Friedman— another Friedman. One out of ten gowns I sewed was for a Friedman
Yelena
Something was up with these sisters.
Maria burst through the door of the sewing room. “Yocheved…” She balled her palm in a fist and pulled a sour face, miming Yocheved’s scowl. “O Bozhe. Who started up with her?”
Kate and Olga sniggered, but I didn’t find the storm cloud on Yocheved’s face amusing. I had a pit in my stomach. If Mina had told Yocheved that I’d complained about Yocheved’s attitude, that would be awful. But no, Mina wouldn’t have told her anything. She couldn’t have.
Still, something was going on in the showroom. The sisters hadn’t exchanged a word all morning, they’d drunk their coffees standing instead of sitting down together for their regular morning chitchat. And their faces… Mina’s eyes were hooded and she looked uneasy. And Yocheved looked like a dragon on a mission.
My phone shuddered to life on my table. My son’s face appeared on the screen, waving a spatula.
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