Dropping the Ball

34. Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Kaitlyn

I get to the office on Monday, tired from wrestling with my decision but determined to tell Madison today. I text her after my morning meetings.

Missing that baby. Can I stop by today after work?

*Picture of Harper with Oliver’s mom*

Oliver’s parents just got in. They will hoard her. Tomorrow?

Yes but I’m jealous

XOXO

I want it over with today , but I can at least spend the afternoon figuring out extra fundraising opportunities for next year to offset where the gala will fall short.

It’s late afternoon when Suz pokes her head in my door. “You busy?”

I look up from the reservation site for my parents’ country club. I’m looking for possible open dates to do a charity golf tournament and cross-checking the weather records for the lowest likelihood of rain.

“I’d love a break.”

She disappears for a second then comes in carrying a plate of cookies. She sets them down in front of me, and I gasp. Even through the red cellophane I can see they’re gorgeous.

She hands me a card. “These were just dropped off for you.”

I open the card.

Hey, Katie-Kat,

I know you’re dreading Thanksgiving no matter what you decide. I know your mind is always on New Year’s Eve and the gala. But the best holiday of the year comes in between, and I don’t want you to miss it. It might surprise you to know that I elf myself regularly, and not only do I believe in Christmas music before December, it’s already streaming in my truck this week. And on my morning run. And at the office. And on the jobsite.

These cookies are made by my neighbor, Mr. Nairz, who makes them every year at Christmas and Easter. You can’t buy them even though he’d make a killing if he sold them. He’ll only give them away to people he chooses. He’s had a soft spot for me ever since I helped him build a three-foot-tall gingerbread house to win their family competition a few years ago, so I sweet—pun intended—talked him into making some for you.

Thoroughly Elfed,

Micah

“They’re from Micah,” I say.

“I want to see them. Unwrap it,” Suz demands.

I do, and we ooh and aah. I’m still studying them, amazed, when she announces Kh?i and Aisha need to see them too and goes off to get them. There are six, all done in royal icing, from a Tiffany-blue snowflake with a lacy pattern to a Christmas tree hung with finely painted ornaments.

“Thank that man,” Aisha says. “I worked in a bakery during college, and those would not be cheap.”

“His neighbor makes them and won’t sell them. He only gives them away,” I say.

“Thank that man,” she repeats.

I pull out my phone.

The cookies are beautiful. Thank you.

You’re welcome. You have to eat them. They taste better than they look.

I can’t eat art!

It’s Mr. Nairz’s rule, and he’ll ask me how you liked them.

This feels wrong.

Taste one. Then it will feel wrong not to eat it.

“He says we have to eat them. It’s a rule.” I set my phone down to all of them smirking. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You and Micah,” says Suz.

“Are colleagues,” I say.

“You dress nicer on the days you know you’re going to see him,” Kh?i says.

“I dress nice all the time.”

“Yeah, but you do it up extra,” Aisha says. “And put on lip gloss. Haven’t seen you do that for other colleagues .”

“All of you get out.”

“I’ll leave when you give me a cookie,” Suz says.

I hand them each one, giving Suz a Christmas stocking “embroidered” with snowflakes. “I hope your real one is full of coal.”

She takes it from me and follows Kh?i and Aisha, still smirking. A second later, an inappropriate moan rolls down the hall, but I don’t scold her because I just took a bite of the Christmas tree, and I understand. They’re not sugar cookies, they’re shortbread made by angels, obviously, because they are divine.

I send Micah a gif of the Grinch eating roast beast.

He responds with a gif of the Grinch’s heart growing.

I smile through the last two hours in the office. Before I leave, I cover the last two cookies with the cellophane. I’m leaving them to enjoy tomorrow, because with my coming conversation with Madison looming, they’ll be my only bright spot in the day.

By midmorning Tuesday, I realize not even divine cookies can save the day.

I blink at Suz, who is standing in my office doorway, biting her thumbnail and watching me.

“Maheen is not coming?” I repeat.

Suz stops chewing at her thumb. “Not today. Her assistant is on the plane with the dresses, but there was some issue with Maheen’s travel documents. They wouldn’t let her fly out today.”

