The Dream Dress Page 5

  Strange. I’d almost used the same opening line. But why did he seem surprised to see me when he’d come to my house? “Yeah, it’s me,” I managed. “Why are you here?”

  Now he really looked perplexed. “I was wondering the same thing. I came because I was summoned. Not sure why, though.”

  Again with the narrowing of the eyes. What was up with this guy? Was he on some sort of secret spy mission? Had Demetri sent him to scope me out? Confusion wrapped its tendrils around me, and fear quickly set in.

  “I-I’m sorry?” I said.

  “Oh!” His face flooded with relief. “Is that why you brought me here? To apologize?” A beautiful smile lit his face. “Well, I guess that makes sense, but the way you went about it seems a little odd. I would’ve just made apologies over the phone. Not that you owe me—or anyone else—an apology, by the way. What happened back at the dress shop was not your fault. I still can’t believe you took the blame for that, so no apologies necessary, trust me.”

  He’d started to lose me a few sentences back. “Brought you here?” I sputtered. “What do you mean?”

  He tilted his head. “You called me pretending to be an old woman. Accused me of doing a lousy job. On what, I’m not sure. Told me to come over here right away to take care of something I had broken.”

  “Something you’d broken?” Now he’d lost me entirely.

  “Yeah.” He gave a little shrug. “That’s the part I don’t understand. Were you blaming me for the broken glass tray? The one the éclairs were on?”

  “No.” This whole conversation threw me for a loop, and I couldn’t help but think this guy had ulterior motives. No doubt he was on a secret mission, sent by Demetri to further humiliate me. Likely in print. In Texas Bride magazine. Well, I wouldn’t give him that option. Not this time.

  Just then Mimi Carmen appeared at my side, still wearing the homemade housedress I’d seen her in earlier in the day. Lovely. She wiped the enchilada sauce from her hands and glared at Mr. Reporter. “There you are, young man.” She pushed past me and placed her balled-up fists on her ample hips. “It’s about time you got here. Get in this house right now and take care of this broken sewing machine.”

  “Sewing machine?” Prince William and I spoke in unison.

  “Of course.” Mimi Carmen shook her head as if disgusted with him. “What else?”

  “But I-I-I . . .” He glanced my way, now wide-eyed.

  “Aye, aye, aye is right!” Mimi swung the door wide. “What happened the last time you were here was unforgivable, but this is a new day, and I’m a firm believer in offering second chances.”

  Since when?

  “So get in this house, young man.” She gestured with a tip of her head. “And do the right thing once and for all.”

  At that, Prince William stepped inside, and my grandmother slammed the door behind him, ready to take him down a notch or two. For what, I could not be sure.

  “Ma’am, I’m really not sure why you called me,” the reporter said, looking more than a little confused. “There’s obviously been some sort of misunderstanding. Or mistake.”

  She pointed an arthritic finger in his face. “The only mistake is the one you made last time we were together.” The tremor in her voice let me know she meant business. Apparently she frightened him too, from the look on his face.

  “L-last time? At the bridal shop?”

  “No, not the bridal shop.” She rolled her eyes as if his words annoyed her. “Here. The last time you came to fix my sewing machine. You botched it up.”

  “Botched it up?” Prince William and I spoke in unison once more.

  “Yes. You call what you did a repair job?” She crossed her arms and stared him down, then began a lengthy tirade in Spanish about how he’d fouled up a perfectly good 1967 Singer sewing machine—a classic, no less—by overmanipulating the bobbin. “I paid you good money!” she sputtered, now in English. “And you took advantage of my generosity.”

  “I-I what?” That freckled nose of his—cute as a button already—wrinkled, which only made him cuter. Not that I had time to focus on him. For more than a second. Out of the corner of my eye.

  I put my hand on my grandmother’s arm and did my best to calm her down. “Mimi, you’ve got the wrong man.” I fought to keep my words steady so as not to further upset her.

