Margot’s voice softened. “Then that’s the one.”
Upstairs again, Margot perched on my bed while I wriggled into the dress.
“It fits!” she shrieked when I emerged. “Now I’m going to make you wearallof those dresses.”
Holding my breath, I turned toward the mirror.
The dress looked like it was made for a summer afternoon in my grandmother’s garden. Soft, peachy-pink fabric, scattered with flowers, clung neatly to the bodice before spilling into a skirt that swayed and fluttered around my calves. The puffed sleeves framed my shoulders, and the cinched waist gave the whole thing an easy, graceful shape.
Not fussy—I imagined she probably walked barefoot through the sand or danced the night away without tugging at seams or hems—but it was beautiful all the same.
Tears sprung to my eyes. I tried for so long to fit myself into her mold—to shape Georgie into Marigold, thinkingthatwould honor her legacy.
I didn’t have to reinvent myself to pay homage to her, though. Standing here, swishing in her dress, the same curls she wore everyday hanging around my shoulders, I knew that was enough.
Margot clapped her hands. “Now, accessories.”
I groaned, but she already delved halfway into my jewelry box. She tried three necklaces before settling on a delicate chain with a tiny seashell charm. Next, she forced me to sit while she experimented with my curls, muttering under her breath about bobby pins and the injustice of humidity.
“Margot,” I said when she’d been fussing for fifteen minutes straight. “It’s just the festival.”
“Just the festival?” Her eyes narrowed in the mirror. “You have been working on this and worrying about it for weeks. Plus, you’re not just representingyouanymore—” She jabbed a finger at my shoulder. “—you have your future pottery empire to think of!”
I laughed and shook my head, but a strange sense of pride washed over me at her words.
Not long after, Margot managed to sweep my curls into a graceful updo, leaving a few strands loose to frame my face.
“Perfect,” she said, hands on her hips. “Now, shoes.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I assume you’ll be mad about my sneakers.”
“You assume correctly. You really don’t have anything? Flats?”
Gathering the skirt in my hand, I crouched into the corner of my closet and pulled out a pair of nicer sandals that I hadn’t worn in years—bright red with a cherry pattern. I held them upfor her inspection, biting my lip against a laugh. She squinted, leaned closer, then seemed to give up.
“Fine. Wear your sneakers.” Margot pinched her eyebrow and groaned. “Do you own a pair that’s not stained?”
“Yes!” I clapped, digging through what was left of my closet until I found them. Cream colored high tops that I’d special ordered for graduation, then ended up being too scared to wear. Not exactlyheels, but at least my feet wouldn’t hurt walking up and down Main Street all night.
She waved another resigned hand at me and strode down the stairs.
We were still chatting over a cup of hot chocolate when the knock came. I hurried to the door, heart in my throat, half-expecting to see a handsome, dark-haired man on the other side.
“Hey, um… you heard, right?” Rachel said, peeking in to see Margot at the dining table.
Margot and I exchanged glances. “Heard what?” I asked.
Rachel winced. “The gala. It’s cancelled.”
For a moment, her words didn’t register.
“What?” I finally said, mind reeling.
“Flooding,” Rachel explained quickly. “The storm last night washed out the road to the country club. Power’s out on half the property. They just… called it off.”
Margot let out an incredulous laugh. “Well, that’s kind of perfect.”
I stared down at the laces of my shoes, pulse hammering against my throat. The festival was safe, but everyone who had put their faith in the gala—Joe, Dot, Florence, and all the rest—would have nowhere to go. No matter what, they were still a part of Bluebell Cove. I wouldn't abandon them now.
