The repaired wedding dress lay carefully folded beside her.
“You washed it too,” Eleanor said.
Delia smiled.
“Morning, ma’am.”
Eleanor lifted the gown.
The lace looked almost new.
She ran one finger along the repaired edge.
“That’s hand work.”
“My mama taught me.”
“How much?”
“No charge.”
Eleanor opened her purse.
She had deliberately carried only small bills.
“It’s all I have.”
Delia pushed the money back.
“Keep it for the bus.”
Eleanor sat down.
“Why are you sitting out here?”
Delia looked toward the bridal shop district in the distance.
“I don’t work there anymore.”
Eleanor’s chest tightened.
“On account of me?”
“On account of me.”
“You helped me.”
“I chose.”
Delia smiled faintly.
“I’d choose the same again.”
Eleanor looked toward the broken sign.
“This your shop?”
“My mother’s.”
“Odessa?”
Delia nodded.
“She sewed half this neighborhood.”
“What happened?”
“Stroke.”
“Still alive?”
“Yeah.”
Delia smiled.
“Still tells me everything I’m doing wrong.”
“Good mothers do.”
Delia looked down.
“I can sew. I just can’t run a shop like she did.”
“Why not?”
“Rent.”
She laughed.
“Customers.”
Then quieter:
“Confidence.”
Eleanor looked at her.
Delia continued.
“I can’t talk back to people like Paige.”
“You don’t need to.”
“Feels like I do.”
“My mama taught me to sew. She never taught me to fight.”
Eleanor touched the sleeve of the old gown.
“Folks see a thread and think it’s weak.”
Delia looked at her.
“That little thread holds the whole coat together.”
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Eleanor reached into her grocery bag.
She removed a card.
No name.
Only a phone number.
“I used to sew for a family.”
Delia raised an eyebrow.
“You?”
“A long time ago.”
That was not entirely a lie.
Eleanor had altered her husband’s shirts for twenty years.
“They need a seamstress quick for a wedding.”
Delia looked at the card.
“Whose wedding?”
“Call.”
“What do I say?”
“Say the old lady with the dress sent you.”
Delia smiled.
“Ma’am, I never got your name.”
Eleanor paused.
“Ms. Banks.”
Delia laughed.
“That’s my name.”
Eleanor smiled.
“Then I guess we have something in common.”
She stood.
“Call the number.”
Delia did.
Two hours later, a black sedan stopped outside Odessa Alterations.
Earl stepped out.
“Miss Banks?”
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Whitlow is expecting you.”
Delia froze.
“The Whitlows?”
“Every bridesmaid dress needs fitting.”
He opened the car door.
“And Mrs. Whitlow requires a suit before Saturday.”
Delia looked toward the old shop.
Then toward the car.
“Where do I meet Mrs. Whitlow?”
“You don’t.”
Earl smiled.
“She’s resting upstairs until the wedding.”
Delia had no idea she had already met her twice.
