Every Girl Gets Confused (5 page)

Doris Day was such a big movie and TV star, people overlooked her singing. The proof is in the package. She's one of the best singers there ever was.

Margaret Whiting

T
hings at Cosmopolitan Bridal continued to intensify over the next twenty-four hours, especially in the studio, where Dahlia and her team worked against the clock to turn out gowns for customers. I managed to get Hibiscus started on Queenie's alterations, then turned my attention to the upcoming Christmas promotions in the
Tribune
.

Up front Madge and Twiggy kept the customers happy. In the studio out back, Dahlia and her team continued their
work. Nestled in a tiny office between the store and the studio, I did my best to promote the shop and to run interference with customers who weren't thrilled that their dresses were taking longer than expected. Of course, I spent a good deal of time glancing through the open doorway into the office across the hall, occupied by my handsome chicken-fried-steak-eatin' man.

Not that we had a chance to talk about anything other than work. With such a crazy flurry of customers, who had time to think about food? Or take a break? We certainly didn't talk about the obvious thing—Brady's upcoming surgery. No matter how I tried to open that Pandora's box, he kept it tightly sealed. But with his pre-surgery appointment approaching, he'd have to talk about it soon.

I thought about that as I took a call from a newshound Friday morning. The reporter—if one could call him that—tried to wheedle information out of me about the condition of Brady's knee, but I refused to play along. No one could accuse Katie Fisher of having loose lips.

On Friday morning, midway into composing an email to the local paper, I received a phone call from my brother Jasper in Fairfield. His first words threw me a little. “Houston, we have a problem.”

“Um, my name is Katie, and I live in Fairfield. Er, Dallas.”

“Whatever.” Jasper grunted. “We still have a problem.”

“What's up?” I leaned back in my chair and closed my laptop.

“Mom and Pop are out of the country. Again. This is their second trip in less than a month.”

“Right. Galápagos. Turtles.”

“Yeah. Trying to picture Mom with the turtles, but it's just not coming to me.”

“Me either. But that's not why you called,” I reminded him.

“True. Okay, it's almost the holiday season, as I'm sure you're aware.” Suddenly he sounded very businesslike.

“I am.” A quick glance at the calendar to my right proved it: Friday, November 6th. “And . . . ?”

“And I've never done the display window at the hardware store before. That was always your job.”

“Oh, it's really not that big of a deal. You just—”

“You're coming back to Fairfield tomorrow to help the other ladies plan Queenie's shower, right?”

“Yes. And . . . ?”

“Aw, c'mon, Katie. I was kind of hoping you'd stop by the hardware store and help me. You're the creative one.”

“I don't know, Jasper. I've got a full day. After we plan Queenie's shower, I've got to go to her place to deal with my dress.”

“Your dress?”

“You know, the one I won in the contest.”

“What do you mean, deal with it?”

“I'm putting it in Queenie's cedar closet.”

“Ah.” The long pause that followed was probably his way of saying, “So, you're not wearing it anytime soon?”

“Anyway, I can swing by the hardware store after that if you like, but you probably won't really need my help. I'm pretty sure you guys can handle a window display without me.”

“Not sure about that. I need some tips. Ideas.”

“It's easy,” I said. “Just go up into the attic and look for the lights and tree and tinsel and stuff.”

“Well, yeah . . .” He left to ring up a customer and then returned about twenty seconds later. “Sorry about that. How do I make hammers and saws and toilet brushes look festive? That's the real question.”

“Put Crystal to work on it.”

“You want me to ask my bride-to-be to make a toilet brush look festive?” My brother snorted. “Seriously?”

“Not a toilet brush, Jasper. There are a ton of things you can use in the window. Put her on the phone and I'll give her some ideas.”

Seconds later my future sister-in-law was on the line, sounding more than a little concerned. “I hate to see him frettin' like this, Katie,” she said. “I've
neh
-vuh seen this side of Jasper before. He's
so
worked up about that silly window display.”

