Best man

By Karen Hudgins

Geneva "Poppy" Pembrooke, wedding couture designer, yearns to forget the rugged Thistle polo player who jeopardized her career and health. Yet how can she when he sets her heart afire and is the Best Man for her client's wedding of the year? Doug Abbott, country vintner, discovers when his memory returns that he'd injured his beautiful Lady Gen in a tragic polo accident. He can't forgive himself, but when foul play evidence surfaces things change, and he fights for a second chance to win her heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597054089

Book preview

Dedication

For

Inge Prinz and Betty Jo Schuler

Alice Marie Howlett (1948-2006), bookseller and romance novel fan

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

MY DEEP THANKS GO TO these people for support, insights, expertise, and professional service:

Allie Hawkins, Connie Perry, Natalia Orear, Rhonda Grasle, Darlene Pytlinski, Elle Nyman, Kelly Erwin, Ida Baisch, Chris Perrons, Virginia Vendt, Kalyn Dorsey, Kathy Coddington, Peggy Keilholz, John H. Coppedge, Jr. O.D., Linda Rivet, Kay Nance, Gabriela Doural, Dara England (cover art), and Gloria Hall. For all, I’m grateful.

Forgiveness does not change the past, but it does enlarge the future.

~ Paul Boese

One

Chaos can change a woman’s life, and if Geneva were clairvoyant perhaps she would have seen trouble coming. Even with her intuition, she couldn’t foretell the future. So she and her friends had packed a picnic lunch with champagne and attended the Coventry Country and Polo Club charity match for some summer fun.

Now, a month later, she crossed her fingers and reopened her eyes. Checking for blurry vision, she gazed around the Bride’s Loft of her wedding couture studio. For the third day, everything was sharp and clear. She began to believe what the doctors had promised her. From now on, she would see normally.

Relieved, she uncrossed her fingers and smiled to herself on this Sunday in July. She had come a long way after the polo accident when she and other spectators had survived sudden danger.

Her eye pain and swelling had gone and bruises faded. The cut on her cheek healed. Her wrist and fingers ached less. Even the heart-pounding memory flashes of that tragic afternoon grew farther apart. Now, if only the lingering image of him, almost kissing her, would leave her alone. Then her life could better fall back into place.

Let it be soon, she wished aloud.

However, Geneva’s chances for it today were slim. Like it or not, Doug Abbott was coming to visit. Right here at work, where things flowed to her liking and made sense. Not the other way around, as in her last heated moments with him. Despite all, the man and his sport had almost ruined her for good.

But meeting with Doug was necessary for business, and she wanted to get on with it. However, being around him, even briefly, would dredge things up again. The spill was such a nasty, reckless mess.

So much so, Geneva worried that she’d fling hot words at him—except losing her self-control wouldn’t help matters. Instead, she would dig deep for diplomacy and put on her own professional game face. Especially and understandably now, for him.

Doug was the Best Man for the Stowe-Abbott wedding. Making the attire for their nuptials was Geneva’s best commission of all her professional life. Their ceremony promised to be the wedding of the year in Coventry, Missouri. Heaven forbid there’d be more trouble before the couple tied the knot.

Stirring back to work, Geneva glimpsed her late, great-aunt Phoebe York’s hat boxes stacked nearby on a shelf. They inspired her as Aunt Phoebe often had while she was alive. In the quiet, Geneva could almost hear her voice.

Patience, little darlin.’ Time and long walks cure many ills.

This Geneva could believe. With reverent enthusiasm, she gazed next at the unfinished wedding gown in front of her. Again she picked up the needle and gently poked the center of an embroidered rose. Drawing fine white thread up and down through layers of white taffeta and silk chiffon, she fastened a large decorative pearl into place.

Pleased, Geneva repeated her personal embellishing of another rose, and another. Each effort brought her fashion vision to life. She sewed for quite a while, knowing that admirers would call this a tedious chore.

Except for Geneva, this task was a pleasant free-fall into the pure, sweet art of her life’s work. Creating fine wedding couture from front to finish filled her days and was her passion. According to her best friend Kim, Only a super-beguiling man might fascinate you as much.

Last year Geneva thought she’d found him. But her days with her fiancé, Casey Stringer, had just ended in late May. Their break-up came as a surprise, as wild, hurtful things often do. His secret gambling habit surfaced and forced her to compete with Lady Luck. Geneva lost that ugly game, which had taken a toll on her emotions.

