By three o’clock the next afternoon, the dining room table was completely buried under twenty yards of heavy ivory satin. The room smelled of the lavender detergent I had used to wash the muslin lining, a clean, sharp scent that usually settled my mind. Emily stood perfectly still on a low wooden footstool in the center of the room, her eyes fixed on her reflection in the glass of the china cabinet. I knelt on a foam garden mat, my stiff knees protesting as I pinned the heavy fabric around her slender waist.
The side gate clicked against its latch, a sudden sound that made Emily jump and pull her silver promise ring off her finger.
“Stay still, sweetheart,” I whispered, holding a brass pin between my lips. “I do not want to prick you.”
Before I could stand, the front door handle turned.
Margaret walked into the dining room without knocking, her expensive leather heels clicking sharp against the heart-pine floor. She wore a tailored beige linen suit that looked like it belonged in an office in Savannah, and she carried a small leather clutch under her arm. She did not look at me on the floor, but her manicured fingernail immediately began to tap the face of her gold watch.
“I was in the neighborhood for a committee meeting,” Margaret said, her crisp diction cutting through the quiet room. “I wanted to see how this little project was coming along.”
Emily immediately twisted her silver promise ring back onto her finger, her shoulders rising toward her ears. “We just finished draping the skirt, Margaret.”
Margaret walked a slow circle around the wooden stool, her eyes scanning the raw, unhemmed edges of the ivory fabric. She reached out and pinched a fold of the satin between her thumb and forefinger, sliding them down to the bottom.
“It is a lovely effort, dear, but satin shows every single mistake,” Margaret said.
She picked up one of the saltwater pearls from the open blue velvet box beside my sewing machine, turning it over in her manicured hand before dropping it back with a tiny click.
A sharp, hot pain flared in my right thumb, and I stood up slowly, rubbing the stiff joint against my apron to hide the tremble. “This is heavy-duty bridal grade, Margaret. It handles beautifully if you know how to tension the thread.”
“Of course,” Margaret said, her artificial smile not reaching her eyes. “I only worry because James has certain expectations. His father’s former partners from the Atlanta firm are attending, and they are used to a particular level of refinement.”
“The dress will be beautiful,” Emily said, her voice coming out in a rapid, breathy rush. “Rosemary made my mother’s graduation dress, and everyone said it looked professional.”
Margaret smoothed her skirt, her gaze drifting to the vintage Singer sewing machine sitting on the side table. “A graduation is not a wedding at the Oconee Country Club, Emily. One must think of the photographs that will hang in the library.”
“The lighting in the sanctuary is very forgiving,” I said, keeping my voice flat and even.
“We shall see,” Margaret said, stepping back toward the hallway. “I have to meet the florist at the club in twenty minutes. Do try to keep the seams straight, Rosemary.”
She did not wait for me to answer, nor did she shut the door behind her when she left.
Emily stepped off the wooden stool, her face pale under the dining room lights. “Do you think she is right about the seams, Rosemary?”