“Yeah. I hate to say it, but my brothers have been very dependent on me. Everyone has. But it's okay. I'll tell you what to do. If you'd like me to stop by tomorrow afternoon when I'm done planning for Queenie's shower, just call, okay? If you still need my help, I'll be happy to give it.”

“Oh, thank you, honey!” Crystal released a sigh. “I feel
so
much
bet
-uh knowin' you're nearby!”

I shared some thoughts and suggestions. Before long Crystal sounded excited about the project ahead.

“Oh, I can see it now, Katie!” She chuckled. “What if we stacked up the boxes of
nay
-uhls and screws to form the shape of a Christmas tree and then
cuh
-vuhed them in lights and tinsel? And on the
uh
-thuh side of the window I could put Santa Claus comin' out of that fake fireplace thing that's
neh
-vuh sold. What do you think of
them
apples?”

“I think it sounds lovely.”

“Oh, you've got my mind
ree
-lun, Katie Sue! I just cain't wait to dive in! And maybe I won't even need you to stop by after all!”

As I listened to her excitement grow, I felt a strange mixture of emotions—jealousy, because she seemed to be a natural at something I'd worked hard to be mediocre at, and relief, because my services were no longer needed.

Probably a little more jealousy than relief.

We ended the call and I went back to work on my emails as I pondered the window display here at Cosmopolitan Bridal. Hopefully I'd be able to get busy on it. Maybe one day later this month, if things slowed down.

Slowed down. That was funny. I dove back into my work, not coming up for air until Madge popped her head in the door at noon. “You should eat something.”

“I'm so busy, Madge.”

“You need sustenance. We all do.” She put her hands on her broad hips. “In theory, anyway.”

“Okay, thanks. I'll figure it out. In a minute.”

“All work and no play makes for a dull boy. Er, girl.” Madge leaned against the doorjamb and I could read the exhaustion in her eyes. I knew just how she felt.

I glanced down at the pile of papers on my desk, brushed my hair out of my face, and sighed. “Do you think I'm dispensable, Madge?”

She stared at me for a moment before responding. “Is that some kind of a joke?”

“No, I'm being serious. Nadia said I'm doing too good of a job. My cover shoot brought in too many customers. So remind me again why she's paying me to do press releases and PR for the shop when we're already drowning in work?”

“Because . . .” Madge plopped down in the chair across from my desk. “It won't always be this way. Trust me when I say that we go through seasons of plenty and seasons of want.”

“Like in the Bible? Feast or famine?”

“Yes. We're in a feasting season right now, but there's usually a famine around the corner. So having a plan to promote the business long-term is wise, don't you think?”

“When you put it like that, yes. And I guess I see what you
mean. It was the same at the hardware store. In the summertime everyone wanted to fix up their yards, their kiddie pools, their swing sets, etc., so our shop had a steady stream of customers. And in the fall people bought rakes and wheelbarrows. The crowd slowed down in winter, which was why we tried to think outside the box and give our customers a Christmas experience. We drew them in with creativity. Everyone wanted to see what sort of window display we'd come up with next.”

“Which reminds me, you need to get with Dahlia to discuss our window display. Nadia loved your idea about doing something old-fashioned.”

“Like the old windows Macy's used to do.”

“Yes, love it. So you and Dahlia will have to decide which gowns to use. White, obviously. And you'll have to create some sort of backdrop. Winter wonderland, maybe?”

“Sure. No problem. But before I can think about all of that, I do need some food. Did I hear you tell Twiggy that you ordered some sort of sandwich platter?”

“Yes. Had it delivered to the studio. But . . . Do. Not. Go. Back. There.”

“Oh, the food's just for the sewing crew?”

“It's not that. Tempers are just . . . well . . . flaring back in the studio today. Do yourself a favor and order a pizza.”

“Madge, really?”

Her eyes widened and she nodded. “I made the mistake of carrying the platter back there. I thought I'd seen Dahlia in every state of mind, but I've never seen her like this.”

“Might have to go back there now, just to see for myself.” I gave a nervous laugh.

“Eat at your own risk. You were warned.”