  “Wrong man, indeed.” She snorted in a very unladylike fashion. “I should’ve called someone trustworthy the first time, and then we wouldn’t be in this pickle, now would we?” She turned to face me. “You with those beautiful dress designs, Gabi, and no sewing machine to get the job done.” Off she went in Spanish about how important the Singer sewing machine was to my design career, and I ushered up a prayer that this reporter—Ack! What is your name again, you handsome devil, you?—didn’t speak Spanish.

  “Wait. None of this makes a bit of sense to me.” This, he managed in fluent Spanish. Great. Go figure.

  “It doesn’t make a bit of sense to me either.” Mimi Carmen shook her head. “How someone could accept money for a job they didn’t complete is beyond me. I should report you to the Better Business Bureau.”

  “But ma’am, I—”

  “And another thing—the next time you service a customer’s machine, leave a card. I had a doozy of a time finding your number.” She gave me a little nudge with her elbow. “Thank God you had his card, right, Gabi? It certainly came in handy.”

  “Had his card?” This was growing stranger and stranger.

  “Yep.” She pulled out the business card I’d tossed onto the counter when I arrived home. I glanced at it, more perplexed than ever. Until my gaze landed on his name.

  Jordan Singer.

  In that moment, it all made sense.

  Jordan Singer.

  Singer sewing machine.

  I got it. Only, how could I tell him without humiliating my grandmother or further irritating her?

  Mimi folded her arms at her chest and gave me a knowing look. “Gabriella, this might be a good time for you to admit that Mimi Carmen was right.”

  “Right? About what?”

  “I told you last week that the sewing machine repairman’s name started with a J.” She chuckled, then grabbed Jordan by the arm and pulled him across the tiny foyer. Her attention shifted to his face. “You’ve lost weight since the last time you were here.”

  “I-I have?” He shot a bug-eyed look my way, and I sighed, knowing anything I said would only confuse him—or Mimi Carmen—more.

  “Yes, but it looks good on you.” She gave him a closer look. “Just so you know, though, I think I liked your hair better the other way.”

  He stammered, “Th-thank you?”

  A grunt followed on Mimi’s end. “Might as well get started on this sewing machine. You need to fix what you fouled up, and the sooner the better.”

  He tagged along on Mimi Carmen’s heels into the back room. Arms waving, she rambled on and on in Spanish about his shoddy workmanship. Then, about the time I thought she might just punch his lights out, she patted him on the back and crooned, “There. I’ve said enough. You work. I’ll get you and my sweet Gabriella a lemonade.”

  She left the room, and I found myself alone with the reporter who looked about as baffled as I’d been. He stared at me with that deer-in-the-headlights look.

  Time to offer an explanation. “It’s your name,” I said as I took hold of his arm. “Your last name is Singer.”

  “Right,” he responded in a hoarse whisper, sounding more confused than before.

  “She thinks you’re the Singer man.” Wow, is this guy muscular or what?

  “I am the Singer man. Jordan Singer.”

  I groaned. “No, she thinks you’re the Singer sewing machine repair guy. The last one who came out to fix her sewing machine—and that was three or four years ago, FYI—was James something-or-other. At least, I think it was James. She remembered that his first name started with a J. So I’m guessing she saw your business card and got confused.” At t
his point I realized I still had my hand on his arm, so I pulled it away.

  “Ah.” He raked his fingers through his beautiful blond hair and shrugged. “So, now what?”

  “Now you repair her sewing machine. Or, rather, my sewing machine, though it’s technically not mine until she dies. She’s willed it to me.”

  “I see.” He paused and glanced down at the antiquated machine with the Singer logo emblazoned across the front in faded letters. “But I don’t know anything about sewing. Or sewing machines.”

  “Well, can you act like you do?” I said through clenched teeth as my grandmother appeared in the doorway. I turned her way and flashed a smile. “I’m sure everything will be fine, Mimi.”

  “I certainly hope so.” She placed two glasses of lemonade on the stand next to the machine. “You, young man, should be ashamed of the shoddy work you did last time. I’ve never known a repairman who didn’t know a bobbin from a spool pin. I hope you’ve learned a little something between then and now.”