Attending the charity polo match with her friends was her first effort at getting back out. But her social progress was ambushed in two ways. Casey had played for the Thistles that day, so she had to watch him, too. Worse, the fateful accident left her going home with unexpected physical injuries that turned her world upside down.

Without her energy, healthy spirit, her eyes and hands to do what she did best at her studio, she was at a loss. Frustration over her condition ruled for weeks. Somehow, she waited out the proper recovery time before picking up a design pen or needle. When she did two weeks ago, it was like renewing an idle love affair. All fresh and seductive, and very, very wanted.

As Geneva sewed upstairs, she heard the office phone ring downstairs. Ellyn, her office manager, picked it up quickly. Geneva could hear her cheery voice, but not her words. A dedicated worker, Ellyn helped Geneva keep on top of her game, especially with a client like Cherie Stowe.

This bride-to-be knew her mind and owned impeccable taste. Her gown took more effort than most to create, and funds with which to pay Geneva’s fee. Theirs was a win-win arrangement. Geneva made the time, and the Stowes paid the bill.

Moreover, Geneva’s Sunday afternoon appointment might really show up. Surely, best man Doug wouldn’t dare push for a third cancellation, would he?

He’s a procrastinator, she concluded. And other questionable things.

For now, though, Geneva stitched contentedly. Of all the rooms of her two-story studio, the Bride’s Loft remained her favorite. This room brimmed with light and boasted much space. It served as the revered inner sanctum for brides only and their invitees.

Keeping bridal gowns secret—especially from the groom until the ceremony—was a tradition Geneva upheld for her clients. As she stood in slippers in front of the dressmaker’s form marked Cherie, she also mused about romantic things. Like how chance meetings brought many couples together.

Her thoughts also drifted back to April and how she had landed this commission. Cherie and her mother, Adele, arrived for an appointment. Over tea, they viewed Geneva Poppy Pembrooke’s Ultra-Bella Bride portfolio. It was a quick match, as Cherie’s taste paralleled Geneva’s design sense.

As Adele had turned to leave the consultation parlor, she dropped, "Your work rivals what we’ve found in Chicago. We have one daughter and want to give her a fine wedding. You have carte blanche. Give us your best."

Geneva vowed to them, and herself, that she would. Today the town’s buzz about the Stowe-Abbott wedding on Saturday, September 25 was still growing. Roger, the jeweler, had already made his mark by designing Cherie’s three-carat engagement ring.

Soon, more pearls shone on the bodice with its sweetheart neckline. Meaning pure and innocent, the pearls fit the occasion. Their luster rendered a perfect touch.

As Geneva reached for another pearl from an acrylic box, her cell phone pinged. She placed the needle in its cushion and removed her thin, white cotton gloves. Tucking them into her smock pocket, she padded across the room to a cluttered work table. A button tap connected her to Ellyn.

Geneva greeted her cheerfully enough. Has our appointment arrived?

Not yet, luv. It’s a tad early, but the seamstresses’ hours are tallied. We have new spools of silk thread, and I’ll be leavin’ shortly for fresh scones.

Could we have cranberry?

I’ll give it a go, Ellyn said.

Wait, Geneva said, tightening her fingers around the phone. Mr. Abbott didn’t leave a message, did he? I mean, he’s still coming?

Tch. Tch. Not a word to the contrary.

Geneva began to relax her grip, and Ellyn gently reminded her, He’s only an appointment...among many.

Not quite, Geneva said faintly.

True. He’s more handsome than most.

Well...yes, he’s that, but you know what I mean.

I do, Ellen replied. And you’ll manage him fine. I shan’t be long.

Geneva thanked her and hung up. She laid the phone down, stepped away, and sighed in a sudden rush. All that had to be finished for Cherie sped through her mind. Despite Geneva’s five-week set-back, work for the bride remained fairly on target for completion.

Geneva’s crew and Ellyn deserved kudos for that. The bride, maid of honor, three bridesmaids, two junior bridesmaids, and one darling flower girl had returned as needed several times since Geneva had accepted this commission.

However, this sterling progress wasn’t true for the groom’s side. What Geneva and her helpers needed to accomplish for Tom Abbott and his party was missing the mark. Custom vests and ties for seven men also required time to make.

