Free Ship of Dolls by Shirley Parenteau Page B

French?”
    “It is and that’s her secret. Those who know go along with it, and those who don’t know are impressed. It’s good for her business.”
    “Her business?”
    “Ah, that’s my secret. Are you ready? Her shop is on the next street. It takes up her front parlor.”
    Lexie’s mind whirled as she tried to imagine who the lady might be. Maybe she wrote letters for people who couldn’t get their thoughts to come out the way they wanted. Maybe she was going to help with the letter. Maybe she had lots of pretty papers in her shop. And colored inks.
    The papers and inks would be good
, Lexie decided,
but I need to write my own letter. It has to be exactly what Emily Grace wants to say.
    Her thoughts rushed on, each stumbling over the next.
If Grandpa found a lady to write the letter, what should I say to her? I don’t want Grandpa to feel bad. He means to help. And I need him in a good mood so I can ask about the letter Grandma shoved in her apron pocket that day.
    “Here we are.” Grandpa stopped before a neat house with gingerbread trim around the front porch. A lace-​trimmed sign in the front window read MODISTE in lavender script.
    As they stepped inside, a string of little bells jangled overhead.

T here were no racks of fancy papers. Instead, shelves shimmered with folded fabrics. At one side, a headless dress form wore a smart frock of Christmassy green. Tapered sleeves hung empty.
    A woman knelt before the form, her mouth clamped over pins she was working into the hem of the green dress. Her blond hair curled in glossy waves over her ears. Mama would have approved of her hairstyle and the straight cream-​colored dress that flared over her legs. A rope of pearls swung forward while she worked.
    When the bells jangled, she looked up, spit the pins into her cupped palm, and stood up, smiling. After dropping the pins onto a nearby ironing board, she came to them with both hands outstretched.
    “Ah, this will be the small Electra! You bring the sunshine on this cloudy day. Welcome!”
    “This is Electra,” Grandpa agreed. “Lexie, meet Mam’selle Maxine.”
    “So enchanting!” Mam’selle rushed on. “Grandpapa talks often of his little Electra who has come to stay with him and her grandmama.”
    Lexie looked from her hands to the woman’s smiling eyes. For a moment, she felt overwhelmed. Then she remembered that Mam’selle Maxine was not really French. The visit became a game.
    Instead of backing away, she said, “I like your shop, Mam’selle.”
    “I believe you will soon like it even better.” Dimples appeared in the woman’s cheeks. Pearls swinging, she tugged Lexie toward a table heaped with magazines. “Grandpapa has talked of the dress you would make for a doll. Let us look at fashions to suit her, yes?”
    The seamstress sparkled and talked as she turned pages. Lexie was surprised she had been quiet with pins in her mouth when they first came in. She seemed to be making up for it as she exclaimed over pictures in the fashion magazines, pointing out bows and pleats and ruffles.
    When Lexie finally got a word in, she said, “It has to be a dress for everyday. Emily Grace — the doll — already has a fancy one.”
    “Ah, too bad. We would have enjoyed the ruffles. But no matter. We will find just the right dress. This, perhaps? Notice the dropped waistline and the bow at the back with trailing ribbons from the waist to the hem.”
    “I think the sleeves would be hard to set in,” Lexie said doubtfully, remembering the problems she had had before.
    “But you have a modiste to help you,
petite.
We will set in the sleeves and pleat the bodice just so. And the neckline . . .”
    She continued talking, but Lexie stopped listening. At first, relief had swept through her. Emily Grace would have her second dress. She had turned a grateful smile toward Grandpa as he settled onto a chair to wait.
    But now she heard Mam’selle Maxine talking about pleats again. She sounded as if she