by Sophie Davis
My hands shook slightly when I opened the journal, anticipating all of the secrets I might learn about the mystery girl. At least, I hoped it would be interesting, unlike the contents of my own; tales of trysts and scandals would be far better reading than the reenactment of a run-of-the-mill day in a new town. I hesitated for a beat before turning past the title page. I knew it was wrong to pry, especially since I already knew the location of its owner. But I was just too curious. I rationalized it by telling myself that lots of people lived in the building, and I needed more information if I were to return it.
With that justification, I eagerly flipped to the first page with writing. The loopy scrawl across it gave me a small amount of satisfaction. I was right; the journal’s owner was definitely female. There was a date in the top right corner, September 14, but no year. I remembered what Asher said about The Pines opening just a few months before, and guessed the entry was from the previous fall.
Two words, larger than the rest, jumped from the bottom of the page, startling me so much that I actually dropped the journal. It landed on my stomach, the cover still open.
The journal entry was signed. Lark Kingsley. The missing girl, the one from New York City. The one whose disappearance was national news. I had her journal.
“Lark! What on earth are you doing?” My mother’s signature move – floating into a room with the gracefulness of a ballerina – came to an abrupt halt when she saw the clothing strewn all over my bedroom floor. It was childish, but I loved when I threw her off.
“Cleaning out my closet, mother,” I replied, hiding a smile.
“Why can’t you just wait for the girl to decide?”
My mother had a “girl” for everything, including one who came in four times a year to sort through the previous season’s clothing and remove the pieces that couldn’t be carried forward. I found this practice to be incredibly silly – not just paying someone to tell you what you can’t wear, but also the need to buy an entire new wardrobe every three months. I loved shopping as much as the next girl, but I based my purchases on what I liked, not what some designer had decided I should wear, what would be the next big thing.
Luckily my mother had Anna Wintour over for lunch periodically, so she had someone to engage in serious discussions with regarding the size of polka dots for spring and other equally pressing topics. As ridiculous as I found their conversations, I was just grateful to be spared from them. Like I always say, live and let live.
“I’m de-cluttering, Mother. I can’t find anything in here,” I finally replied, after giving my mother adequate time to appraise the mess I was making. My answer wasn’t exactly truthful, but I knew it would get her off of my back.
“Fine. I’ll have Jeanine pick this all up and send it to the indigents.” With a dismissive wave of her hand, she floated back out of the room.
I couldn’t hold back at that, and a laugh burst forth as soon as she was out the door. Indigents? Who says things like that?
I continued my scrutiny of the garments hanging in the “casual” section of my closet on the front left side. There were sections in the massive space designated for every climate and every occasion, but this was the one I used most often, so I quickly moved on. We went to the Swiss Alps almost every year for Christmas, and every year our shopping “girl” brought a whole assortment of après ski choices. These were easy pulls, so I grabbed a handful of the fur-covered outfits suited only for lounging in a lodge after skiing and tossed them into the pile on the left.
My mother might not have been able to tell, but there were two distinct piles – one on the left side of my closet door and one on the right. From the resort-wear section, several Lilly Pulitzer dresses and two pairs of the dozen Jack Rogers sandals went into the one on the right. Tops from Lilly hanging in my Spring section went there as well, along with two Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dresses and a pair of Jimmy Choo wedges. For my purposes, it was best to take things that were in-season, even if they weren’t the current year’s designs. Back and forth I went, being sure to add enough to the pile on the left that Jeanine, our housekeeper, wouldn’t suspect anything amiss.
I finally came to my formal-wear area, and pulled dresses down with renewed vigor. It was unacceptable to wear any of these gowns more than once – heaven forbid I be photographed in the same dress twice! – so it was easy to get rid of a lot of them. Despite my need to accumulate a decent-sized pile on the right, I still passed over the black gown from my first meeting with Blake.
It was a bad habit, but I associated memories, both good and bad, with what I’d been wearing and what song had been playing. Suffice to say, first laying eyes on Blake while wearing this dress made it irreplaceable in my mind. Even though it was unlikely I’d ever wear it again, I certainly wouldn’t be getting rid of it. Giving it a sad glance, thinking about leaving it behind in the future, I turned out the light in my closet and went to grab bags from downstairs.
Leaving the house with several Pucci shopping bags and one garment bag from Chanel, I quickly hailed a cab before the doorman could do it for me, sparing myself chitchat and questions. I was normally very friendly – overly friendly in the opinion of some – towards James and his nighttime counterpart, but this wasn’t the time. I gave him a smile and wave through the window once I was safely ensconced in the cab. Completely unbidden, a quick thought flashed through my mind – how did his son feel about his father opening doors, signing for deliveries, and carrying packages for a living?
I gave the cab driver an address on Park Slope in Brooklyn and then leaned back against the sticky seat. Though my family employed three drivers full-time – in case of the unlikely event that my father, my mother and I all needed to be driven somewhere at the same time – for things like, this I preferred the anonymity that came with riding in a cab. In one of these yellow cars you were one in millions. My father’s Town Cars had obnoxious vanity plates – Shine On 1 and 2, and Sparkle for my mother – and people always tried to catch a glimpse of who was inside. Sometimes I resented the attention he welcomed to us. There was also another reason I liked taxis, though; the drivers always had the best stories.