But if all went well today, she could begin outfitting Doug with a proper vest and tie and mark him off the list. Yet, a question that had nothing to do with wedding wear lurked in her heart. Will he remember me, or even know who I am?

Geneva’s wrist suddenly ached. For sure, Doug had helped cause her hardship. She still awoke from a deep sleep, hearing and fearing the thunder of those sweaty, thoroughbred polo ponies bearing down on her.

Frankly, with all due respect to her beloved Aunt Phoebe, time was just not passing fast enough for Geneva to be able to forget or forgive. Doug might be used to sustaining injuries from sprints at full gallop for his weekend sport and folly, but she was not. Although he couldn’t change the outcome, she felt he owed her at least a polite apology. Or an inquiry as to her well-being. Yet, to her surprise, nothing of the like had come forth.

For now, timing couldn’t be worse for a confrontation. Cherie and her family would catch wind of it. Clients get pesky over much less, she murmured as she stepped to the windows. The cooler, northern wind blew down-river again and fluttered the gauze curtains. Often it brought downpours into this hilly wine country. She could smell the ozone in the air from the approaching rain in the air and latched the three creaking windows.

Geneva stepped over cotton sheeting. The pink cloth separated her slippered feet from the polished oak floor in this part of the long room where fashion creativity and finery were fiercely protected. Cherie’s strapless, full-skirted gown with its scalloped sweep train dominated the room. Her illusion tulle veil hung in the cherry armoire.

Reaching the radio, Geneva turned it on. She returned to Cherie, put on her gloves with their pretty crocheted edges, and got to work. She already felt better, despite the rain that tapped the windows. Minutes drifted into a place where creativity erased time.

When Geneva finally looked up, she started. Douglas Abbott gazed at her from the doorway. Solid, good-looking, he filled her view. He’d traded his polo shirt and jodhpurs for jeans and a tan Abbott’s Vineyard shirt. He nodded at her and sauntered into the Bride’s Loft. Large, damp shoe prints on the sheeting followed him in his wake.

Geneva widened her eyes in disbelief.

Stop! Right now! Please! she cried. As she jerked her hand up, a rude prick jabbed her thumb. She dropped the tethered needle, leaving it dangling from a rose. She tightened her frown as the visitor slowly halted in front of her.

Half his smile faded, but he proffered his hand for a shake.

I’m Doug Abbott, and I—

Yes, of course....you are. Excuse me...but didn’t you see Ellyn? Geneva asked, keeping her hand to herself. Her thumb throbbed.

He hiked an eyebrow. I’m not sure who you mean.

Geneva cleared her throat. He was more than handsome. She’s our office manager. Downstairs.

Doug studied her intently, and she him. Pushing him away and pulling him in at the same time, like the surf on a beach in a maddening rhythm. Ellyn, bless her, was wrong. He was already difficult. Her only recourse was to talk.

Hmmm...she should’ve been back by now, and was to let me know when you arrived, Geneva went on. I would’ve come down to meet you in our lobby. Hastily, she moved between him and Cherie’s gown. Moving her hands to her hips, she tried to block at least some of his view. It’s the way we do things here, she said. "Mr. Abbott, do you realize where you are?"

The best man withdrew his unmet handshake. Straightening his mouth, he raised a forefinger for her to wait a minute and plucked a BlackBerry from his pocket. He tapped a button and read aloud, One thirty. 15 Lark Street. Geneva Pembrooke, Fine Wedding Couture. Weekdays Nine to Five. Weekends by Appointment Only.

Looking up at her, he added, I’m also eleven miles east of Abbott’s Vineyard, and three blocks from the Country Store. Tom’s looking over the place this afternoon for the owner. He repocketed the palm device. Tom’s the groom, and I’m his older brother.

Geneva stared at him. She’d never seen such blue eyes in a man, but was he usually this bothersome, this insolent?

"You’re also standing in our Bride’s Loft."

Doug glanced around nonchalantly. Nice place.

Thank you, escaped from her mouth before she could catch it.

He explained, "I found the front door open downstairs and walked in. There’s a sign ‘Back in 10 minutes’ on the counter. I waited. He gestured at the radio. You Found Me by The Fray played. Nobody came home, so I followed the tunes up here. His deep voice pleased her senses. Song goes back, but I like it. How about you?"