“Okay.” I rest my hands on my desk, palms flat. “Okay, okay, okay.” I pat the desk with each word. “Okay. Okay.”

“Remember the dresses are coming,” Suz says. “Her assistant wouldn’t check them, so they can’t get lost on any of the layovers.”

“Okay.”

“Are you glitching?”

“Thinking.” I stop patting the desk. “Call Doug Cutler at the consulate in Dhaka. See if you can find out what the problem is and if there’s anything we can do to expedite it.”

“On it.”

“When does that plane get in?”

She checks her phone. “It lands at 11:23 AM tomorrow.”

“Call Couture Alterations in Bee Cave and see if Vania can fit me in at 1:00.” She’s the only one we let do our alterations short of the designers themselves.

Suz nods and disappears.

I text Madison to tell her that work is holding me up, but I expect first dibs on the baby on Thursday. I’m not mentioning the Maheen situation until I understand the potential outcomes. Bad enough I have to tell Madison about the auction.

Suz is back a few minutes later. “Vania is booked until Christmas. I reminded the owner the Armstrongs are VIPs, but she said it’s Bee Cave so everyone is VIP, and it’s our gala that’s keeping her so busy.”

It’s almost funny. Almost.

I only nod. “Keep me posted on the consulate.”

She darts out again, and I press the heels of my hands into my eyes. What am I supposed to do? This was the whole point of having Maheen come in this early. We’d have four weeks for fittings and alterations, Madison’s dress being of most concern since Maheen went two sizes up when she designed the gown to accommodate any baby weight. We’d all counted on plenty of time for adjustments.

This is a potential disaster. It would be easy enough to find other gowns, but the chairs of the Discovery Gala cannot show up wearing established designers.

Those cookies are now emergency cookies, and I pick out the snowflake, biting into it, chewing slowly with my head propped in my hand, elbow on my desk. I admire the lacy pattern again, amazed by the talent of Micah’s neighbor. Who would’ve thought—

Oh.

Oh oh oh.

I grab my phone.

That lady in your neighborhood who does quincea?era alterations. Do you have her number?

You’re a little old…

!!!

He sends the number. Her name is Lidia Perez, and I dial it as soon as I get it.

Ten minutes later, I have an appointment for the next day at 1:00. She’d insisted she didn’t have time because she was preparing for their large family Thanksgiving, but I told her I’d pay her what I paid Vania if she could fit me in. When I named the amount, she said she’d see me at 1:00 and hung up like she was afraid I would change my mind.

No chance, because if we can’t get Maheen here, this may be the only shot we’ve got.

Wednesday is wild . Aisha fetches Maheen’s assistant, Aleina, from the airport and brings her straight to the office. She’s a few years older than me, dressed in a travel-friendly teal jersey tunic and wide leg pants. We apologize profusely for rushing her into work instead of giving her time to recuperate. She assures us she slept on the plane and apologizes profusely for Maheen not yet being here.

Then we’re on our way to see Lidia Perez in Suz’s borrowed Subaru since my car isn’t made to handle a passenger with luggage.

When I knock on the Perezes’ front door, a girl around eighteen answers it.

“Hi, I’m here for a possible fitting with Lidia?”

She smiles. “I’m her daughter, Isa. Follow me.”

She leads us through their small, neat house to the garage, which opens off the kitchen, which I almost don’t escape. It smells incredible, a large pot simmering on the stove, rich smells of roasting peppers coming from the oven. I pause for a deep, appreciative whiff.

Isa grins. “We’ve been cooking for days. Got the whole family coming tomorrow.”

“Thanks for working me in,” I say. “I know it’s not ideal timing.”

“No problem,” she says, letting us into the garage.

“Oh my gosh, this is adorable.” They’ve turned it into a tailoring shop complete with a changing screen for clients, a three-way mirror, and a seating area with two armchairs, an accent table, and a minifridge with bottled water. Everything is decorated in a muted turquoise.