“Hi, Delonn!” I said, reading his name from the license posted on the dashboard. “How’s your day today?”
Our family drivers knew better than to engage in conversations with passengers, even when I tried to initiate it. Taxi drivers didn’t share the same predilection and often responded with enthusiasm. Delonn was no exception.
“Awww, you know, it’s just another day in the greatest city in the world! My only grief? Stop the hurry! People come here, go there, always in a hustle. Hurry, they say, hurry, like I wouldn’t get them where they goin’ quickly if they did not say it. I hurry, always. I know the best ways.” His accent, Jamaican or something like that, if I had to guess, was soothing.
“What’s been going on with you, Delonn? How’s life?” I asked, settling back in to my seat for a glimpse into this man’s world.
“Awww, you know, I had the passengers last night, seven kids, they all climb in at once. We two blocks away from where they goin’, then I hear the talk about money, who pays, who pays. So I think to myself, I think, Delonn, you need to keep an eye on these ones. We get to the stop; they goin’ to the W Hotel down on Park? And these kids, they give me a plastic bag of change, like I have the time to count. My manager, he’s not going to take the change. And I don’t know if it’s not enough, and I tell them no, I need cash. I mean, you know they’re going to a party at a fancy hotel, but these kids, always the kids, they never carry the cash for me. It’s not my fault the card thing never works in the cars, but my manager, you know he goin’ take it out of my check.”
“So what happened with those kids?” I asked, aware that his ramblings could take an entirely different direction. I normally enjoyed that kind of thing, but I was genuinely interested in the sort of people who could afford a night out at the W, but carried around a Ziploc bag of change. I knew he was probably using t
he term “kids” loosely, but I couldn’t help but picture a band of eight-year-olds smashing their piggy banks and heading out for a night of hard living.
“Awww, you know, they say fine, you don’t want the money? Fine. And you know what they do? They keep their bag, they open the doors and they run. Doors they leave open, off they go.”
“What?? Who does that? What did you do?”
“I think fast, and two boys, they are running just ahead in the street. So I drive up, not too fast, you know, and I hit the one in the back with the door he leave open.” I heard the smile in his voice, and saw his dark eyes glitter with pride in the rearview mirror.
“Did he fall?”
“Awww, you know, he did. I mean the front door, it hit him, but not too hard, just enough. And you know, down he fell.”
“What happened after that?” I couldn’t believe this guy hit someone with his cab. I wouldn’t have admired his gumption if it had been with anything except the door…but it wasn’t.
“You know what I do? I jump out real quick and there, standing there, is the policeman. And you know, the boys are yelling, and I am trying to tell him they did not pay, they refuse, and the policeman, you know what he do? He just laughs, laughs, laughs. He made them give me the bag. Still, my manager was not happy; he makes me keep it instead of other tip money. I have to buy milk for my family with the change on the way home. It was not so funny then. I work hard and I just get a bag of coin. But now? Now, I just think of the boy falling down and I think, okay, that’s okay.”
I smiled as the cab pulled up to my destination and handed Delonn two twenties, more than enough for the ride.
“Keep the change, Delonn. Thank you for the story!” I hopped out and then waved as he drove off.
Cab drivers, they’re a wealth of entertainment.
My friends thought that I only talk with the drivers after a few cocktails, when we’re all tipsy, and then they thought it was hilarious. Truthfully, though, I attempt to converse with the driver nearly every time I ride in a taxi. I love learning about what happens in the everyday lives of other people.
I hoisted my shopping bags onto my shoulder, repositioned the garment bag over my arm so it wasn’t trailing behind me, and then entered the storefront that Delonn had deposited me in front of.
The shop had a cool, modern ambiance, with bright overhead recessed lighting, racks spaced far enough apart to give the place an open feeling, and mannequins displaying everything from vintage Gautier to the latest Prada. I bypassed the front displays that showcased the latest handbags – patent leather was timeless and there were always several shiny bags in it – and made my way to the back of the store, past the shoes, vintage, and evening areas.
Rounding a corner to an alcove that was out of view of the rest of the store, I heaved my bags onto the counter in front of me. A young girl who looked to be in her mid-twenties stood on the other side of the divide, her dark ponytail bouncing and shiny. Her welcoming smile faltered and her eyes widened when she saw the number of items I proffered.
“Um, give me one sec, okay? I think Cynthia should probably be here for this,” she said, already turning to the curtain divider behind her.
“Cynth?” she called, holding back one side of the plush drapes to where I assumed the manager was cataloguing the inventory. “We need you out here.”
Only moments passed before an older woman with lines around her eyes appeared from the back, silver glasses perched upon her equine nose. She took one look at me and quickly straightened her top, hands absently pushing stray hairs back into her chignon.
“Oh, you’re back, dear! How wonderful! That pink Chanel bag was snatched up the same day I put it out there. I hope you have some more gems for me!”
I smiled warmly, and offered her my hand.