Geneva shook her head in dismay. Ellyn must be caught hostage by the rain.

Doug’s eyes flickered mysteriously. He was definitely thinking. About her?

This gullywasher came up fast on me. It’s heavy.

He raised and lowered his arms once, emphasizing his damp shirt and biceps. She hesitated, scanning his features—with her professional eye.

This best man had an enviable male frame. His broad chest, admirable torso and narrow hips proved he paid attention to his health. His thigh and leg muscles must be hard, Geneva reflected. Surely, farming and riding horses sculpted good bodies.

Furthermore, Doug carried himself with confidence and seemed used to people listening to him when he spoke. She was sure he could ooze charm at a flick of an eyelid. His damp, dark hair stood up a bit. His broad, tanned hands rested at his sides.

But, above all, he was a natural clothes-horse. Height and perfect sizes counted in her business, but not necessarily in her heart. She’d been duped before by handsomeness on the outside and finding ‘loser’ smeared all over the inside.

I’m Geneva Pembrooke, she finally offered.

He briefly nodded. My pleasure. You’ve got quite a spread here.

Geneva again winced. Spread? Obviously country-speak. Although she liked nature and open spaces, she avoided spending much time out in the local hills. They were so seemingly forgotten and without grace.

Hardly a spread, she mentioned. "See, I’m a boutique designer. This is a creative studio that’s full-service and considered by many as top-shelf."

Doug replied, Undoubtedly. Cherie Stowe would pick only the best.

Geneva offered, Cherie found me through her wedding planner, Elizabeth Whitlock. She refers better clients to me, and I do the same for her.

He took another step toward her. I like your insider honesty.

We network well, Mr. Abbott.

He hesitated and asked, I’m wondering, could we use ‘Doug’ for the duration?

Geneva clasped her hands together. Well enough, Doug.

He was already as annoying as sin to a nun, but he had a point. It’d be good for business, and she was a harmonizer. She did her best for her brides. She believed in true love, faith and family, and relaxing on Sundays. Most of them, anyway.

In the silent beat that followed, he said, This used to be McGinley’s Inn.

Geneva nodded. Yes, it was. Sometimes in Coventry, facts got tweaked with juicy gossip. So she decided to set Doug straight on why they were standing where they were, in one of the town’s historic treasures.

My grandfather on my mother’s side, Harry York, bought this from the McGinley estate ten years ago when it went up for auction. He’d always liked this place and still does. He wanted to save it from becoming a parking lot here on the hill.

Understandable, Doug said. It has character.

She couldn’t argue with that. I needed a place for my wedding work. The building is located well, and with all the little rooms, I felt this was perfect. He did, too.

Her visitor whistled. You have a generous grandfather.

Granddad Harry is the best, and we’re a tight-knit family. The Yorks are still socially conscious. My mother’s ancestors even ran a safe house for the underground railroad.

Doug looked up at the painted tin ceiling with its intricate curlicues. Noble of them. Coventry was divided over slavery. He then gazed back at her. Apparently, the next big community division was around 1944. That’s when things got stirred up about having a labor union at the clothing mill. I’ve read where the town split on that one. It was a serious rift. Fires and firings.

Hard to imagine, she said, only having known current quiet and quaint times.

There’s a lot of history in this inn, too.

True enough.

Yet, with time pressing, Geneva avoided discussing it more. Settled in 1856, Coventry possessed so much history that she could be here until after dinner—engaged in ‘You show me your knowledge, and I’ll show you mine.’

But she would rather eat her Sunday night dinner, all comfy at home with her rescue cat, Morgan. Also, her friend Kim Kramer would be dropping over tonight.

And there are many rooms, Geneva added, remembering how long it took her to set up everything, publicize, acquire equipment, and hire local sewers.

Doug brought her back to the moment.

If only the walls could talk.

Geneva stilled. How many times had she heard her Granddad Harry say this?

What would you want to hear? she countered. People sleeping?

You mean with each other?

She squinted at him reproachfully.

Doug laughed. I’d rather hear the poker games. Maybe post-election night parties would be good. Or the secret water board meetings.

Geneva pursed her lips. Whatever. She opened her arms. "We make good use of the space. The Bridesmaids Court and the Groom’s Den are across the hall, and we have a lobby area to receive clients, and my office, the pattern room, and a cutting room. There are also the sewing room, kitchen, laundry and supply room, a funky old bathroom, front and back stairs, brick basement, a little elevator and a garden out back."

