by Meg London
“I’ve heard that place is actually quite nice.” Emma remembered one of their customers talking about it.
“It’s for old people!”
“It’s called Sunny Days, isn’t it? And it’s not just old people. There’s independent living as well. I’m sure that’s what your kids have arranged for you.”
“Yeah, could be.” Sylvia looked warily at Emma from under lowered brows. “Don’t you go telling me to move there, too.”
“Well, it looks rather nice. I saw a copy of their brochure at the grocery store. It’s a pretty place, and everyone looks like they’re having a good time.”
Sylvia snorted. “Doing what? Playing bingo?” She shuddered. “Please.”
“Maybe you could entertain them with your tarot reading.”
Sylvia fixed Emma with a beady stare. “The cards aren’t for entertainment, you know. They’re a serious business. Besides, I’ve got my little side business going here. Who’s going to come to Sunny whatever you said it was to have their cards read?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a mile or two outside of town. Not that far for anyone with a car.”
“Uh, lady?” The taller of the two men approached Sylvia. His T-shirt, like the truck, was red, with We Move You screened onto the front. It stretched across an abdomen as round and big as a watermelon. “We’ve got to get moving here, no pun intended. You going to let us put your stuff into the truck or what?”
“Why don’t you give it a try?” Emma said. “If you don’t like it, you can always move back. I doubt the landlord is going to rent that apartment anytime soon.” She sensed Sylvia softening. “You might actually like it.”
Sylvia scowled. “It’s all on account of me forgetting I was running a tub. So a little water overflowed and ran downstairs. What’s the big deal?”
“A couple of thousand dollars in repairs, that’s what’s the big deal.”
Emma hadn’t heard Angel come up behind her and whirled around when she heard her voice.
Sylvia looked at Angel, then at Emma, then back at Angel again. A look of defeat settled on her face. “All right, all right, I’ll go. As my uncle always said, you can’t fight city hall. Just bury me over at Sunny Poop or whatever it is you call it. Just close the lid and dig me in. I’m done fighting.” She put her hands on the arms of the recliner and shoved herself to a standing position.
“Come on.” Emma linked an arm gently through Sylvia’s. “Let’s go back to Sweet Nothings, and I’ll make us both a cup of tea while the men load the truck.”
“Not that green stuff you drink?” Sylvia shuddered.
“I’ve got some Lapsang souchong you’ll love.”
“Oh, all right.” She shook her finger at Emma. “But I’ll be back bright and early tomorrow morning, don’t you worry.”
THE first Sweet Nothings trunk show was scheduled for the following Saturday afternoon. Invitations had been sent, and Deirdre had already planned the menu—champagne punch along with plenty of lemonade and sweet tea for the non-drinkers; a selection of cupcakes from Sprinkles for dessert and some savory appetizers from Let Us Cater to You, including Lucy Monroe’s cheese straws, without which, as Lucy often boasted, no party, special event, wedding or christening could possibly take place in Paris.
Arabella spent the intervening time examining all her new purchases, cleaning them and making any small repairs, which were remarkably few given the age of the garments.
Finally, the big day arrived, dawning bright and sunny with a light breeze.
“Let’s hope the weather is a good omen,” Arabella said, as she helped Emma assemble the things they would be taking to Deirdre’s. Arabella’s Mini was too small to transport all their merchandise and supplies, so Emma had arranged to borrow Sylvia’s Cadillac as well.
They piled what they could into the Mini, and Arabella and Emma gave each other the victory sign when they were able to close the trunk. Emma waved as Arabella pulled out of the driveway.
Moments later, Sylvia arrived in her Cadillac. Emma watched as she pulled into the parking lot, narrowly missing the sign at the entrance. She shuddered. Sylvia really shouldn’t be driving, and it was probably only a matter of time before her kids intervened and took away her license.
Emma had everything at the ready. She grasped her cargo and headed toward the open door of Sylvia’s Cadillac. “Thank goodness her legs bend,” she called to Sylvia as she approached the car.
“Whoa! Who on earth is that?”
