Page 8 of Hats off to Love

“So are you making her a dress and hat like mine?” Birdie asks. Birdie commissioned me to make several things for her this season: for her party, a dress and matching fascinator, and then a hat for the Derby.

“Not quite. She and her husband were given two tickets to the Met Gala, so what we design together will be more high-end fashion and more elaborate.”

“Isn’t that amazing?” Molly has stars in her eyes. She’s already begged me to let her be there when Avery comes in. How could I say no?

“Do you have enough time for this?” Birdie asks. “Isn’t the gala the first Monday in May?”

I shrug my shoulders. “Who needs sleep?” I look around the table and, against my better judgment, look at Stokes. Both his hands are now on the table. He hasn’t chimed in to the conversation at all, not that I expect him to, and he has not one emotion or expression on his face. It’s as neutral as always. Oh wait, his lips are now pressing into a flat line as I continue to look at him.

I turn back to the parent end of the table. “I know it’s a lot, but it’s just for a couple of weeks and then it will all suddenly come to a halt. I have to do this. The more I can get my name out there, the better for next year.”

I glance at Molly, and she is grinning with full support.

What would I do without her?

“Well, I’m so happy for you,” my mother says, and she is. Her support for my hat shop has always been one hundred percent.

But as I sneak another peek at Stokes, it seems I might now have to figure out what to do with him. He’s up to something with that little stunt he just pulled, I’m certain of it, only I’m not sure why he’s thrown me of all people into the mix.

4

They say if you love what you do, work isn’t actually work, and they aren’t wrong. I love getting up each day and knowing I’ll be spending it in my shop. If the farm is heaven on earth, my getaway oasis, this shop is my daily happy place.

However, since the dinner—well even before that, since last week when Stokes randomly appeared in the shop, I feel like I have been anxiously waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And by drop, I mean him reappearing here, in my space.

In a way, I guess he has—he’s in my head space.

Curse him.

I’m certain that was his goal all along. He probably hasn’t thought of me once, whereas I’ve been obsessing over what his next move might be, almost like the childhood game of pop and scare. It’s like I know he’s out there, beyond my brick walls, and he’s lying in wait to make his next move.

For what reason, I have no idea, but he rarely does things without purpose. He can’t help it. It’s his strict, controlled, decisive personality.

AKA . . . boring.

Coming from the back, I’m carrying a tray with three pots of tea and a two-tiered stand that holds all the food goodies. While my shop is open to the public, I also set up times where people can book private events or private appointments, which is what I have right now. For one hour, these three ladies have the store to themselves. They can try on hats or embellish one that’s already made, or we can design one from scratch. Then they can sit down and relax with a cup of tea.

“Here we go, ladies. Please let me know if you need anything else,” I tell them as I drop off their refreshments and make my way to the back counter to give them some space. Unconsciously, I glance out the window to the street. This seems to have become a bad habit, almost like a tic, as I know he’s out there somewhere, and it’s driving me crazy.

The three women let out a delighted hum. I can’t say I blame them; the tea selection I stock comes from a local organic tea company, and the smells coming from the three pots are mouthwatering.

“Even the teapots and cups have roses—just perfect,” Mrs. Rupp says as she carefully picks up her pot and begins to pour her tea.

Besides Birdie, two other farms who have horses that will race in the Oaks and in the Derby have reached out to me about making a custom hat. While I limited the number of custom hats this year, it’s the three for the farms that I’m most excited about: Whitlock Farm, Sterling Bells Farm, and Bluegrass Fields Farm.

Today, Mrs. Rupp, the wife of the owner of Sterling Bells Farm, is here with two of her friends.

“I definitely think you should have Rosie make you that grand hat,” the friend on her right states as she scoops some sugar into her cup.

“Me too,” the other agrees.

In hopes of situations like this, I specifically stocked hats and embellishments to match farm colors. Whitlock Farm is green and white with an accent of blue, and Sterling Bells Farm is burgundy and silver. I also have dyeable fabrics so I can make a necktie or bowtie to match.

“I don’t know…although it would be lovely, it seems kind of pointless this year. Maybe I should have her downsize it more to a modest fascinator.” Mrs. Rupp twists her cup in its saucer, a frown gracing her perfectly enhanced lips.

Downsize?