated down and hovered near me, her warmth seeping into my skin, calming my nerves. The Cassidy secrets were growing like a thatch of wild bluebonnets. Next they were going to tell me I had a long-lost sister or that I wasn’t really a Cassidy. Except of course I knew that
I was a Cassidy because I was a direct descendant of Butch and was charmed. No matter who the women in our family married or what other lines mixed in, we kept the Cassidy name like a badge of honor. “Why are you stuck with each other? And why were you having a powwow when you haven’t spoken two words to each other in decades?”
Next to me, Meemaw started flickering, a low sound coming from deep in her translucent soul.
I whirled around to face her, my Southern accent thickening as the words spewed from my mouth. “What, Meemaw? You brought me back here. You wanted it and here I am, but you can’t keep secrets from me. I have a right to know what’s goin’ on. I was questioned by Rebecca Quiñones and grilled by the new deputy sheriff because my sewin’ scissors”—I slammed my palm against my chest—“were the murder weapon. I heard Mrs. James arguin’ with Mr. Vance, but I’m trying to believe she didn’t do it because my gut is tellin’ me she’s innocent. If you don’t want to tell me, fine. But Nana, why does everythin’ have to be so hush-hush? You have to go to the sheriff. You have to tell them you were with her.”
Nana leaned back in her chair, sighing heavily. “It’s not that easy, darlin’. We have a pact.”
I looked at Mama, then up at my hovering great-grandmother. “Tell me, Mama.”
The stalks of the lavender plant grew soft, fanning out until the ends of each long stem arched limply toward the table. Mama shook her head, all her natural energy directed toward Nana and her secret instead of the plant. “I’m in the dark, too, Harlow Jane.”
“What do you have a pact about?” I asked Nana.
“It’s a pact, y’all. I can’t tell you.”
“We’re family,” I said.
“When you hold a secret, Harlow Jane, you have to understand the duty that goes with that confidence. You have to know whether or not it’s your secret to tell.”
“And whatever your pact with Mrs. James is, it’s not your secret to tell?”
She tapped her finger against the tip of her nose. “Right.”
I pushed my chair back and paced the dining room. “Okay, I get that,” I said, “but if it’ll help Mrs. James—”
The door to the shop flung open, banging against the chest behind it. Gracie Flores stood at the threshold, her dark hair disheveled, her face streaked with tears.
I rushed to her and wrapped my arm around her shoulders, ushering her into the shop, kicking the door closed with my foot. “What is it, Gracie? What’s wrong?”
She ran the back of her hand under her nose, dragging it across her face. Definitely not Margaret etiquette. Good thing the Lafayette sisters weren’t here to witness the raw emotions a true debutante was supposed to hide.
“All these years,” Gracie said through her sniffling. “All these years, my dad’s been lying to me.”
My stomach clenched. “About what?” I asked.
“My family.” She pulled away from me. Shoulders hunched, she walked into the workroom, absently fingering the bolts of fabric stacked on the center cutting table.
I lifted my eyebrows at Nana and Mama. Meemaw, I noticed, had vanished. We’d have to finish our little chat later.
“What about your family, Gra—”
There came the sudden braying of a goat, a commotion behind me, and Nana saying, “Thelma Louise, don’t you dare!”
Sure enough, the matriarch of Nana’s prized goat family had opened the Dutch door, nosed her way into my house, and was now nibbling on the door handle of the little storage space under the stairwell. “Shoo! Shoo!” I stomped my foot, waving my arms at the ornery goat.
Nana grabbed her by the red blinged-out collar, the same one she put on every goat in her herd. As she dragged her away from the door, I turned back to Gracie.
“I have a family,” she said. “That’s the big news.” She blew out a loud breath, as if she were expelling the disbelief over this plot twist in her life. “All this time, I thought it was just me and my dad. Sure, my mom comes back sometimes. I always thought it was ’cause she wants to see me.”
“I’m sure it is—”
“No. It’s not. She never wanted me, and she never came back here to see me.”
For a girl who’d just turned sixteen she was very mature. She’d gotten her emotions in check and was speaking matter-of-factly.
“What did your dad tell you?” I asked, hoping that this was just a big misunderstanding. But something in my gut twisted and I knew that it wasn’t.
She tugged at the fabric of Libby’s dress, bunching it up in her fist as the anger poured out of her. “He didn’t tell me anything. That’s just it. He got a letter from my mom and I couldn’t wait for him to get home so he could open it. I didn’t think he’d mind if I read it. She’s my mom, right? He can’t even stand her.”
I cringed to hear that she knew just how Will felt about the mother of his child. “What did the letter say,” I asked. Behind me, I sensed that Mama and Nana were listening, holding their breath.