“Arabella thought it would be nice to have a mannequin dressed in one of the vintage ensembles. We call this one Melanie because Arabella thinks she looks like that woman who played Melanie in Gone with the Wind.”
“She does kind of. Do you need a hand with that?”
Emma had opened the back door and was struggling to get the five and a half foot tall “Melanie” in the backseat.
“Would it be easier if she rode up front?”
“It might be. Do you mind?”
“Not at all.” Sylvia got out of the car and watched as Emma went around to the front passenger seat. She slid Melanie into place and touched up her vintage ’40s pageboy, which had become slightly messy in the struggle to get her into the car.
“Don’t you think we ought to put something over her? I mean, if we’re going to drive through town with her in the front seat.”
Emma frowned at the mannequin propped in the seat, her gaze focused out the front window.
“No, I think it’ll be okay. I don’t think anyone will notice.”
“Okay by me, then.” Sylvia slid into the backseat, on the opposite side from Melanie. “I’ll let you drive if you don’t mind.”
Emma didn’t. In fact, she was relieved. Riding with Sylvia was an experience—one that she had no immediate desire to repeat. She was pleased to note that the car drove relatively smoothly. She checked the brakes several times, and they were fine.
“Tom Mulligan gave my baby a complete overhaul,” Sylvia said, slapping the seat cushion affectionately. “She drives really good now, doesn’t she?”
“Yes. She certainly does,” Emma said, wondering why cars were always considered feminine.
Feeling more confident about the Cadillac, Emma pressed down on the gas pedal, and they picked up speed. They were heading out of downtown Paris when Emma noticed lights behind her and heard the brief blare of a siren.
“What! I don’t believe it! I wasn’t speeding. What on earth could the police want?”
Sylvia gave a noncommittal shrug, and Emma thought she heard a choked-off laugh.
Emma eased the Cadillac onto the gravel shoulder and slowly came to a halt.
“Ma’am.” A long, lanky policeman who didn’t look any older than eighteen approached Emma’s open window.
“What is it, Officer? I’m quite certain I wasn’t speeding. Do I have a taillight out or something?”
“No, ma’am. Everything is fine, ma’am. But you need to tell your friend there,” he gestured toward the passenger seat, “we’ve got laws here in Paris against public nudity. I’ll let it go this time, but don’t let me catch it happening again.”
Emma had to squeeze her eyes shut and bite her lip to keep from laughing. She didn’t dare turn and look at Sylvia, although she thought she heard an aborted chuckle coming from the backseat.
“Yes, Officer, I will certainly do that. We’re not more than three or four minutes from our destination, and I’ll be sure Melanie”—she nodded her head toward the silent mannequin—“puts some clothes on.”
“Thank you, ma’am. And you be careful now.”
Emma waited for the traffic to clear, then pulled the Cadillac back out onto the road. As soon as they were a safe distance away, she and Sylvia burst into laughter.
“I don’t think Melanie gets the joke,” Sylvia said, indicating the silent mannequin, who continued to stare out the front window, with a wave of her hand.
That induced a fresh fit of giggling, and she and Sylvia were still l
aughing and wiping tears from their eyes when they arrived at Deirdre Porter’s house.
It was an imposing-looking brick, Georgian-style home. All the windows gleamed in the sun, and the brass knocker on the front door had been polished to a high gloss. A small, man-made brook ran in front of the house with an ornate bridge over it. Emma stopped in the middle and stared down at the water.
“Are those koi?” Sylvia pointed to several fish that swam past and disappeared under the bridge.
“I think so,” Emma said as she reached for the door knocker.
Arabella had arrived ahead of them, and it was she who opened the door to their knock.
“What’s the matter? Were you crying?” She peered at Emma’s face.
Emma bit her lip. “No, laughing. I’ll tell you about it later.”
Arabella gave her a strange look but didn’t ask any further questions.
“Deirdre wants us to set up in the living room.” Arabella indicated the direction with a nod of her head.
