Unfinished Business

23

"Macey, I just have to know where you got your dress from." Abigail Bateman, a girl I went to high school with approaches me at the bar of The Starlighter. From what I can remember, she wasn't ever a girly girl. She would hang out with the boys and go mudding every weekend or four-wheeling. But now, she's got highlights in her auburn hair with freshly manicured nails. I didn't think it would be possible to find someone else who colored their hair on a routine basis, but here we are.

"Oh, this? I made it like, five years ago." The simple cotton flowy pink sundress isn't even my best work, but Abigail is staring at it like it's fresh off the runway of couture.

She gasps. "Are you kidding? Oh my god, you totally have to make me one! Let me take a picture for the girls." Dragging her phone out of her pocket, she instructs me to back up, so I do as I'm told, posing awkwardly as she snaps a few photos. I don't have the heart to tell her I stopped making clothes a long time ago. I gave up that dream back in New York. I couldn't make a living out there. I failed.

"The girls?" I ask, dodging the question.

She nods enthusiastically. "Yes! So, every Sunday after church, the girls and I get together at that cute little coffee shop on main street and discuss fundraisin' ideas, and Loretta's annual event is coming up. Christy, you know, the girl who runs the hair salon? She suggested we do a fashion show this year at Loretta's instead of an auction! Dresses like this would be perfect."

HA! The thought of Loretta actually approving that made my insides quake from the waves of laughter threatening to escape. She's always been adamant about doing the auction. It's been that way for years.

"Loretta was thrilled with the idea," she gushed. "Said we should talk to you about it."

Of course, she did. I'm two seconds away from an eye roll until the devil herself sweeps out of the kitchen, placing a plate of jalapeno poppers in front of me. There's sweat sliding down her face, but she wipes it away with a rag and lets out a grunt. "What?"

It would be impolite to discuss how irritated I am about this idea when Abigail was so kind about this dress I designed, so instead of lighting into her like I want to do, I send her a tight-lipped smile. "Oh, nothing. We're just talking about this fashion show idea that you approved without a second thought."

Her lips twitch upwards, hiding a smile. "You can make clothes, can't ya? It ain't complicated. It was an easy decision."

"And you just agreed to it that easily when you've been hosting the auction every year for decades?"

Abigail eases her weight from one foot to the other. "If it's too much, then..."

"She'll do it," Loretta answers for me. "She ain't got nothin' better to do."

What the hell is wrong with her? Why is she so persistent about me getting back into design? She cleared out her entire sewing room for me, and for what? She knows I didn't make it in New York. She knows I gave it up a long time ago. Why is she trying to rush me into things I'm not ready for yet?

But this is for charity, and it's not like the townspeople of Darlington are looking for anything extravagant. I'm rusty, but I suppose I could whip up a few dresses for a fashion show. It wouldn't kill me.

Turning to face Abigail, I'm suckered in when she throws me those puppy dog eyes. "Fine," I relent, "but I can't guarantee they'll be any good. I haven't made anything in a long time, so..."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!" She squeals and swoops me in for a hug. I'm pressed against her large chest, wincing from the overwhelming scent of flowers. "Christy is goin' to love this dress. Will you join us for coffee at noon on Sunday? We can go over all of the plans then."