“You’re right. Okay, that works. Got it. I have to get off so I can send the text and get back to Marjorie.” Emma’s eyes slid toward the hallway to make sure Marjorie wasn’t looking for her.
“I’ll let you go right after you admit that I am a brilliant mastermind,” he said.
“Oh, please!” Emma laughed. “Fine. Good-bye, brilliant mastermind!”
Emma quickly typed a text to Paige explaining her “policy” and pressed send. She took a few steps back toward the reception area, and her phone vibrated again.
OK. Can I get them 1 or 2 days early so I can c them b4 my boss does? Need 2 know what I’m working with ahead of time. I can’t afford any surprises.
Emma frantically typed her response.
Sorry but I need every minute until the deadline 2 get everything just right. Can’t rush the process. Will b worth the wait, u’ll c! AB
Emma squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath for sixty beats. Please let Paige be cool with that, Emma wished, clutching the phone between her hands as she counted…56, 57, 58…At 59, the phone began vibrating furiously, one angry buzz after the other, faster than she could read through the sudden avalanche of messages.
NOW I’m worried. U r going 2 b finished by Monday, rite? I’m counting on u! My job, no my CAREER, depends on u delivering on time & sending FABULOUS stuff!!!
My reputation is on the line. I fought like crazy 4 u 2 b included in the feature. If u don’t deliver the spread will b empty & I will b FIRED!
My ed-in-chief is a perfectionist tyrant in couture. She wldnt blink 2x b4 firing an editor over failing 2 produce what she’s promised. Seen it happen.
Plenty stiletto-wearing vultures circling here 2 take my job & plenty more designers who’d kill 2 take urs! This is OUR chance. Pls pls pls don’t let me down!
Promise me u will b done on time. If not, I’ll have 2 find a replacement, like yesterday. Not my preference AT ALL. But will do it if I have 2.
P.S. Thank u. Ciao, PY
Emma typed out what she hoped would be her last response for the day.
U will get my designs on Monday, guaranteed. They will b completely finished & fabulous, guaranteed. U dont need 2 find a replacement. I AM ur Designer 2 Watch.
“Emma?” her dad called as he entered her work space an hour later. “Emma!” he shouted over the roar of the sewing machine.
Emma lifted her foot off the pedal. After she was finally done with Marjorie and the invoicing, she’d raced back to her studio. She’d flung the frustrating jacket sleeve on her work table and grabbed the pattern pieces for the vest. She needed to get at least one thing done by the end of the day, and she thought that she could sew together the outer fabric of the vest quickly. No such luck. She had designed it with four outside patch pockets with flaps that needed perfect seams since they’d be visible. Plus the flaps had to line up perfectly over the pockets. But so far she had only managed to finish one. She knew the construction of these pieces had to be flawless.
“What’s up?” Emma asked, as pulled all the flyaway pieces of her hair back into the ponytail.
“Ready to go? I thought you were going to meet me up front at six.” He was wearing his jacket and carrying his nylon briefcase.
Oh, no! She hadn’t realized the time. “But I’m not ready yet. I still have so much to do,” Emma explained, the words from Paige’s earlier texts still swirling around in her head. “Can’t we stay a little longer? An hour? A half hour?”
“Nope. I’m beat. I got here really early today. And it’s my night to cook,” her dad explained.
“Can I please-please-please stay? I’ll leave soon, I promise.”
He frowned. “You know I’m not leaving you here alone after hours. The security guards go off duty after six.”
“What about Isaac?” Emma suggested. “When’s he leaving?”
“He’s already gone. Had tickets to a food festival down-town. The other warehouse guys are gone, too,” he said. “Come on, it’s late.” He turned to leave.
What now? Emma racked her brain for a solution. She needed more time. She only had a couple of days with her sewing machine before Saturday arrived. Who knows if I’ll be able to get into Laceland over the weekend? She’d worry about that later. Right now, she had to figure out a way to stay and finish the vest.
“Is Marjorie still here? Can I at least ask her?” Emma begged.
Her dad snorted. “I love Marjorie Kornbluth, but I don’t think the woman has worked late a day in her life. But if you want to ask her, be my guest.”
Emma raced by her father toward the reception area. Marjorie was reapplying her frosted pink lipstick—a sure sign she was about to leave. And considering how impatient Emma acted earlier, Marjorie probably wasn’t about to trip over herself to do something for Emma.
“Marjorie! Can you please do me the hugest favor in the world? Could you stay like another hour while I work on something? Noah needs to leave and—”
“He won’t let her stay here alone,” he finished for his daughter, as he joined them up front. His eyes twinkled in a mischievous way, as they often did. He thought it was funny that Emma was asking Marjorie.
Marjorie looked back and forth between Emma and Noah as she tucked her mirrored, enamel compact and lipstick tube back in her purse. “I don’t know about that. I have plans, and I—”
“Please?” Emma interlaced her hands together in front of her chest. “I promise to do all the billing for a week.” After my collection is done, she added in her head.
Marjorie tilted her wrist to look at her delicate antique watch. “I suppose I could stay a little longer. I’m not meeting my sister for dinner downtown until about eight, and it doesn’t make sense to go all the way uptown just to turn around an hour later. If this is all right with you, Noah. I’ll lock up and put her in a cab when I leave.”
Noah frowned slightly as he considered the plan. “You have cab money?” he asked Emma. She put out her hand and accepted the ten dollars he dropped into it, having spent every last penny on fabric. “Okay. Be home at seven-thirty, or your mom will kill us both.”
“Thanks, Dad.” She gave him a quick hug. “And thanks, Marjorie! I owe you one.” Emma returned to her sewing machine, adrenaline pumping and raring to sew.
But the fairly ancient machine wasn’t in the mood to cooperate with her need for speed-stitching. It fought back by pricking her finger with the needle over and over again. Her grandmother should’ve mentioned that the Singer had a temper! She wrapped her fingers in Band-Aids and pushed on. But the only thing that was moving forward was the time. It was now six-forty, but Emma wasn’t any closer to finishing the pockets.
“Arrgh!” Emma cried out after another needle prick, this time through the Band-Aid. “Why won’t you behave?”
“Who’s not behaving?” Marjorie asked, suddenly appearing out of the shadows of the darkened warehouse and into the pool of light flooding Emma’s work space.
“This…stupid…machine!” Emma blurted. “And these annoying vest pockets!”
“Hmm,” Marjorie said, taking in the scene, “you certainly seem to have your hands full here, honey. This is no rinky-dink operation. What’s all this for?”
Emma’s back stiffened as she remembered Marjorie didn’t know—couldn’t know—the truth. If Marjorie knew, then her dad would know, and then her mom would know, and then, well, Emma wasn’t sure how she’d react. And there was no way her dad would keep this kind of info from her mom. He was always saying they were a “team.”