  “Little being the key word.” Jordan eased his way down into the chair in front of the sewing machine and stared at it as Mimi Carmen stormed out of the room. He glanced my way as if to ask, “Now what?”

  What, indeed? I had absolutely no idea. But as I gazed into Jordan’s handsome face, I couldn’t help but think there were worse fates to befall a girl. Like losing her job, for instance. Oh, and ruining a wedding dress for an important client. All of this in front of a reporter for the most illustrious bridal magazine in the state.

  A reporter with the handsomest face I’d seen in a long, long time.

  And great biceps.

  And the kindest smile, which he now gave—a smile that convinced me he would do whatever it took to put my grandmother’s mind at ease.

  For the first time since his arrival, I found myself relaxing. Yes, indeed. A girl could get completely lost in those gorgeous sea-green eyes. And as they locked onto mine, I felt my breathing return to normal for the first time all day.

  Follow the Fleet

  Keep calm and get the seam ripper.

  Author unknown

  So, now what?” Jordan asked after a few moments of silence passed between us.

  I snapped back to attention, realizing I’d been staring at him for quite some time.

  Awkward.

  “Well, you’re in luck,” I said.

  “I am? Could’ve fooled me.”

  “I’m just saying, I happen to know a little something about sewing machines.” I nudged him out of the chair and sat down. “And despite what she thinks, the machine’s not even broken. The bobbin’s just giving me fits. But I can fix that myself. I’ve done it before. Surely I can do it again.”

  “Good.” He leaned down to have a closer look as I raised the presser foot and opened the bobbin cover. “Glad someone knows what they’re doing around here.”

  I continued to dismantle the metal casing, my mind in a whirl. “We’ll just let her think you did it, okay?”

  “Fine by me. I have a feeling she might sue me or something if I botch this up.”

  I glanced over at him as he grinned, his pearly whites catching my gaze. Perfect eyes. Perfect hair. Perfect teeth? Some people had all the luck.

  We settled in at the sewing machine, and before long Jordan started offering advice. Helpful advice.

  “Are you sure you’re not a closet seamstress?” I laughed.

  “No, trust me. I’m a reporter through and through. But I like to tinker with mechanical things. I used to work on cars. Before computers took over the world, I mean. Now the technology behind these new smart cars eludes me. So I’ll stick with reporting. It pays the bills.”

  I paused from my work to look his way. “I’ve actually never met a reporter before. What’s that like?”

  “It’s okay.” He shrugged, and I could read embarrassment in his expression. “I know it’s kind of odd for a guy to be working for a bridal magazine.” He gave me an apologetic look. “Trust me, it wasn’t my first choice. I wanted to report the news. The real news, I mean.”

  “What?” I chuckled. “Debutante brides aren’t your idea of real news?”

  “I guess some people would think so, but I don’t happen to be one of them.” He fidgeted with his shirt collar.

  “So what happened?” I asked as I turned back to the loose bobbin. I pulled it out and took a screwdriver to the machine to tighten things up, hoping to relieve the poor guy of his embarrassment by keeping my attention on the machine.

  “The magazine publisher shifted gears midstream,” he said. “Texas Bride magazine became part of the Texas Highways family, and the next thing you know . . .”

  “You’re covering caterers, dress designers, and florists?” I tried.

  “Yeah. Not exactly my dream job, but I’m doing my best to make it work until I get to do what I really want to do.”

  “Then we have more in common than you know.” I gave the screwdriver another turn, laid it down next to the sewing machine, and looked at Jordan with greater admiration than before.

  “Oh?” A hint of a smile turned up the edges of his lips. “Is this your way of saying you’re not happy with your job at the dress shop either?”

  “My former job at the dress shop.” I did my best not to let a sigh escape as my thoughts shifted back to this morning’s events. “But yeah, I guess you could say I haven’t been happy for a while now. Maybe this is all some sort of a sign that I should change careers or something.”

  His dark eyebrows arched mischievously. “Open your own design studio?” He paused, and the playful expression on his face shifted to one of genuine caring. “From what your friend said, you’ve got the skill. Maybe you should just go for it.”

