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Maggie snorted. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“So was Tom. She’s just green, is all, and I don’t think she was expecting to be the center of so much attention.” He sighed. “Why did she upset you?”

“I’m not really sure. I suppose I’m just a little overwhelmed by everything. The shop and that horrible minister following me around everywhere. It was strange and a little sad, seeing her do what we used to do.” She scrubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms. “I’m just tired. I overreacted. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry.” Bridgers paused. “The, ah, butcher did ask after you, though. He looked a bit alarmed at your departure.”

A feeling in her chest like she had missed a step going down the stairs. “Oh?”

“Mmhm,” Bridgers nodded sagely. “Asked if you were well, if there was anything he could do.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do I have to tell you to be on your best behavior?”

Maggie rested her cheek on her knee. “I think maybe you do.”

“Do behave yourself,” he advised. “Not that I’m worried about your reputation, dove, but he is a widower and for all we know, he’s desperate for a mother for his child.”

“That’s ungenerous,” Maggie said, trying to keep the scold out of her voice.

“I know it is. Just … Ease yourself into whatever this is.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead.

“Like you and Tom did?” Tom had told her, repeatedly, how Bridgers was supposed to be a one-night occurrence. Twelve years ago.

“Shut up.” He swatted her knee and stood. “I love you, dove.”

“I love you, Bridge.”

Chapter

Twelve

The orders were piling up. Maggie tried to view it as a good thing, but all she felt was a thick, heavy dread sinking onto her shoulders. Tom was doing his best to keep up, but the second sewing machine was backordered, and Maggie’s fingers were now constantly raw and bleeding. Bridgers continued to prove hopeless at the actual production aspect of the job, but he had taken over all the bookkeeping and appointments, charming the ladies of Roslyn with his easy wit. They were certainly taking the news of delayed orders with admirable grace; apparently a long wait-time indicated a high-quality product that was in demand. Most of the orders were simple enough—day dresses, some aprons or petticoats, a few men’s shirts—and Maggie was grateful that they had selected this little town instead of a larger one, where higher fashion might be demanded. The idea of any more intricate stitching was enough to drive her to drink, and if she asked Lou to do it she might find herself at the bottom of a lake.

“I don’t think there’s any way around it,” Lou was saying now, stabbing at a skirt’s hem with force that would have been more appropriate for churning butter or perhaps breaking rocks along a railroad. “I’ll have to come on here more permanently.”

Maggie looked up from the gromets she was adding to a bodice. “What do you mean?”

Lou sighed, tying off the end of the stitch. “I mean you need help, Maggie. You’re very good and all, but you’re only one person. Tom is being pulled in too many directions to really be useful aside from the occasional help, and we both know Bridgers can’t sew to save his life.” She sniffed, examining her handiwork. “I hate to say it, but you need me.” She looked past Maggie’s shoulder, squinting at the wall. “We’re already about five weeks out before we’re caught up, and we’re averaging two or three new orders a day. That sets us back—” Lou tipped her head back, apparently doing some mental arithmetic. “An additional four weeks just in the next few days. We need to start a second waiting list.” Lou set her work down, reaching for a pad and pencil on the side table. She made a few quick notes, pausing every few lines to press the pencil to her mouth, thinking.

Maggie felt as if she were watching a play. “Did you just hire yourself?” she asked, trying to keep the confusion out of her voice.

Lou made a soft hum sound, not looking up. “It’s for the best,” she murmured. “Having an extended waiting list will help keep things organized and tidy, while also keeping the workload tolerable.”

“But …” Maggie put the bodice down, frowning. “Lou, we can’t pay you. Most of the capital to start up was from savings and there’s barely anything left. Any income is going back into it and paying off the furniture and all the fixing up we had to do.”

“Surely my brother isn’t demanding payment for his services” Lou quipped. Maggie stiffened, but Lou’s face twitched into what could possibly pass for a smile. “Anyway, I’m not bringing in anything right now. Consider it a volunteer service until you start turning a profit.”

Maggie wished there was an adult other than her available to handle this situation. The worst part of being a grown-up was that you were grown, and people expected you to do grown things, like make decisions as if you were qualified.

“All right,” she said. “I suppose, if you’re sure.”

“I am.” Lou picked up the piece again, tucking the pencil and paper into her skirt pocket. “We should start adjusting the waiting list immediately. There’s no point in us getting overwhelmed.”

The front door closed, and the bolt slid shut; Tom was closing up for the evening. It was early, still, barely five, but Bridgers had insisted on closing before supper, so they had a chance to eat as a family. “All right, girls?” Tom’s voice broke in from the next room.

“Very much so,” Maggie replied as he stepped into the room, rolling up his shirtsleeves. She glanced at Lou, whose gaze was fixed on Tom’s emerging forearms with an interest she had rarely displayed. “Lou has come up with a plan for our salvation.”

“Excellent!” Bridgers exclaimed, popping his head under Tom’s armpit. “We need salvation? I thought we were doing rather well, for a brand-new business.”

Lou dropped her stitching and launched into her explanation of waiting lists and high-demand items, and Maggie sat back and watched the other woman’s face light up as she conversed with Bridgers while Tom remained still, quietly watching the events unfold.