“I can add a triangle of fabric to take out the waist.”
The cat still sat on the table, sphinx-style, watching through half-closed eyes.
“But I wouldn’t want you to ruin the dress just for me.”
“It won’t be ruined, but I’ll tell you what—you can pay me when the work is done. If you like it, great. If you don’t, you don’t need to buy it.”
“Oh, I don’t know what to say.”
When Paige was ready to leave, Lily handed her a list of the proposed alterations.
“How much will this cost?” Paige asked, looking at the list.
“I’m not sure—I haven’t done this before. But we can work something out.”
“I should give you a deposit.” Paige fumbled in her purse for her wallet, dropped it on the rug. Several cards and a small photograph fell out and fanned across the floor. The cat trotted over and sniffed at the snapshot.
Paige bent down to pick up the cards. The photo was of a tiny boy, a little clone of her but with dark hair.
“My son, Johnny,” she said, showing Lily the photo.
“I didn’t know you had a son! He’s cute.”
“He doesn’t live with me. His dad has custody.” She slipped the picture back into her wallet and looked at Lily with haunted eyes.
“The one who’s getting married. The jerk?”
“Infidelity doesn’t make you a bad parent, apparently.” She smiled wanly. “But I…Anyway, it’s little Johnny’s idea—he wants me to go to the wedding, otherwise I wouldn’t go. I miss him so much. I wish—never mind.”
“Don’t you get to see him?”
“Every second weekend, but it feels like every second year, or every second decade. More like every hundred years.”
“I can imagine how awful that must be. Oh, Paige—”
“I’m okay.” She retrieved a tissue from her purse and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “I owe you one.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Lily said, but Paige was already heading for the door. After she left, Lily made another list, her answer to confusion. Sewing machine, thread, pinking shears, scissors, safety pins, seam ripper, tailor’s chalk, straight pins, thimbles, needle, iron. Why had she offered to do this? This hadn’t been in the plan, alterations to Josh’s creations, or cutting a dress off a woman.
And yet.
She felt strangely buoyant, hopeful, her mind hovering somewhere above her body as she prepared to begin alterations. This was something she could do, something at which she had always excelled. She could picture the end result in her mind, Paige resplendent in the emerald dress, gliding up to her ex-husband, wowing him with her beauty and, as the renewed, unobtainable woman, she would breeze right past him.
Lily began to picture the window display in a new light, too. So, maybe she did not have a mannequin that could lie on its side, or expensive neon signs, but her clothes told stories, and what did that mean? Her display could tell a story, too. The story of an evening—two people meeting in a restaurant, sharing a bottle of wine, making a new start together.
As she worked to recast the display, the male mannequin watched her, but it seemed slightly different now—less like a receptacle for Josh’s spirit, and more like an inanimate statue with opaque, unseeing eyes.
Chapter Seventeen
Kitty
As Lily flits around the shop with new determination, the spirits come out to watch. A young ballerina, who has been dead nearly twenty years, yanks a leotard off a hanger. She doesn’t have the strength to pick it up off the floor. She believes she still has a body, muscular legs meant for pirouettes and pas de chats, a step of the cat. What remains of her, a mere thought the size of a marble but invisible, bounces from wall to wall, having slipped into the shop in a pair of vintage ballet slippers.
I sit on top of the shelves to groom my fur and observe the commotion. Across the street, an elegant woman, all dressed in silk, is setting up a sign on the sidewalk. She and another woman are arranging racks of clothes and pots of flowers in front of the other shop. Lily is working so hard, she doesn’t notice what’s going on, and she doesn’t see the inky spirit pushing a mannequin a few inches across the floor.
Now I discern the shape that the spirit wants to remember, the corporeal body she has lost. She was tall and thin, stooped and old. She was a sad woman, too, but she lost all hope. She wallowed here in this cottage, hiding on her own, pining for her lost love, and she does not want Lily—or anyone else—to remain here. She wants only to be left alone.
