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“Right. When I think of Easter, I think: lingerie.”
People strolling past the store stopped to stare at the nearly naked mannequin and the two women
yelling at each other over bras through glass. She plucked vintage white Playboy rabbit ears out of a
bag, pairing them next to a pale pink teddy. “Look how cute!”
If you want to keep good people close, you have to let them loose every once in a while, my dad
used to say. So I just had to trust that Elizabeth would put together another traffic-stopping display.
Let her do this; let someone else take the lead.
I gave her a weak thumbs-up and headed inside.
My stomach rumbled. I had skipped breakfast, but we had a big shipment in from a hard-won estate
sale and I wanted to go through those boxes myself before we opened. So I left Elizabeth to work her
magic in the window box and unlocked the store, taking in my outfit in the full-length mirror by the
front counter: a dark blue, A-line dress that buttoned up the front, circa late ’60s, the kind with a
built-in bra, matching belt and slip lining; three-quarter-length sleeves and kitten heels. My red hair
was pulled back in a chignon, now loose and fuzzy-edged from the humidity. I had on big, dark
sunglasses, à la Jackie O. I had to admit it was a little warm for this dress, but they just didn’t make
them like this anymore, something my mother celebrated and I, of course, lamented. But when did my
collars become so high, the hems this long, my sunglasses so large? Who takes eight years to get
over a guy?
With Elizabeth busy in the window and the store still quiet, I dug into my purse for my lunch, then
realized I had left it on my kitchen counter. Customers weren’t allowed food or drinks in my store, but
I ate all my meals perched on the stepladder behind the cash register. Screw it, I’d skip lunch too, and
have a big dinner.
I dragged the smallest estate-sale boxes to the front counter. The first was filled with accessories,
Elizabeth’s specialty, so I kicked it aside. The second box was all girly sundresses, straw hats (vile)
and ballet flats. I wouldn’t need to put summer clothes out for a few more weeks, but I admired a dark
green halter dress from the ’70s. It was stunning material, crepe, beautifully lined and floor-length. I
noticed the hem was fraying. I could shorten it to knee-length and get a good price. Or I could keep it
for myself. And show off my arms? Not a chance. Still, it was so pretty, the green, and with my red
hair …
I set it aside for the “keeper” pile, which was getting bigger than the “for sale” pile. Why did I do
this? Save things for some imaginary future or for some imaginary customer who would really
appreciate it if given the chance.
“Our back room office could be a whole other store,” Elizabeth once said. “A better one than
what’s out front.”
The third box was filled with men’s clothes: tweed jackets, several T-shirts, a pair of tuxedo pants
(satin stripe down the side) and a matching tuxedo jacket with stylishly slim lapels. I put my nose to
the thick fabric and inhaled. It was clean and smelled like men’s cologne. That manly-man smell was
so intoxicating. It reminded me of a late night out, of cigars and aftershave, the back of a cab, desire. I
felt a pang behind my belly button. I imagined getting this tuxedoed man home, unzipping my long
velvet gown, surrendering it to the floor. Underneath it I would be wearing a silk slip. He’d lie back
on my gypsy bedspread, smiling, putting aside his scotch. I could feel his hands on my shoulders as he
pulled me down onto him, gathering a fist of my long, red hair, pulling my head back to reveal my
tender throat. I would cry out his name loud enough to clear the cobwebs from the hallways of the
abandoned house my body had become, and—
“Dauphine!”