Page 42 of Meet Me on Greenwood

A church bell tolled nearby. Eleven strikes.

"I suppose I should get going," Houston said. "I’m late for my shift."

He shook C.J.’s hand and then his eyes landed on mine. We looked at each other for a tense moment before he extended his uninjured hand. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Gema. Don’t be a stranger."

I took his hand. "Come see me if you need help with your stitches," I said before walking away.

Before I could protest, I was steered through a narrow hallway and into the sunlit fitting room at the back of a shop. Bolts of silk and cotton in soft fall colors were folded in tidy rows across the counters.

The dressmaker, Ms. Lansing, had followed, looping a measuring tape around her neck.

"We’ll start simple," Camille said. "Day dresses. Something suitable for church, luncheons, committee meetings."

"Committee meetings?" I asked faintly.

Rita groaned. "We attend several committees at the church every week. Most are food drives for the poor whites from west Tulsa where the oil fields have run dry. Honestly, the committees are so boring," she lamented.

"Don’t say poor whites," Camille snapped. "It is unkind. Say the less fortunate."

Rita crossed her arms. "I can say less fortunate, but we all know what I mean."

"Just one or two dresses are fine," I said as Camille circled me with her own measuring tape in hand. "I don’t need any more than that."

All three women looked at each other in horror before turning back to me. "Absolutely not," Rita replied smoothly. "You are staying with us. Appearances matter. Three changes per day at a minimum."

"Three—" I started.

"At a minimum," she repeated.

"I don't mean to be ungrateful. It just feels like a lot."

"It isn't vanity," Camille said, already back to measuring, her hands efficient and unhurried. "It's presentation. There's a difference." She lifted my arm. "Up."

I knew all about presentation, my father had built his business on it, and his family were all reluctant participants.

Fabric was held up to my shoulders as pins were tucked into hems. Some of the dresses fit well enough off the rack—a modest navy cotton and a soft cream with pearl buttons—but others Camille marked with chalk, murmuring adjustments.

The bell above the shop door jingled as more women drifted in with feathered hats, bringing the scent of perfume and the sound of polite gossip. Rita seemed to know every one of them.

"Mrs. Jackson, how is your mother’s hip?"

"Evelyn, tell your brother I received his letter."

"Mrs. Carter, the editorial was splendid."

Their voices softened when they glanced toward me, curious but not unkind.

A woman Rita’s age stepped forward, and Rita stiffened beside me. "Nice to see you Lacey," she said with a tight smile.

Lacey barely gave her a terse nod before she turned to me. She looked me up and down as if studying a specimen.

"Nice to meet you," I said, breaking the silence. "I’m Gema."

"I’ve never seen you before. Are you new in town?" She wore a pale green dress and held her gloves tight in one hand.

Rita replied before I could speak. "She is one of our relatives from Buffalo."

"A Northerner," Lacey said, barely concealing her contempt. "Why on earth would you travel down here?" Her gaze dropped to my waist. "Scandal?"