“Good,” she said with a satisfied nod, twirling around and curtsying for the empty banquet room. “Now, what do you think the senator’s wife wants to talk to you about?”
“I was just wondering the same thing.” It was freaky how Josie could read my mind sometimes. We’d reconnected only a few months ago, just before her wedding to the town’s most eligible bachelor, Nate Kincaid. Her sparkly personality and infectious smile had helped her win Nate’s heart; plus she had breathed new life into Seed-n-Bead, the shop she now owned on the town square. It had also made her my confidant since I’d moved back to Bliss. I’d never really had a best friend, but Josie—and Madelyn Brighton, the catch-all photographer for Bliss and a connoisseur of all things supernatural—was pretty close. “And I have no idea. It was all very clandestine. The note was in my mailbox. No stamp, so she hand delivered it.”
“Aha,” Josie said, wagging her index finger at me. “She had someone else deliver a note to you. She is the type to have other people do her bidding. So basically, you’re her lackey.”
“I’m not her lackey,” I said. But actually, the thought had occurred to me. “Mrs. James loves Buttons and Bows. She comes in all the time, for the smallest little thing. She brought me a special piece of silk ribbon a few days ago. Said it had been her grandmother’s hair ribbon and she wanted me to somehow use it on Libby’s dress.”
“Oh, like something borrowed, something blue.”
“Exactly.”
She glanced at my brown and white Dena Rooney-Berg bag sitting back on the stage. You could just see the orange handles of my Fiskars poking out through the open zipper. “Does she want you to do a fitting, or something?”
“No, I did an alteration job over in Glen Rose.” I pushed my glasses onto the top of my head and added, “A fashion emergency. The woman is part of a skit at her family reunion tonight, and the dress didn’t fit.”
“I might need some alterations on my clothes, too, if I don’t quit eating all the pastries from Villa Farina,” Josie said, patting her behind.
I laughed as I maneuvered myself off the runway. I changed the subject. “Did I tell you that Mrs. James and my grandmother were friends when they were kids and that they actually fought over my grandfather?”
She gaped at me—a full-on chin drop that left her mouth wide open. “No, really? Like in a if Mrs. James had won his heart instead of Coleta, you wouldn’t have been born kind of way?”
As I nodded, a noise from behind caught my attention. I turned just as a black, square box sitting on a card table softly whirred to life. The cord snaked down from the machine and attached to a heavy orange extension cord that disappeared behind the newly installed black ceiling-to-floor curtains.
The mechanism of the machine, visible through a wide cutout, held something yellow. It began a slow rotation and—
“Bubbles!” Josie giggled, reaching up to catch one in the palm of her hand when they drifted our way.
Muffled footsteps came from backstage, growing louder as the bubble machine settled into maximum output, letting out a silent stream of glistening soap spheres.
Suddenly a man’s voice, curt and tinged with judgment, carried out to us. “It’s a might early for that, isn’t it?”
There was a surprised gasp, then a woman said, “I believe in being prepared.”
“That’s Mrs. James,” I whispered to Josie. The senator’s wife had a commanding and easily recognizable voice. She was all business, in a Southern lady kind of way.
“I thought it was a pageant, not a monkey show.”
I would have said fashion show, but I’d thought the very same thing. The catwalk was all wrong for the event. There would be a pageant, during which Mr. and Mrs. Allen, Mrs. James’s daughter and son-in-law, would play the esteemed roles of Sam Houston and Margaret Moffette Lea. The society girls and their beaus would be escorted out, and they would all perform several elaborate and authentic dances for the audience. “We need the stage, but not the runway,” I said to Josie. “But,” I added, “they could use this catwalk for the winter fashion show. Mrs. James mentioned her plans to me a while back.” I kept my voice low. “A winter wonderland theme featuring the women of Bliss. She wants me to be in charge of it. This exact catwalk will be perfect for that.”
Josie’s olive complexion sparkled, suddenly lit up from inside. “A fashion show? That sounds divine! Can I be in it?”
“Shhh!” I held my finger to my lips, flicking my gaze backstage. Even though Josie and I had been here first and I’d been summoned, I suddenly felt like we were intruding on a private conversation. “You’re married to the former most eligible bachelor in town,” I whispered. “Heck, in all of Hood County. I’m sure you’ll be the main attraction.” Even without the gold band on her ring finger and Nate Kincaid on her arm, Josie was a picture of loveliness. She glowed. I liked to think it was the magic I’d sewn into the seams of the wedding gown I’d made for her, or the dreams I’d infused as I painstakingly looped each thread through each individual bead.
“Why are you here?”
I jerked at the harshness in Mrs. James’s voice, whipping around to face her. But she wasn’t talking to us. She was still hidden behind the velvet curtains.
“She’s talking to him,” Josie said under her breath.
Now I really didn’t want to be here. My heart slid from my throat back down to its proper position and I was about to tell Josie we should skedaddle, but the man’s voice shot out again. “I’ve been waiting,” he said. “Unless you don’t want this thing to go on as planned.”
Mrs. James scoffed. “Oh, it’s happening, whether you approve or not. Now, you may leave.”
There was a heavy pause. Josie and I looked at each other, both of us with raised eyebrows and pinched lips. They sounded madder than a barrel of trapped water moccasins.
Finally, he spoke again. “Sam Houston was married three times—is that somethin’ to be proud of? Do you really want these girls to be someone’s third wife? Children should be raised by their parents. That’s what we should be modelin’, not this… this… this.”
“Isn’t that calling the kettle black,” Mrs. James snapped. “If you believed that, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
I told myself that eavesdropping was bad, but I was riveted. Pageants, big hair, and a love of Sam Houston were practically Texas requirements, but this guy didn’t buy into it.
“You’ve been here long enough to know that we are presenting Bliss’s daughters to society. These girls, sir,” Mrs. James intoned haughtily, “go through an arduous year of preparation for an upper-class lifestyle. They receive an education in etiquette, good manners, and bearing. They’ve attended rounds of parties and afternoon teas that began last September. A truly prepared Margaret knows how to greet and introduce people, knows the importance of writing proper invitations and thank-you notes, and will be able to host with poise, manners, and social grace, something every man wants for his daughter or his wife. Wouldn’t you agree—”
He snorted, cutting Mrs. James off again; he was clearly lacking in social grace. “I’m talkin’ ’bout girls who don’t have the right pedigree. What about them, hmm?” I imagined him making air quotes as he said this. “They’re just shit outta luck. A little elitist, don’t you think?”
Mrs. James cleared her throat, likely swallowing down her desire to slap the man for his impudence and his language. “That is not your concern.”