If You Only Knew(87)

Most Mondays, I go into the shop to work. Kimber Allegretti’s dress needs another muslin mockup, for the ball gown this time. Poor kid. She’s so not Cinderella... I’d much rather see her in something utterly sexy and Gatsby–era, lots of beading and a low back to show the tattoos she so obviously loves. The dress is supposed to be about the bride, after all...not about the disapproving mother-in-law. But Kimber wants to make Mrs. Brewster happy, so hopefully I can make a ball gown she doesn’t hate.

I also have a bunch of sketches to whip up for some of the brides I booked at my open house. Some finishing touches on a beaded belt for a bride in Connecticut. But those can all wait. I’ll work on Kimber’s dress here, in the sewing room upstairs. This is the first time I’ve had the girls all to myself for more than a few hours, and I love it. It’s a test-drive for motherhood.

I bet Leo would make a fantastic father. The way he is with Evander—and all his students, but especially Evander—the way he was with my nieces... You know, a lot of men say they don’t want kids until they meet the right woman. Look at Owen. He didn’t know, and now he adores being a father. And today, that thought doesn’t even bother me.

I make the girls pancakes in shapes that allegedly look like animals, then wash them up and give them pots and pans and whisks and the ever-fascinating eggbeater so they’ll be entertained while I clean up the sticky remains from the kitchen table. We draw; they love that I can sketch out dresses, and I let them color-in the pictures.

When the girls take their naps that afternoon—and God bless them for being good sleepers—I use the other upstairs bedroom to get started on the latest version of Kimber’s dress. Mrs. Brewster would probably prefer a burka. There’s modest—I’ve done plenty of dresses for people who don’t want to show a lot of skin. And then there’s this. I think the message is clear—Mrs. Brewster wants Kimber to know she’s not right for her precious son.

Right on cue at 2:30 p.m., I hear someone talking in the courtyard down below. One of Leo’s not-terrible students, a funny middle-aged woman who admitted to me a couple of weeks ago that she’d always wanted to learn to play piano and Leo’s good looks gave her the impetus to start. I consider poking my head out the window, but I don’t want it to seem like I’m stalking Leo.

I do, however, creep up to the fourth floor. It’s quiet...obviously, it’s quiet; I can’t really see Leo pulling a Flowers in the Attic move.

I wonder what he keeps up here.

I find my hand is on the doorknob. It’s locked, which is something of a relief, because while I like to think I wouldn’t open it even if I could, I don’t want to test myself. Probably, it’s piles of music and some furniture. Nothing more than that.

But I’m hungry to know more about Leo Killian. I don’t want to find out from snooping or Google. I want him to tell me. We started something last night. I could feel it.

When the girls wake up, I find a big box for them to play with. The three of them sit in it, giggling and pretending to be in a space ship, then turn it over and make it into a house for cats and baby rabbits.

I take a million pictures. Text Rachel a couple, because knowing her, she’s getting homesick for them.

The phone rings, and I scramble to find it, hoping it’s Leo. It’s not. “Hi, Mom.”

“Where’s your sister?” she asks. “I got a text saying she was out of town with friends. Where would she go? And why?”

“She’s just having a little girlfriend time,” I lie. If Mom knew that Rachel was alone, she’d freak out. “The girls are staying with me.”

“What? Why?”

“Because they’re my nieces and I love them.”

“Why didn’t she ask me?” Mom demands.

Because you always let her know how difficult and exhausting they are. “Because I begged to have them.”

“Auntie! I’m a cat! I’m a cat!” Grace makes a hideous hissing noise and curls her fingers into claws.

“And such a fierce one!” I say.

“I fierce, too!” Rose says. “I a fierce bunny!”

“Yes! So fierce!” I agree. “What can I do for you, Mom?”

“I’m a gentle cat,” Charlotte chimes in, climbing onto my lap. “Purr. Purr, Auntie. Purr.”

I love these girls so much. I kiss Charlotte’s head, and she leans against me, a sweet, warm weight.

“I wish Rachel would take Rose to a speech pathologist,” Mom says. “Grace and Charlotte speak so much better than she does.”

“I think she’s fine. And if there were a problem, I’m sure Rachel would be all over it, so please don’t mention it to her.”

“Well, between that and Grace’s autism—”

“Mom! She shows no signs of that, okay? You should really stop telling Rachel she does.” Charlotte crawls off my lap and scurries back under the box with her sisters. “And what about Charlotte?” I growl. “Got an armchair diagnosis for her?”

“I think she might be a lesbian.”

I roll my eyes so hard I think I sprain one. “What did you need, Mom?”

“I just miss the girls, that’s all. Rachel has been very hard to pin down lately, and I don’t know why. I miss her. She’s not telling me something, and I don’t know why. You girls were always your own little club.”