“Then no more Allegra Biscotti. You make honor roll and take that Western civ class. And you still live happily ever after.”
“I’d be happier if she liked them.”
“Then get out of that apartment.”
Two hours later, she met Marjorie and Charlie at Laceland.
“What’s in the mystery case?” Emma asked. Marjorie stood in the middle of Emma’s studio in what must be her weekend outfit—black knit pants and a black ribbed turtleneck—with a large black rectangular case by her side.
“My sewing machine.”
Emma’s eyes widened. Of all the people in her life to become her fashion angel, Emma never would have picked Marjorie. “Oh, wow, Marjorie. That’s the most amazing thing. You didn’t have to, you know.”
“I know, believe me. But I’m here anyway, so I might as well really help. I didn’t travel fifty blocks downtown just to open a door. Let’s get to work.”
Side by side, they sewed silently back in Emma’s studio. Emma constructed each piece, meticulously double-checking each nearly invisible intersecting seam. After every seam or dart was added, she carefully tried the garment on the dress form, making minute alterations for a perfect fit.
She wished she had a fit model—a living, moving person—instead of a fabric dress-form replica, but her own body was far from the willowy model type. And Marjorie’s was even farther. There were no other options, so she’d just have to cross her fingers that the garments would drape and move properly when worn by a real person.
Marjorie worked the iron, carefully pressing each section of fabric so it wouldn’t wrinkle or pucker. She also handled the finishing work—adjusting hemlines, removing the basting seams, and then adding the permanent ones.
Charlie was in charge of tunes and food. He was on a run now to a nearby deli for sandwiches, drinks, and real coffee for Marjorie.
“What’s next?” Marjorie asked Emma.
“I’ve finished most of the dress, but I’m having some trouble getting the slit right without pulling this fabric. It’s so delicate…but I had to have it.”
“Here, hand it over.” Marjorie reached for the pinned pieces of fabric. She spent a few minutes reviewing Emma’s detailed sketches and patterns before gently placing the pieces in her own sewing machine.
Emma glanced around her studio. There was still a lot left to do—attaching closures, adding cuffs, making the belt, and of course, sewing in the finished linings on all three pieces—and she felt odd, just watching Marjorie perfect the slit for her.
“This isn’t cheating, is it? By having you help me sew?” Emma asked.
Marjorie took her foot off the pedal, and the whirring motor slowing stopped. “Of course not, honey. I’m just the worker bee here. You don’t think Ralph Lauren does all his own sewing, do you?”
Suddenly, they heard the creaking of floorboards.
Marjorie raised her eyebrows at Emma. Emma shrugged, unsure of the noise.
Then they heard the footsteps. The unmistakable rhythm of footsteps approaching the back of the warehouse. Approaching them.
Emma’s eyes grew wide. “It doesn’t sound like Charlie,” she whispered. That was, not unless he brought the deli staff back with him. There was definitely more than one person.
The footsteps moved forward, the sound of shoes hitting the floorboards echoing off the high ceilings.
Marjorie grabbed the fabric shears, gripping them tightly in her delicate hands.
Emma peered toward the darkened hall, but she couldn’t see anything in the dim light. Her breath caught in her throat. She reached into her bag, quickly wrapping her fingers around her cell phone.
Flipping it open, she began to dial. 9…the keypad tone rang out loudly in the eerie silence, causing her to cringe. 1… the footsteps stopped.
“Who’s there?” a deep voice called.
Emma stopped dialing. She knew that voice.
In the light of the opening to Emma’s work space, her father appeared. Her mother and William stood behind him.
“Emma!” her father cried, alarmed. Then his eyes darted to Marjorie, gripping the scissors like a dagger. “Marjorie?”
“What…what’re you guys doing here?” Emma blurted out, a jumble of relief and panic.
“What are you doing here?” her mother demanded, the furrow lines in her forehead deepening with every word. “You’re supposed to be at home studying.”
“I didn’t think you’d be here,” Emma said lamely. She was too overwhelmed to create even more lies.
“That’s obvious,” her dad said in a measured tone. Emma could see he was just as angry as her mom. It didn’t happen often but when it did…it wasn’t good. “I had something to do here. In my office. But I think right now you’re the one with explaining to do.”
Marjorie stood up to leave. “I think I’ll just go, uh, do something else.”
Emma saw a look pass between Marjorie and Noah as she slid by the Roses on her way out of the work space. She had no idea what that look meant, but she was too nervous to worry about that right now.
“What’s going on here?” her dad demanded. “This isn’t like you, sneaking around behind our backs like this.”
Her dad, her mom, and even William stared at her, waiting. For once, William wasn’t smirking. He actually looked kind of scared.
There was no way she couldn’t tell them now. She knew that. She took a deep breath and began to explain—everything.
“Dad, do you remember Paige Young?” she began.
As Emma continued, Noah and Joan exchanged many concerned glances, but to Emma’s surprise, sometimes they smiled ever so slightly when she described the high points— Paige putting Allegra in her blog, Madison picking up the post, the interview on the Madison website, and then, of course, the request for Allegra’s pieces to be photographed for the actual pages of the most influential magazine in the fashion industry.
When she finished, Emma felt like she had just run a hundred miles. Or spent the last two weeks working night and day on three brand-new garments while attending high school.
Her dad leaned forward and pressed his palms flat against her worktable. “Why didn’t you tell us? That’s what I don’t understand.”
Emma looked up at the ceiling. She hated that the twinkle was gone from her father’s eyes. What was worse was that Emma knew that she was responsible for that.
“The whole thing just seemed to happen so fast,” she explained. “I’d do one thing and think that was it. But then Paige would ask for something else, and then something else…and the lie kept getting bigger and bigger somehow. I didn’t know how to stop without ruining everything.”
Her mother cleared her throat. That wasn’t a good sign, Emma knew, so she braced herself.
“You know that I don’t deal with lying, whatsoever, under any circumstance,” her mother began, “especially lying to your parents.”
“I agree. The lying thing is a really big deal,” her dad said, looking directly into Emma’s eyes. “I can maybe see how this spun out of control, but lying is not cool with us—at all. We need to be able to trust you.”
“I get it,” Emma said. And the funny thing was that she really did. “I’m so sorry. I really am. You can trust me.”
“I hope so.” Her mother paused, debating what to say next.
Emma couldn’t chance it. She knew a punishment was heading her way—that was Prada-black-dress obvious. She had to step up, to show them that Allegra Biscotti was more than some random name she’d made up. That Allegra was a designer with talent. That Allegra was her. “Can I show you what I’m making?”
“I would hope so,” her mom said. “Especially after all the effort you’ve made not to show us.”
“Can I see, too?” William asked.