The work area is neatly stocked with all the tools a dressmaker could need, and two sparkling quincea?era dresses hang on a rack near the worktable.

A short woman in her fifties with graying hair, thick glasses, and a measuring tape around her neck smiles at us.

“You are Micah’s friend?” she asks with a light Spanish accent.

“I am. I’m Kaitlyn and this is Aleina, who I’m going to make sit down and have some water right this second.”

Aleina has politely declined to let me carry the garment bag both times I’ve offered, but something about the shop has set her at ease, and she hands it to Isa.

“Aleina, do you know the expression MVP? Most valuable player?” I ask as she settles into an armchair.

“Of course. Mirajul Islam is our MVP in our Premiere League.”

“You’re our MVP for coming here straight from the airport.”

Aleina smiles. “No one tell Mirajul Islam.”

“Soccer?” Mrs. Perez asks, her expression brightening.

“Yes.”

“Then we have much to talk about,” she says, grinning, which makes Aleina laugh. “Isa, get out the dress and see what we’re working with.”

“The red one, please,” Aleina tells her.

As Isa opens the garment bag, I explain the situation with Maheen and how we’ve ended up here with Aleina and three dresses.

“I’m going to be very honest with you, Mrs. Perez,” I say.

“Lidia is fine.”

I nod. “Miss Lidia, Micah spoke highly of you, but Micah isn’t in the garment industry. We are. We desperately need this work done, but it has to be done right. I’m hoping you’re as good as the woman who usually does our couture alterations. Aleina is here to protect Maheen’s vision. There will be Facetime calls and too many cooks in the kitchen. This is an audition. I’m sorry to make you prove yourself, but . . .”

Miss Lidia looks at her daughter. “What do you think, Isa? Can we do this?”

Isa winks.

Miss Lidia turns back to us. “I could tell you not to worry, but I’ll show you instead.”

I spot a flash of crimson, and then Isa turns, holding my gown against her. Everyone’s eyes are on me as I study it for several seconds. There is no beading, no lace work, no frills. The color is the shade of the silk marigolds we’re decorating with.

I turn to Aleina, who watches me without expression.

“It’s breathtaking,” I say.

She smiles. “Maheen said you would see what most can’t when looking at it on a hanger.”

“Change and let’s see what we’re working with,” Miss Lidia says.

I take it behind the screen and slip into it quickly. I wore a strapless bra, and as I step into the dress and slide it up, I already know Maheen has made a dress to die for from the way it feels on my body. I step back into my heels and emerge from behind the screen.

Isa gasps and Miss Lidia smiles.

Aleina only says, “Yes.”

I move to the three-way mirror and take my own deep breath. Maheen is a genius. The dress drapes from my left shoulder, leaving that arm bare, to curve around my waist and flow to the floor as it wraps behind me to my left hip. It creates almost an overdress effect, with the top draping piece opening all the way to my hip to show the column of red gown beneath it. It is both highly structured and incredibly fluid, sewn from fine crepe, the draping so effortless that only a master could do it.

Lidia attaches a pin cushion to her wrist and looks at Aleina, pointing to a spot under my bust and near my right hip.

Aleina smiles, her first truly relaxed smile since we’ve met. “Yes, that’s right.”

After an hour of gentle nudges and pinning by Isa and Miss Lidia, I hold my arms out and examine the results. “Should we call Maheen?”

Aleina shakes her head. “No, she will be happy. But I will send her a picture.”

I pose so she can snap it, then Miss Lidia holds out a hand to help me down from the stool.

“Thank you,” I say. “Your eye is impeccable. Until we know how Maheen’s travel status resolves, it would mean the world if we could keep you on retainer. I’ll pay you for this fitting, then bring in my mother and sister to meet you on Friday. I’ll model my dress for them, and with Aleina and Maheen’s approval, they’ll be very relieved to know that you can handle their fittings too.”

Isa and her mom exchange glances. “We’re charging you a premium for working this in,” Isa says.

“That’s just good business.” I smile and look around the shop. “You’re incredibly talented. Have you ever wanted to open in a commercial space, maybe hire additional seamstresses?”