Chapter Eighteen
Lily
“What is this weird thing? A Halloween disco costume?”
Bish pulled a satin jacket off a hanger and held it up by finger and thumb, as if it were a dead rodent dangling by its tail. The cat sat at Bish’s feet, gazing upward and batting at the shiny fabric.
“The real question is, what kind of weird thing is that?” Lily pointed at Bish’s blue-and-black-striped leggings. At least she’d heard of the word “disco,” so there was still hope for the girl.
“These are totally in style.” Bish held out her right leg and pointed her toes. She wore black shoes and when she frowned, she mildly resembled her morose father. “I bought these leggings across the street, like, last year.”
“Of course you did.” Lily tried not to sound bitter.
“Sorry, does that make you mad?” Bish sounded hopeful.
“Why would it? I wasn’t even here last year.”
“Oh, yeah, that candy shop was here. Too bad it’s gone. Not too bad. I mean, I’m glad you’re here now with all this old stuff. But I liked their Australian licorice.”
“Maybe I should carry licorice instead of vintage clothing.” Why had she focused only on the cottage when she’d first arrived? She hadn’t given the other boutique a second thought. She’d worked in the yard, cleaning the flower beds, scrubbing and refilling the birdbaths, and fixing the squirrel feeder—as much as she could do in autumn. She’d thought a pretty garden would attract customers, but she hadn’t anticipated the power of longevity and reputation. Somehow, people believed in The Newest Thing, and while a few had stopped in to look at her inventory, her shop had not yet caught on.
She knew success would take time, but she was growing impatient. How could Bish worry about a disco jacket when the entire population of Shelter Island seemed to be descending upon The Newest Thing, drawn by the Semi-Annual Sale sign?
“I still think you need more mirrors and a bigger sign out there like that banner.” Bish pointed across the street.
“How did all those people know to go over there, though, before they even saw the banner?” Lily rearranged the wineglasses in her window dinner scene. Didn’t anyone notice the voluptuous female mannequin, dressed in Sue Wong and flirting with the fiberglass male decked out in Armani?
“This should go to the thrift shop,” Bish said, hanging up the jacket. “But if you want to keep it—”
“It’s classic,” Lily said, still looking out the window. “Didn’t you ever see Saturday Night Fever?”
“My dad liked that old movie. He liked the dancing, but he doesn’t want me to go to the Homecoming dance. Hypocrite. If I go, he wants me home early. He won’t even let me wear the kind of dress my friends are wearing. He says it’s as small as a postage stamp. I hate him.”
“Hate is a strong word.” Lily could remember using it when she was young and volatile, too. “He’s probably trying to keep you from losing your virginity too soon.”
Bish rested her hands on her hips. “How do you know I haven’t already lost it?”
“Oh no. Have you?”
“None of your business.” Bish stuck out her bottom lip, which made her look childlike. “But sometimes I do hate my dad. It’s a lot more than that…more than the stupid dress.”
“What is it then?”
“Never mind. You don’t even know. Can I do my homework here with the kitty? You’re keeping her. Cool.”
“I’m
not keeping her—didn’t you see the flyers? I posted them all over town.”
“She needs a better name. How about Trouble? Angel? MeowMeow? Edwina Scissorpaws?”
“Very creative, but she seems to like ‘kitty’ just fine.”
“She does not. She wants a real name. Catpernicus.”
“It’s kitty until her owner claims her.”
“Fine, whatever.” Bish plopped onto the couch that Lily had dragged out from the back room.
“Florence must send out mailings to everyone, postcards or flyers announcing the sale,” Lily went on, still looking across the street, trying to ignore the sinking sensation in her stomach. The sky had cleared, and now steam rose from rooftops and fence posts in the sunshine.
Bish swung one dangling foot. “They have a sale twice a year and everybody goes. She’s cleaning out all the summer stuff to make room for winter. The longer the sale goes on, the cheaper everything gets. Maybe some of those people will come in here.”