Emma carried Melanie into the room in question. Deirdre had a coatrack set up, and Arabella had already arranged all of the Sweet Nothings pieces on it. Emma reached for the vintage gown they’d decided to dress Melanie in, but she stopped with her hand halfway to the hanger. Deirdre’s living room was gorgeous, and she paused to take it all in. The ceiling was at least twelve feet tall with floor-to-ceiling windows draped in luxurious fabric in a soft, neutral color edged in gold trim. The sofa and round, tufted ottomans were the same color, creating a harmonious look that was both sophisticated and soothing. A fireplace with an ornately carved mantelpiece was the crowning touch.
“Gorgeous place, isn’t it?” Catherine “Bitsy” Palmer said as she went past with a box of cupcakes from her shop, Sprinkles. Bitsy was anything but, at six feet tall. And she was every inch the Southern belle with long, blond hair and enormous blue eyes. She was friends with Emma’s oldest friend, Liz, and was as nice as could be. “Deirdre did a lot of the decorating herself,” she called over her shoulder on her way to the kitchen.
Emma slipped the matching peach silk peignoir onto the mannequin and carefully tied the sash at the waist in a floppy bow. She stood back to admire the effect.
“Looks great!” Emma’s best friend Liz Banning came up behind her and gave her a quick hug. “I hope you sell a lot today.”
“Me, too,” Emma said, brightening at the sight of her friend with her warm smile and wide-open, freckled face. They had known each other forever, having grown up in Paris together. Emma had practically lived at the O’Connell house where Liz’s older brother, Brian, had treated her like another kid sister. Their relationship had evolved, however, with Emma’s return to Paris, and Emma realized she’d had a crush on Brian for a long time. They’d been dating for the last few months, and Emma was excited to see where things would lead.
By now the doorbell was ringing every few minutes, and guests had begun to drift into the living room, glasses in hand.
“I think everyone is here. Are you ready?” Deirdre Porter, the hostess, put a hand on Emma’s arm. She looked effortlessly beautiful, as usual, in well-fitting trousers and a low-cut pink cashmere sweater, her long hair brushed to a sheen and held with a clip at her nape. Everyone in Paris had been surprised when Peyton Porter had returned from college engaged to her. It had set more than one person’s teeth on edge that he’d thrown over his local girlfriend for someone no one knew and, worse, no one knew anything about.
Emma glanced around the room. Four women were seated on each of the sofas that faced each other across a glass and chrome coffee table, and all the other chairs and ottomans were occupied as well, with a group of three women leaning against the wall by the fireplace.
Arabella was in her element. Emma watched with admiration as she showed off each of the garments they’d brought in turn, extolling the virtues of each piece as well as giving a brief history of vintage lingerie in general and these specific items in particular. She finished with a flourish, and applause immediately broke out.
Arabella waited for the room to quiet down again and then spoke. “If anyone is interested in trying on any of the garments, please feel free. Emma or Sylvia”—she nodded in their direction—“or I will be glad to help you. Deirdre has graciously made her powder room on this floor available as well as the salle de bain,” Arabella used the French term with relish, “on the second floor if you want to see how you’d look in any of the negligees.”
“I’d like to try this robe on,” said a woman with dark hair cut as short as Emma’s but lacking her sassy style.
“Certainly.” Emma took the garment from her and held it up for her to slip into.
“I’m Jessica Scott by the way. Deirdre and I were in the same sorority. I’m the administrator at the Sunny Days Retirement Community.” She stuck out a hand and gave Emma’s a sharp shake.
“Our friend Sylvia just moved in there.”
“Really?” Jessica glanced around the room.
“She’s over there. The one with the gray bob and silver hoop earrings.”
Jessica narrowed her eyes. “I don’t think I’ve met her yet.”
She slipped into the robe that Emma was holding out. Her short and slightly stout figure did nothing for the beautiful garment.
“What can you tell me about this piece?” She scowled at herself in the standing mirror Emma and Arabella had brought along for the occasion.
“It’s early 1950s and is made of rayon satin.” Emma began reeling off the facts she’d memorized about the piece in a silvery blue floral fabric. “There are attached waist ties”—she reached inside the robe and pulled them taut—“that you can tighten for a perfect fit.”