Like I said, home, sweet home—at work.

She took a quick breath. "And you’re in our Bride’s Loft where you don’t belong. So it’s good that these walls can’t talk."

Right. He still looked unfazed.

Actually, we need to leave, she urged. I trust you’ll not mention this infraction to anyone.

His mouth curved upward.

Sure, I can keep infractions secret.

But will you? Geneva pressed.

Since it’s for you, your secret is sealed with me.

Good. Inside she cringed. First, she didn’t want special favors. Secondly, she’d just entered into a secrecy pact with this man, who, from all signs didn’t seem to know her at all. Surprising, but a good thing for now, she reminded herself as she began moving away.

Do you know you’re bleeding? His eyes now trained on her hand.

What? she said, remembering her jabbed thumb. Small blood droplets stained her cotton glove. She pulled off the soiled gloves. It’ll be all right.

Doug reached over and touched her hand with his. His gentleness surprised her. Hmmm. Puncture wound, but a minor one. They’re still slower to heal. Without proper attention they can get sore real fast and...even high-maintenance, temperamental.

The glint in his eyes hinted he meant more than her injury. She glared at him.

"Pricks come with the territory," she said plainly.

Doug leaned closer for a better view. A tangle of his wet dark hair slid onto his forehead. She fought a surprise impulse to push it back into place, but remembered her mission with him today. The sooner she processed him, the sooner he would leave.

Let’s go, please, she said.

Normally, before she left the Bride’s Loft, Geneva wrapped a cotton cloak around Cherie to protect her unfinished gown. But not much felt normal to Geneva since Doug arrived. She unbuttoned her white smock and draped it over a high stool.

Eyeing Doug’s wet footprints on the floor sheets, she shook her head.

Wait. I need to gather these.

He smiled wryly. Are we hiding evidence?

Call it what you will, she huffed. She lowered herself to her hands and knees and began tugging the sheeting from around the hem of Cherie’s gown. You have no idea the havoc your being in here causes. For one thing, if Cherie ever found out, it’d be a breach of our contract.

Pulling the cloth toward her, she checked for stray crystal beads, sequins and pearls, but found none. As she wriggled backward, her rump collided with Doug’s leg, blocking her movement. From above, his voice fell over her like a soft warm blanket.

Do you want a hand?

She conceded with a nod. With her arms full of billowy pink, she felt Doug’s arms encircle her waist. He hoisted her to her feet. His warmth engulfed her, sending a jolt through her senses. He released her. Geneva turned to face him and found his eyes twinkling with mischief. I meant with the sheets, she said. They need folding.

Doug raised his hands in surrender. She reached up and stuck one edge of a sheet into his palm. Taking another edge, she dropped the rest on the floor and backed up. The cloth sagged between her and Doug.

Flapping it, she said, Now, we pull it taut and fold. As she folded lengthwise, he folded crosswise. She blinked in disbelief, and he mumbled something about teamwork.

Again, she told him.

This time Doug mirrored her moves from the opposite side. With both of them holding an edge in one hand and a corner in the other, she said, Now, come to me.

My pleasure. Doug strode to her. As their knuckles met, she looked at him squarely. Neither of them budged. Would you like to dance?

Geneva suppressed the smile that peeped from her heart. Having Doug close like this magnified his charisma. Still, his appealing male attributes weren’t important now. Not one bit.

No, thank you, she told him. Now, we fold again.

They completed the last steps of the task in perfect tandem. Relieved, Geneva took the large square into her arms and set it down on the floor by her feet. She then lifted the second sheet to her bosom. The soft cloth overflowed her arms. From behind the mound of pink, she looked up at Doug.

So you don’t like to dance? he asked smoothly.

His warm fingers grazed her cheek as he reached to help her.

Geneva tightened her lips. That was only an accidental touch, she told herself.

But there was something going on with the way Doug looked at her when he posed the dance question. Something...pleasant. Disturbing, yet comforting, even inviting. All the right reasons to hug the sheet tighter in her arms while she haughtily answered. Yes, I dance. But there’s a time and place for everything.

Doug let out a whoop. Honestly, sweetheart, you need to loosen up.

Uncertainty flashed. What do you mean?