I thought about what Madge had said about the seasons as I made my way back to the studio. We really did go through
seasons of plenty and seasons of want. I'd done the same in my personal life. Not so very long ago I was in a season of want, wondering if I'd ever find happiness. Today I was in a season of plenty, wrapped in the arms of a great guy and overloaded with so much work I barely had time to sleep.

Now, to talk to Dahlia about that window display. Entering the studio midday might prove to be dangerous, what with everyone working against the clock, but I had no choice. My lunch was in the refrigerator back there.

As I entered the room, Dahlia looked up at me and grunted. Quite the greeting.

I found the usually gorgeous blonde in a messy state, her hair wound up in a knot and with very little makeup on. Quite a contrast to the practically-perfect-in-every-way version we usually got. In place of her usual beautiful clothes and high heels, she wore a blouse that looked slept in, sweatpants, and tennis shoes. Worse still, she snapped at everyone as she worked, her words laced with angst.

I tried to remedy this with kind words. “You guys should eat something. All work and no play . . . well, you know.”

“Like we have time to eat.” She rolled her eyes and spread out a bolt of crepe satin to be cut. “I have a bride coming at three for a fitting and I've barely started her dress. And don't even get me started on the gown I just finished. The bride came in for her final fitting and wants the sweetheart neckline changed to fit her new physique.”

“New physique?” I asked.

Dahlia gestured to her chest. “Breast reduction. Why oh why don't these brides tell me before I start my alterations that they're about to have surgery?”

I couldn't answer that question. Didn't even want to try. Instead, I gestured to the platter of cold cuts and cheese slices
that Madge had delivered moments earlier. “Please eat. I'll feel so much better if you do.” And I'd feel better eating too if someone would join me. I reached for a slice of ham and popped it into my mouth. Yum.

No one seemed to notice. Dahlia and her team kept up an angst-filled conversation as they continued their work. I found myself mesmerized by all of them, but particularly Eduardo, an elderly fellow with a thick Spanish accent. The guy had to be in his seventies, but he had been Nadia's top choice to help Dahlia with dress design and production. I'd met a few guys over the years who sewed, but not many of them had the masculine swagger thing down. Eduardo was as swaggerly as a fella could get in his golden years.

And talk about golden! I hadn't seen that color hair since Queenie's favorite televangelist was forced off the air for accosting a woman in an airport. Eduardo's silver hair had a gold sheen to it. No doubt he paid a pretty penny for that 'do.

While Eduardo proved his masculinity with every move, one of our other new seamstresses offered a counterbalance in femininity. Hibiscus was as light and flowery as her name. The twenty-something was straight out of fashion school, a petite little thing who flitted around the sewing room as light as a feather. She rarely bothered with makeup. Her clothing and hairstyle reminded me of the hippies I'd seen in a documentary about the sixties. Her free spirit provided great fodder for Eduardo, who took delight in everything she did.

Unfortunately, Dahlia didn't. Poor Dahlia. OCD drove her every move, especially now, with so much work on her plate. She had no room for flightiness.

And then there was Jane. Quirky, over-the-top Jane. She'd only been working for Cosmopolitan for six weeks, but she'd already changed her hair and makeup a couple of times. One
day a platinum blonde, the next a redhead. One day thick eyeliner and dark cherry lipstick, the next soft peach.

No, nothing ever stayed the same with Jane. Except for her choice in lunch foods. Every day with a peanut butter sandwich and chips, which she consumed even now with reckless abandon. She seemed to get emotional as Dahlia scolded her about the crumbs from the potato chips, but she quickly cleaned up after herself and got back to work, clearly delighted by the very process of sewing.

I sometimes watched the designers at work and wondered what it would be like to be so in the zone that you didn't care what went on around you. You simply dove into your art and created, created, created, lost in a world that no one could penetrate.

Me? I could tell they didn't even realize I was still in the room, so after a few more bites of food, I headed out to the shop to check on Madge and Twiggy, who were working the front desk. Madge, who often was terse, appeared to be in a more aggravated state than usual.