“Commercial leases are too expensive,” Miss Lidia says. “I like working out of my home.”

“And you?” I ask Isa. “You’re very talented too. Are you considering fashion school?”

She blushes. “No, it’s too expensive. I’m taking classes at the community college right now, but I learn everything from my mom or watching YouTube tutorials.”

Miss Lidia pats her daughter’s back. “She designed her own formals.”

“Mom . . .”

Aleina stifles a yawn, and I hand Miss Lidia a credit card. “Thank you again for working us in. I need to get Aleina to her Airbnb so she can rest.”

“Do you have Thanksgiving plans tomorrow?” Miss Lidia asks Aleina.

Aleina shakes her head. “This is a big holiday here, correct?”

I would have invited her to join our Thanksgiving, but while they have improved over the last few years, they’re not what I would call “fun.” We’d planned to give Maheen and Aleina a cellphone and an unlimited Lyft budget, plus a list of places they might like to go, using the long weekend to rest or explore before diving into work on Monday.

“It is,” Miss Lidia says. “Come join ours. There is so much food, so much loud family—”

“—and kids. Way too many kids. Primos. Cousins,” Isa explains. “Five hundred, it feels like. But also tamales. My mom’s are the best. Please come.”

Aleina laughs. “This sounds like Eid-ul-Fitr. If it’s no trouble . . .”

“You must come,” Miss Lidia says with such finality that I find myself nodding too.

“I’ll get it all arranged for you,” I tell Aleina. “But for now, I promise we’ll get you some sleep after I make one more quick stop.”

Aleina has no objection to leaving the dresses with Lidia, which is the surest sign I could ask for that we’ve placed them in the right hands.

I drive two streets over, and when I spot Micah’s truck in his driveway, I breathe out a sigh of relief. After everything going wrong, maybe the tide of bad luck is turning. Aleina assures me she is content to wait in the car, away from the unfriendly nip in the late November air.

I knock, once again needing to dry my sweaty palms on my slacks.

Micah’s mom answers the door and frowns, but I think it’s surprise, not displeasure. I hope.

“Hi, Ms. Croft.”

“Tori,” she says. “You here for Micah?”

“Both of you, actually.” This is a risk. Maybe I should have checked with Micah to see if this would be okay, but I hope he takes this as a sign that I’m fine with his mom. Fine enough to subject her to mine.

“Micah,” she calls, stepping to the side. I’m not sure it’s an invitation, so I stay where I am.

He appears from a hallway and stops, surprised. “Katie. Hey. Everything okay?”

“I wondered if you and Tori would want to come over for Thanksgiving tomorrow.”

He hesitates, exchanging looks with his mom, but I can only see her profile, so I can’t read the look.

“At your place?” he asks.

“My parents’ place,” I say. “You’ll know at least half of us. Madison, Oliver, and Harper will be there.” I smile at Tori. “Harper’s my niece. She’s two months old.”

“We do a neighborhood thing,” Tori says.

I can’t tell if it’s a yes or no. “My mom does a formal spread, and we eat at 6:00.”

Tori rolls her eyes. “My parents did that too. Rest of Texas eats at 2:00 so we’re done in time for the Cowboys game. Where do your parents live?”

“Waterfront.”

She scoffs. “No, thanks. I’ll take card tables and Dixie plates in the yard right here, thank you.”

I steel myself against the embarrassment rejection always brings, but she’s not done.

“You should go,” she tells Micah. “I’ll be fine.”

He looks from her to me and back again, his forehead wrinkling. “You sure?”

“Yeah. You’ll have plenty of time to say hey to the neighbors before you go, and I’ll watch the game with Cindy.” When he still hesitates, she sighs. “Truly, kid. Going might set me off, but staying here, I’ll be fine.” She turns back to me. “Thank you for the invitation though.”

“You’re welcome,” I tell her. “Micah, I could really use a wingman tomorrow.”

His eyes soften and he nods. “I’ll be there.”

As I walk back to the car, I smile. He’ll be there. Of course he’ll be there. It’s Micah.

And Micah always shows up.