“Some already have, but not many.” Lily thought of the bird-like man who’d spotted the cat in the window and had come in looking for a crinoline petticoat, supposedly for his sister. He bought a lace number in his own size, and as he paid for the dress, he asked Lily how he should wash it. He quickly corrected himself, his face bright red. I mean, how should my sister wash it? Then there was Maude Walker, a perfectly round woman, also drawn by the cat, who imparted advice about the proper method for brushing the cat’s teeth, keeping her coat clean, and preventing hairballs by giving her dollops of butter. During the long lulls, Lily rearranged the rooms, clearing spaces and bringing in the couch. She had planted attractive shrubs along the path, but nothing seemed to bridge the distance between the road and the porch.
A few minutes later, an elegant willowy woman came out of the shop across the street. Something in her confident demeanor, in the flow of her violet pantsuit and the glint of gold jewelry, made Lily certain that the woman was Florence. So she had shown up for her big sale. She was like an ethereal goddess of indeterminate age, her russet hair stylishly coiffed. She smiled and waved at customers as she adjusted the dresses hanging on the outdoor racks beneath the eaves. She glanced across the street and went back inside.
A cloud crossed over the sun, casting momentary darkness into Lily’s shop. Bish picked up the cat and cradled her. “So what are you going to do? You could charge admission, you know, like a museum. You could make some money that way.” She grinned, and Lily’s skin prickled.
“That does it,” she said. “Get up and help me. This means war.” She hated to think this way, as if she needed to compete, but a few customers trickling in here and there, and alterations to Paige’s dress, would not be enough to pay the bills.
“What do you want me to do?” Bish said, looking worried.
A moment later, she was helping Lily carry a rack of the best coats, sweaters, and slacks out to the sidewalk. The porch steps and the stone walkway seemed to go on forever. As Bish and Lily maneuvered the metal rack, the hangers shifted and clanged, the clothes sliding down to Bish’s end, which she held lower than Lily’s side.
“This isn’t a good idea,” Bish whispered to Lily.
“Why not?” Lily said. “Look.”
“But—”
“Bish, just help me. No more advice for now, okay?”
“Whatever you say.” Bish shook her head as they placed the rack on the sidewalk. Customers looked over and began to drift across the street.
“See?” Lily said out of the corner of her mouth, smiling at the first customer. “Come on, one more.”
Bish helped her bring out one more carousel of clothing. It was working. People had begun to notice Past Perfect, and they noticed the cat in the window, and they came inside. The shop had become visible, emerging from the mist. Something had shifted in the air. Lily had reached out to the sidewalk, and now people were giving her a chance.
A young boy, no older than seven, came in with his mother and sat on the carpet and read to the cat from a hardcover picture book while his mother browsed. The cat sat right in front of him, her eyes half closed, as if she were listening, a blast from the heating vent ruffling her fur.
Lily imagined a whole gaggle of children in the shop, gathering around to read to the cat while their mothers—and a few fathers—bought up her entire inventory. What if she put children’s books in the window? Even children’s clothing? She was so busy re-imagining her shop that she failed to notice how quickly the sky had darkened.
So when Bish burst into the shop, her hair plastered to her head, dripping rain, it took Lily a moment to register what was happening.
“Flash squall!” Bish said, gasping for breath. “We need to bring in the racks right now. Right this very second. Do you have some kind of tarp?”
But Lily had nothing except her raincoat, which did a lousy job of covering her precious woolen sweaters. Across the street, the sale racks at The Newest Thing flapped in the rising wind, but the overhanging eaves protected them, and Lily felt stupid for not having anticipated such a rapid change in the weather.
“Dammit, dammit!” she shouted as she and Bish carried the racks inside. She could imagine Florence watching from across the street.
“I tried to tell you,” Bish said.
“But it was sunny.”
“A sun break,” Bish corrected her. “In the fall up here, it’s always a sun break. You have to get to know the weather. Sunny one minute, flash flood the next.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“I tried.” Bish grinned, water dripping from her nose. “So now we’re going to the estate sale, right?”