Jessica turned around and admired herself in the mirror. “I rather do like it,” she announced to the small group that had gathered around her. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s positively lovely,” one of the women gushed. She looked to be in her mid-thirties and had mousy blond hair teased into a style that seemed too old considering her age.
“This is Crystal Davis,” Jessica said, frowning at the woman. “She’s my secretary.”
“And distant cousin,” Crystal piped up. She pulled the sleeves of her blue cardigan down over her hands.
Jessica renewed her appraisal of herself in the mirror. “I think you’re wrong, Crystal. It makes me look short and slightly dumpy.”
Emma noticed Crystal’s face fall and wondered whether Jessica was always so blunt, or did she dislike Crystal for some reason?
Jessica stuck her hand into one of the robe pockets and turned this way and that in front of the glass. She pulled her hand from the pocket and held something up. “What is this?”
The others strained to see. Emma held out her hand, and Jessica placed the object in her palm. It was a small blue bead with the capital letter P on it. She held it up for the others to see.
Conversation around the room had fallen silent, and the other women gathered around to examine the tiny item.
“It looks like a bead from one of those hospital identification bracelets they used to make years ago,” said a woman in an elegant pantsuit who also had teased gray hair. “My mother saved mine, and it was made with beads like that, only in pink, of course. It was,” she cleared her throat, “sometime in the 1950s. I refuse to say exactly when.”
The other women laughed obligingly. Emma wasn’t particularly sensitive about her age—she was only twenty-nine, but she realized that it was merely a matter of time before people would begin reminding her of her ticking biological clock.
“That reminds me of an amazing story I just heard,” Jessica said in the kind of loud, commanding voice that made everyone stop talking and turn in her direction. “I heard it from one of the residents on our nursing floor. She had been a nurse herself at one time and worked in the Henry County Hospital here in Paris. The hospital was even smaller then, this was around 1954, and on this particular night, there was a terrible storm and accidents all o
ver the roads. People on stretchers were lined up in the halls of the emergency room, and the doctors could barely keep up. Fortunately, the maternity ward was empty except for two women in labor. Rose took care of both of them.”
Jessica paused as Emma helped her out of the vintage robe, and Deirdre handed her a glass of punch. She took a sip before continuing.
“One of the women was very poor, married to a farmer and having her tenth child or something like that.” Jessica scowled, and it was obvious she disapproved. “According to Rose, they could ill afford the other nine, let alone a new baby. I don’t know why people do that, but…” She shrugged. “The other laboring woman was very wealthy. Rose referred to her as ‘Cat.’ She was either forty, or nearing it, I don’t quite remember what Rose said, but this was her first child. She and her husband had been married since their twenties, but she had been unable to get pregnant. Finally, the long-awaited heir was about to arrive. But,” Jessica took another sip of her punch, and the room was completely silent as they waited for her to continue, “the baby was stillborn.”
Several women gasped, and they all looked at one another.
“Go on,” Crystal said, and Jessica scowled at her again.
“As I said, it was a stormy night, and all the doctors were busy in the emergency room. None of them was paying much attention to what was happening in labor and delivery. Rose had an idea. She decided to switch the babies.”
Here the women gasped again, and even Crystal was silent.
“Rose gave the rich woman the other woman’s baby to raise it as her own.”
“Was it a boy or girl?” an older woman with fading red hair called out.
“According to Rose, it was a boy,” Jessica said with a look of triumph on her face. “I’d say that little baby sure lucked out.”
Marjorie Porter’s laugh rang out loud and clear. She was wearing a perfectly tailored suit that was obviously expensive but also very subdued. Marjorie came from the sort of old Southern wealth that felt showing off was for the lower classes. “Honestly,” she said in condescending tones, “you don’t believe every single thing someone tells you, do you? Don’t you think the old nurse must be demented and made the whole thing up?” She looked around the room for approval. “I mean, who would do such a thing? It was probably something she saw on television.”