“It’s wonderful to see you again, Cynthia, and I’m so pleased someone liked that bag! I have more things from my closet that were simply collecting dust,” I replied nonchalantly, opening the bags and pulling out dresses, tops, skirts, and shoes. I was eager to be done with this, and attempted to avoid engaging in conversation if I could help it. I knew it was rude, but this was not a social call.
“Well of course, dear. We are so happy to take them off your hands,” she said with a knowing look. I’m sure she thought I was turning around and snorting the cash I received, but I really didn’t care. “Would you like to take a look around while we go through these?”
“Um, sure. Just let me know when you’re ready for me,” I said, already walking out to the floor of the store.
As I wandered the aisles, hands trailing over sumptuous fabrics, I thought about where these clothes had been. Who’d owned them? Why’d they sell them? And who on earth dropped $17,000 on that couture gown? The beading was beautiful, but the cut would only be flattering on a moose. I made a mental note to decline the label’s invitation to next year’s Fashion Week show. A new head designer had taken over last year, and clearly his days showing in Bryant Park would be numbered.
I was gazing absently at the shoe display, trying to get past the creepy feeling that I had when considering the thought of wearing someone else’s shoes, when the young brunette peeked her head around the corner.
“We’re ready for you…miss,” Cynthia called from the back, obviously unused to not knowing the name of someone she considered to be an important customer.
I’d withheld my name on purpose, despite Cynthia’s very obvious attempts to get it out of me. I’m sure she would’ve questioned where I’d acquired the items I brought in, if it weren’t for the fact a visit from me meant great bounty for her. This was on my mind when I rounded the corner once again. My clothes were scattered across the counter.
“So, dear, this is all in impeccable condition. How does this sound?” she pushed a small scrap of paper with a number written on it across the counter, watching my face to gauge my reaction. I’m sure she was worried that I might protest and take my loot elsewhere. “Of course, we’ll offer 10% more if you take the value in store credit,” she quickly added, holding her breath to see if I’d take the bait.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at her desperation. Most of the items I’d brought were from just this past season, particularly the resort wear, but I had no desire to negotiate. That was something I’d inherited from my mother; I found it distasteful to discuss money or try to wheedle someone for an extra buck. My father didn’t appreciate that predilection, though he did pay full price for our apartment at my mother’s insistence, so as not to imply we couldn’t afford what they were asking. We were a prideful bunch, I thought with a sigh.
“That’s perfectly fine, Cynthia, though I’d prefer the cash. Thank you.”
To be honest, I doubted that she would undercut me; she clearly wanted me to return, so I felt confident that I’d received a fair price. She was visibly relieved, though a slight frown briefly appeared when I opted to not give her the money right back as a customer in the store. I wondered how many people chose the second option. If you could afford to buy the brands that they carried in the store at full price, it was unlikely that you’d jump at the chance to get 10% more towards others’ old clothing. But it was a nice try, from a business standpoint. My father would certainly approve.
I deliberately wandered over to look at the vintage gowns nearby while she wrote out an invoice, not giving her the chance to catch my eye and strike up a conversation. Maybe she was thinking that I’d actually buy something, or maybe she was remembering my polite decline the first time I’d been in the store, but either way she didn’t even bother asking for my information. I only returned my attention to the counter when Cynthia disappeared behind the curtain once again, where I assumed the safe was kept.
I fingered the soft cotton of a Lilly dress that was still lying on the countertop, thinking about the dinner in Antigua where I’d worn the dress for the first and only time. Truthfully I loved the bright pattern with elephants strategically interposed, but I knew this was all
for a good cause. This was for the future, my own future.
The owner reemerged with a thick white envelope and glanced questioningly at me.
“I’m sure it’s fine, Cynthia. Thank you so much,” I said, waving off her offer to count the money out for me. I felt uncomfortable accepting the money to begin with; there was no need to put on display how much the clothing was worth even at resale value.
Tucking the envelope securely into my tan sling bag, I walked out of the store and back into the bright sunlight. The street was bustling with people, and I took a moment to watch a family meander past. Brooklyn was so much slower than Manhattan, the pace visibly different. I felt more at home here, where people were comfortable buying the clothing of others. It was still New York, though, where labels meant everything and where there was no shortage of women wanting to dress like Upper East Siders without the means to do so. For some reason, this meant that they’d rather buy used clothing with a particular label instead of brand-new clothing made by a nobody. This was the perfect place to run these errands, where I would never run into anyone I knew.
The Pines was a glass oasis amidst a sea of brick buildings. From the outside, it was apparent that every apartment had floor-to-ceiling windows with matching silver blinds that reflected the sunlight. The effect was blinding. I flipped the oversized sunglasses down from their perch on top of my head to cover my eyes. Surprisingly, no doorman stood out front to greet me. This presented a problem.
While I was able to pass through the revolving door easily enough, the glass-walled vestibule that it dumped me into was as far as I could go. The door to the actual lobby was locked, and it seemed that no one was there to buzz me in. I was trapped in the small glass box. A brief moment of unease threatened to turn into panic, until I noticed a black pad to the right of the interior doors. In the middle of the pad, below two lights, was a thin opening like the ones on hotel doors.
