“Your daddy used to say the same crazy thing. Everyone is replaceable.” When Vivien grinned, her wrinkles deepened and her brown eyes became slits. Graham remembered a time when her hair had been black, but now it was streaked with gray. She hadn’t talked about retiring, but she was pushing seventy.

He patted her on the shoulder. “You aren’t everyone, darlin’.”

Without even a reminder from Vivien, the last meeting finished fifteen minutes early. She’d already gone to lunch when he headed out the door to make the drive from Greenville to Celeste. Not knowing if the dress shop closed for an hour at noon, he drove faster than the speed limit and arrived with fifteen minutes to spare.

Since the business was in a house, he wasn’t sure whether to ring the doorbell, knock, or just walk in. He chose the latter and found no one sitting behind a desk. Instead, a tall red-haired woman with the most piercing blue eyes he’d ever seen poked her head out around a doorjamb.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I hope so,” he said. “I just moved here, and my twin daughters need bridesmaid dresses in July. Would you have time to make something for them by then?”

Those eyes looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t remember having ever met her. Maybe they just reminded him of Rita’s, since they’d been talking about her that morning.

She came out into the room and motioned for him to have a seat. The plush, pink sofa enveloped him—fairly comfortable for a man his size, but he was sure glad his girls weren’t there with their cameras.

“I’m Graham Harrison.” He focused on a place over her left shoulder to keep from looking right at her eyes. “My daughters aren’t petite little things. The bride said anything would work as long as the dresses matched and they were cotton candy . . . no, that’s not right.” He stumbled over the words. “Bubblegum pink.”

The lady sat down across from him. “I’m Mitzi Taylor, and yes, we make bridesmaids dresses in sizes fourteen and up. How old are these girls?”

“Fifteen—size sixteen in jeans. Like I said, they’re not little girls. They’re almost six feet tall and what folks call ‘big girls.’” He almost blushed. A dad shouldn’t have to know those things or their shoe size or their favorite deodorant, but when he’d had to be both mother and father, there was no choice.

“And I can see why.” Mitzi’s blue eyes seemed to size him up for height.

“So can we make an appointment with you? And will you have time to do that kind of thing before July?” he asked.

“Budget?” She fidgeted with a notepad.

“Whatever they want is fine,” he answered.