“I wasn’t planning on it, but…” The rain came down in sheets and suddenly turned to hail. The cat gazed at the ceiling, her ears twitching as ice pellets bombarded the roof.
“But what? We need to get replacement stuff. These clothes are history. They’re, like, ruined.”
“Not quite yet.” But as Lily removed the wet clothes from the racks, she realized she might not be able to salvage the wool and silk. She thought she could hear someone laughing behind her, but when she turned around, nobody was there.
Chapter Nineteen
Lily
Lily laid out the woolen sweaters to dry, and although they weren’t completely ruined, they were misshapen. How could she have been so foolish? Everyone in town must’ve known the weather might change. She stood out as the foreign immigrant to a stormy, unpredictable island.
But despite her embarrassing faux pas, the sidewalk sale had brought Past Perfect into the light. Shop traffic increased, partly due to the cat—whose otherworldly presence attracted a range of unusual and eccentric, cat-loving customers—and partly due to Lily’s unusual and eccentric inventory.
Some dresses came with pictures of the original owners, perhaps their life stories as well. A silk gown, heavy with glass beading, had been made in Paris and worn during a honeymoon in Rome. A blue chiffon dress had lived on a farm for years, and a pink number had belonged to a woman named Cecilia, who’d worn the dress to church every Sunday. A handmade shirt, appliquéd with imported fabric, whispered of its history in post–World War II Germany. Lily imparted her special knowledge to her customers, explaining the difference between a bandage dress and a shift dress, for example, and she displayed a floral print tea dress in the window beside a summer picnic tableau. People were surprised to learn unusual trivia, like the story of the famous artist who’d once buried clothes and left them to decompose in his garden. He’d pulled them out and presented them as a radical new collection to the fashion industry, creating the famous “buried dress.” Another designer had made a gown covered entirely in LED lightbulbs.
A few days after the sidewalk sale, when Lily had almost finished alterations to Paige’s emerald dress, Vanya came in. She wore an oversized woolen coat, her yellow hair pulled back. Her belly seemed larger than before, her face bloated.
“The cat looks happy,” she said. “I’m glad you
still have her.” She reached out to pet her, but the cat trotted away, nose sniffing the air, as if she understood where Vanya had come from.
“Don’t take it personally,” Lily said. “You probably smell like the clinic.”
“Such is my lot. I can never wash that place away! Nice shop you’ve got here. It’s good to get out. I’ve been putting in some long hours at the clinic.”
“Let me know if I can help you.” Lily kept her distance. She’d never liked salespeople who hovered, but she did not want to seem indifferent.
Vanya tried on loose dresses and sweaters and began to create quite a pile in the fitting room. As she browsed, her cheeks gained some color, and her eyes shone.
Retail therapy, Lily thought. Trying on clothes could have a palliative effect on the soul. “How are things at the clinic anyway?” she asked. “Is Dr. Cole working you too hard?”
“My husband thinks I should quit my job, just until, you know.” Vanya patted her belly. “But I love what I do. I have to work to get my mind off things. And I need the money. My husband doesn’t understand, but Dr. Cole really appreciates what I do.”
“He should.” Lily could not imagine Dr. Cole expressing his appreciation for anyone.
“He’s a good doctor.” Vanya pulled a folded slip of paper from her purse and slid it across the counter. “This is the bill for the house call. I almost forgot to give it to you.”
Lily blushed. How much had Dr. Cole told Vanya? Had he mentioned the hairball? “Thanks. I meant to ask about it.”
“He told me to send it to you, but I figured I was coming in here, so—”
“It was nice of you to stop by.”
“I wanted to check out your shop anyway. I like what you’ve done. It has a homey feeling.”
“Homey, I like that, too.”
Vanya fumbled in her purse and brought out a beaded wallet. “Look, I’m sorry if he was rude to you, when you brought the cat into the clinic. I hope he was nicer when he came over here in the night.”
“Sort of,” Lily said. “But I woke him.”
Enchanting Lily Page 8