“That she’d be coming to town for a visit. After the Margaret festival,” she added with a bitter laugh. “Pretty ironic.”
“Because…” I prompted.
“That’s the best part. Turns out that I’m, like, a real Margaret.”
The sharp inhale of a breath came from behind me, but I lowered my head and stared at Gracie. “I don’t understand.”
“Turns out I have grandparents right here in Bliss. Can you believe that?” She spit out the words as if they left a bad taste in her mouth. “And my dad never told me anything.”
Chapter 19
“Try your dress on,” I said to Gracie after Nana and Mama had both gone and I’d dragged the pale green Margaret gown out of the armoire. I pointed her in the direction of the privacy screen in the workroom, hanging the gown on the hook I’d screwed to the wall next to the makeshift dressing area. Satin-covered hangers draped with completed garments were hooked between the wooden slats of the antique screen.
“I don’t know—”
“Oh no, you don’t, Gracie. I’m sure your dad has some explanation. You just have to give him a chance to tell you what it is. You shouldn’t have read the letter, and yes, maybe he should have told you, but he deserves a chance to explain. Do your grandparents, whoever they are, even know you exist? This could be complicated.”
She stared at me with her red-rimmed eyes. “But he kept my grandparents a secret and they live in the same town as me.” She jammed her hands on her hips. “How’s he going to explain that?”
Good question, and I didn’t know the answer. Truthfully, I was just as skeptical that he’d be able to give a good reason why he’d kept Gracie’s mother’s family from her. “I don’t know, sugar,” I said with a sigh, “but you have to give him a chance. He loves you.”
While she slipped behind the privacy screen to try on her dress, I took my sketchbook from the shelves that held part of Meemaw’s button collection in different-sized Mason jars. I flipped to the back and began doodling, wondering why Will was hiding the truth about Gracie’s family from her.
My mind drifted and before long, I was scribbling notes about everything that had happened over the last few days—from Macon Vance being killed, to Zinnia James being arrested, to Meemaw’s antics to keep me out of the armoire. At least she’d given up on that, I thought, trying to make sense of everything. But my mind was a jumble of crawfish in a pot, all the different bits mixed together until I couldn’t separate them from one another.
One thing, though, rose to the surface. Like every mystery book I’d ever read, it boiled down to secrets. Macon Vance must have been keeping secrets—and ones that someone was willing to kill over. Zinnia James and Nana shared secrets—likely ones they’d kept for over fifty years. Will Flores had his own secrets. Even I had secrets. The gifts of the Cassidy women meant we would always keep things from the people around us.
I flipped to the front of my sketchbook as Gracie stepped out from behind the screen. Looking at her, I caught my breath. “Oh, Gracie, th
at dress was made for you.” It fit her perfectly, as if every last part of her body had been measured and every seam stitched with those numbers magically calculated.
She looked down at herself, gathering up a bunch of fabric in each hand and fanning it out to see the detail of the scalloped hemline. “Really?”
“Really. Turn around and I’ll do it up.”
She did, and I reached out to work the buttons. I’d found the dresses and this one was perfect for Gracie. I silently thanked Meemaw for quitting her interference. Thank the Lord. One less thing to worry about.
I fastened the little pearl buttons, then guided her to the milk crate I was still using as a fitting platform. I held her hand as she stepped up and turned to face me, but after looking at her every which way, I waved her back down. There were no alterations to do. Only the ripped armhole needed fixing. I carefully drew the two pieces of fabric together and pinned them. “It’s like it was actually made for you,” I said, wondering again who it had been made for and why it was ripped.
I inspected every inch of the gown, finally pronouncing, “I can finish this tonight. Sugar, you and Libby are going to have to duke it out over who’s going to be the belle of the ball. Take a look.”
She glided across the room to the full length oval mirror, pushing her auburn hair away from her face as she gazed at her reflection. “Women really wore things like this?” she asked, a tinge of awe in her voice.
“Someone actually did wear this,” I answered. “And in the early 1800s.” I’d noted the details of the dress and was convinced this one had not been made by the Lafayette sisters. I was pretty sure it was as authentic as they come.
Had it fit the Margaret who’d worn it as perfectly as it fit Gracie?
“How do you know?”
I explained about the tight-fitting pointed bodice being much longer than the other dresses, and showed her how it had a very small tight-fitting waist. The boning seemed to stop the bodice from creasing. Even the restrictive seamline on the shoulder struck me as different from the others. “A replica made by the Lafayette sisters wouldn’t be this detailed. And the fabric… I’m sure it was shipped over here from Europe.” I’d seen samples at the Fashion Institute of Technology museum in New York. “This is either the best replica I’ve ever seen, or it’s the real McCoy.”
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