  “I dunno.” Another uncomfortable silence followed as I thought about his question. Three times today someone had suggested I open my own design studio—first Scarlet, then Bella, and now this guy?

  I bit my lip to keep from responding, then picked up the bobbin and settled it back into its cradle. With determination mounting, I gave the handwheel a turn but could tell the tension still wasn’t where it needed to be. In fact, I’d actually made things worse. Just one more mess to fix.

  From the other room Mimi Carmen’s voice rang out in a sweet song, a lovely hymn in Spanish. I listened to the familiar words of “It Is Well with My Soul” and was transfixed.

  De paz inundada mi senda ya esté,

  O cúbrala un mar de aflicción,

  Mi suerte cualquiera que sea, diré:

  Alcancé, alcancé salvación.

  Alcancé salvación.

  Alcancé, alcancé salvación.

  Jordan took several steps toward the door, completely silent, as we both listened to my grandmother’s shaky but lovely refrain. When she finished, he looked my way. For a moment, I thought I saw his eyes glisten.

  “I know that song,” he said.

  “You do?”

  “Yes. My mom’s parents are from Puerto Rico. I grew up hearing my grandmother sing her favorite hymns in Spanish.” His eyes took on a faraway look, and I could tell I’d lost him to his memories. After a while he seemed to shake it off. “Sorry. Didn’t realize how much I’ve missed them until now. My grandmother had the temper of a boiling teapot much of the time, but just as quickly she would burst into song. Like that.”

  He nodded toward the door as my grandmother’s voice rang out again, this time singing “All My Exes Live in Texas.” In Spanglish.

  “The only time I ever saw my grandmother’s temper flare was when my dad cheated on my mom.” I shivered as the memory overtook me. “Trust me, you don’t want to get her mad.”

  “I think I saw a little taste of that temper just a few minutes ago,” he said. “She’s really mad that I fouled up her Singer sewing machine.”

  I grinned as he stressed the word Singer.

  “But hey, a fella can’t help his name. Right?” He shrugged and then stared at the machine once again.

  “Right.”<
br />
  “At least my first name has a good meaning, one I’m proud of.”

  “It does?”

  “Sure. Jordan. As in ‘cross the . . .’”

  “Cross the Jordan?” It took a moment, but I finally got the reference to the Israelites crossing over the Jordan River into the Promised Land. “I see.”

  Staring into his twinkling eyes, I had the strangest feeling I really could cross over into the Promised Land. I shook off my swooning and focused on the sewing machine.

  Jordan began to whistle “All My Exes Live in Texas” along with Mimi Carmen, who continued to belt it out from the kitchen. I couldn’t help but notice the guy had perfect pitch too. After a moment, he stopped whistling and focused on a poster filling the wall space above the sewing machine.

  “Ginger Rogers?” he asked.

  “Yep. She’s my personal favorite.”

  He gave me an inquisitive look. “You a dancer or something?”

  “No. I have two left feet, actually.”

  He glanced down at my bare feet and laughed. “Now that I’d pay money to see.” His gaze traveled up to the poster once again, and I could read the curiosity in his expression.

  “It’s not just Ginger I’m fascinated with, it’s Fred too. I’ve loved them both for as long as I can remember. I suppose I have Mimi Carmen to thank for that. She introduced me to their movies when I was a little girl. I think I’m just mesmerized with their clothing. They had such . . . style.”

  “Yes. Fred was quite the suave fellow, wasn’t he.” Jordan phrased the words more as a statement than a question.

  “He sure was. And Ginger’s dresses were breathtaking.” I pointed at the poster. “See what I mean? The waistline is perfect for her figure. And notice the cut of the skirt. See how it flares out at the bottom as she spins? I read that she put weights in the hemline to make it do that.” A teensy-tiny sigh followed. “You just don’t see dresses like that anymore.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  Passion now fueled my words as I turned to face him. “But don’t you think you should see dresses like this? With a little tweaking, this would make a great bridal gown. At least to my way of thinking.”