For previous editions, go here.

For those who are new, The Butterfly Dress is a story about Flora, a girl trapped in dismal job as a seamstress and dressmaker to her cruel mother. Although she dreams of designing gowns in New York or Paris, she is forced to settle for creating prom dresses for local girls while attending class at the local college. When she receives the chance to design the Coronation Queen’s gown for a local ball, magical things begin to happen. As she dives deeper into the ball’s mysterious past and its handsome prince, it’s a pair of shoes that might lead her to her final destiny.

Flora ran, ran like she had never ran before.  Her lungs burned, her heart threatened to burst with every beat and sweat poured down her face.  Her feet begged her to stop, slivers of pain slicing up her legs with every step.

But she ran, ran to the gardens.  She could hear the orchestra warming up, the hum of frazzled caterers and kitchen staff.  Ducking behind an awning decked with white roses, Flora pressed a hand to her heaving chest, trying to still her pounding heart.  When a pair of warm fingers wrapped around her mouth, yanking her back, she screamed.

“Flora!”  The weathered hands dropped to her shoulders, spinning her around.  “It’s me!”

“Mr. Grissom!”  Flora swallowed her heart, staggering in his grasp.  “You scared me!”

“I’m sorry.”  The old man pulled her closer into the shadows, deeper under the wide leaves of the magnolia tree.  “I stopped by your friend Jackie’s, that Butterfly Garden she works at, but she wasn’t there.”

“No, she was at my house.”  Flora gently pulled her hands from the old man’s.  “What’s going on?”

“This.”  The old man shoved a tattered book at her, shame etched in his wrinkled face.  “I’m sorry, Flora.  I knew Mrs. Nottingham was wrong, just like I knew she was wrong about your grandmother.  Those Nottingham men, they have stubborn hearts…”

Flora stared at the small book in her hand, lifting the yellowed cover.  “I don’t understand.”

“It’s Mr. Nottinham’s–Nate’s grandfather, Henry,” Mr. Grissom stuttered.  “It’s his horticulture book.  It’s where he kept track of all his flowers, his plants, his gardens…and his butterflies.  You see, the butterflies didn’t begin until he met your grandmother.  He told me she made him feel alive.”

Flora sucked in her breath.  “Mr. Grissom, are you implying my grandmother had an affair with him?”

The old man shook his head.  “I’m not implying anything, Flora.  Their story is theirs, and yours to discover.”  He tapped the worn book.  “Page 59 has the code to the greenhouse.  I believe you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

A corner of her mouth turned up.  “I guess I can’t ask you to get a server uniform for me?”  She shook her head.  “Mrs. Nottingham will kill me if I just stroll in there.”

“She thinks you came for him.”  Mr. Grissom smiled as Flora squirmed.  “But you’re too much like her.  Your grandmother was a fine woman, Flora.”  He stared off in the distance, his hard face softening.  “She loved to walk through the gardens at night.  She told me once that she wanted to make a dress that glittered like the stars, as soft as a pair of butterfly’s wings.”

“She did?”  Flora beamed, tears sparkling in her large brown eyes.  “I should have paid more attention to her sketches.  I should have looked harder…”

Mr. Grissom shook his head.  “She’s like you, Flora.  Her secrets are in her gowns, her story in her sewing.  You’re so much like her,” he repeated, staring at her as though he had never seen her before.  “So much…”  Trailing off, he tugged down his hand and beckoned for Flora to follow him.

“It’s not her best, but it was always one of my favorites,” he said, holding up a bough of ivy for her to cross under.  “I pulled it out of the seventh case–the Coronation doesn’t go back there, so Mrs. Nottingham will never notice.”

Flora ducked under his arm, following the older man into a small gazebo.  In the center, draped across the wooden bench lay a rich blue gown–the same color as the one she had made, that Professor Skippy had destroyed.  Flora’s hands flew to her mouth, her breath ragged.  The stitching was nearly identical, the pattern almost the same.  It was as though she and her grandmother had shared the same dream, the same vision, only decades apart.

“I made a gown just like this for class,” Flora mumurred, running her fingers over the fabric.  “I never saw her sketches…I can’t believe.”

“You’re just like her,” Mr. Grissom said softly.  Grabbing her by the shoulders, he brushed his lips roughly across her forehead.  “You’re as beautiful as she was.  And you deserve to go to the ball–not as a servant, as a lady.”

“Mr. Grissom”–  Flora choked up, her voice thick.

“Well, check out the book and the greenhouse.  You’ll find what you’re looking for.”  Mr. Grissom’s voice grew rough, his eyes shadowed by his hat.  Jabbing his hands in his pockets, he turned and hurried down the stairs.  Suddenly, he stopped in the middle of the path.

“Don’t let them make you feel less, Flora,” he said, his blue eyes piercing the hat’s shadows.  “You’re more.  You’re so much more.”  And before Flora could even open her mouth, the old man raced up the pathway, nearly leaping through the bushes.

Flora turned, the dress’s skirt draping through her fingers.  “I can’t wear this,” she murmured.  “No one will believe I’m a lady.”  She raised her eyes, watching as servers hurried out to the gardens in stiff white uniforms, carrying silver trays loaded with delicate appetizers.  “If they hated my grandmother, what will they do to me?”

“Nothing at all.”  For the second time that night, Flora shrieked.  She whirled around, laughing in relief at the sight of Miss Tuttlesworth and Jackie.  “You scared me, you two!  How did you find me?”

“Never mind that.”  Jackie waved her hand.  “When it comes to gardens, I can find anything.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter.”  Flora gave the dress a last wistful glance.  “I can’t wear that.  As soon as Mrs. Nottingham sees me”–

“Flora, Flora.”  Miss Tuttlesworth clucked her tongue.  “You’re forgetting dear, this is a masked ball.”  She held up a silver mask, grinning.

“I still can’t…”  Flora raised her feet, clod in her dumpy shoes.  “I mean, it’s a gown, not a potato sack.”

Jackie’s eyes twinkled mischievously.  “I think these fit very well.  Don’t you?”  She raised the butterfly shoes, grinning.  “Now are you going to change, or do we need to help you?”

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  We have a new Sidewalk Dreams tomorrow!

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