For starters, I might have to fight you for this sheet, if you don’t let go.

Geneva wilted, relaxing her grip. The man was too much...of everything.

While they worked, Geneva regarded Doug more closely. Fashion being her livelihood, she had a deep connection to soft goods and how people, mostly women, handled them. Since she’d opened up shop, she’d shown hundreds of fabric swatches and designs to clients. A few of them were men, because their wives had prompted them to see Geneva for a fancy shirt. Some men moved a bolt of white shirting aside with care. Others wouldn’t touch the fabric and say, How soon canna have my shirt?

At this moment, Doug handled the sheets with brawny care. For this, Geneva almost scored him a point. Despite how it might have been easy for him to attain things, it seemed he didn’t take having them for granted. Still, Geneva wasn’t at all sure about Doug undoing her misgivings about him.

How could this man not remember that awful day? What was supposed to be a joyous celebration had turned into a tragedy. People were hurt, one thoroughbred polo pony almost died and reputations suffered. Besides, he hit the ground, rolled on top of me, and groaned, Hello, beautiful. Then he collapsed. Of all the nerve.

Geneva stooped to retrieve the sheets. To help her, Doug met her halfway down to the floor. Her pulse thumped as she turned the sheets up and squared the corners. She caught him studying her again.

Are you always so particular? Doug asked, taking them from her.

She replied, "I am who I am. Being very particular gives me a particular edge in my particularly competitive work."

Doug snared her gaze with his. Inexplicably, being held captive in any way by this handsome best man felt reluctantly vibrant to Geneva. A private point not to be shared. This was business, and he’d already helped wrecked too many days of her life.

What’s more, he was still invading her space, and he messed up the laundry schedule. Sheets were washed on Wednesdays, not Sundays. Just ask Ellyn.

How about outside of work? he pressed.

She sped him a blank look. "What outside of work?"

Being thorough and particular. Is it a habit?

Depends.

Coyness wasn’t Geneva’s style, but she held her ground. She owed Doug no personal insights. Where would he take them? To the grape slopes, or the Polo Club?

Geneva turned on her heel, went back to the radio and snapped it off. She walked to the doorway with Doug following her. She leaned over, removed her slippers, and set them aside. She could feel his body heat again as she pushed her feet into her sandals. A stronger zing surged through her.

We’ll use the back stairs, she said. She led the way to the laundry room. There, Doug bypassed her and dropped the load into the open washing machine. She added soap and closed the lid. He formed a loose fist and, with the side of it, bopped the ON button. They continued their walk together down the corridor.

Around them, in an orderly way, color renderings of Poppy Pembrooke gowns lined the walls between several doorways. Fabric swatches were stapled to the large sketches. The collection was like a big scrapbook of her professional growth and development, and changing trends in fashion. This was one of her favorite places.

Doug dropped back a few paces, taking in the display.

Geneva turned and waited for him. She couldn’t deny the pride she held for her work. It’d taken her seven years to gain footing as a professional designer. Some of her best work began with these very sketches.

"Poppy Pembrooke?" he asked, looking at her signature.

It’s my middle name. Works well in the trade.

He stepped to view the next rendering. Very impressive.

I love my job, she said, her tone relaxing.

Doug stuck his hands into his pockets and leaned closer to the illustration for a better view. Straightening, he asked, How’d you get into this?

Geneva honored his sincerity. Mostly because of my great-aunt Phoebe. She was a milliner at a time when hats were very popular, especially with the church and polo ladies. When I was little, I spent much time with her while my mom did bookkeeping for Pembrooke’s.

That’s your family’s department store? he asked.

It was started by my Grandfather Pembrooke, and is now co-managed by him and my father. They’ve built a good business from the ground up. She sighed. I like shopping there, but I don’t feel at all drawn to running the store someday. That’ll have to fall to someone else.

She stoked her memories, and they rose like warm coals. When I was very little, I ran through the aisles before the store opened. The salesladies took the sheets off the racks and opened glass cases with keys fastened to stretch bracelets. It all seemed pretty and organized...and for big people. She pushed a wayward strand of hair from her cheek. "But I loved my Aunt Phoebe’s workshop more and the lovely things with which she worked. She also gave me my first set of paper dolls when I was seven. They were all bride dolls, and it wasn’t long until I was thinking up dresses