She was wearing thick black tights and a wool skirt. The bottom of the skirt ballooned out, and threads of a variety of colors dangled along the edges, maypolelike. She looked like a black jellyfish with wildly colored tentacles. I couldn’t help thinking as I watched Charlotte unlock the door that Stacy’s twins would love pulling on that skirt.
As she pulled the door open, her skirt swished from side to side like a bell. She also wore a starched white shirt with oversize, pointed lapels and black-and-white patent leather shoes. A thick black rope of hair hung in front of her right shoulder, and on her chest was a line of carefully placed safety pins. But the piece de resistance was what she wore on her head: a stark bonnet that could have come straight out of a sixteenth-century Flemish painting hanging in an art gallery . She looked odd, but stylish—like a modern-day nun.
She forced a stiff smile of acknowledgment at Flora, which barely made it onto her lips before it was gone. As we came in, she didn’t say anything, just kind of jerked her head to tell us to move forward.
We did as we were told, and Charlotte locked the door firmly behind us.
“This way,” she said curtly in her thick French accent.
Yes, I thought as I followed her slow pace through the shop, her name should be Yvonne or Clarice. The name Charlotte made me think of a playmate for Anne of Green Gables, a fresh-faced child with apple cheeks, layered dresses, and a straw bonnet. It definitely didn’t fit this aloof swan with Parisian style and strait-laced headgear.
I looked at Flora, who was following behind. She looked terrified by the whole experience, so I grabbed her hand and smiled. It was cold and limp. She smiled back weakly, unsure.
“It’s going to be great,” I said.
Charlotte showed us into the fitting room and introduced us to Carrie, whom I believed was her niece, even though she always called her employer Ms. Charlotte. She was dressed like a muddled mini version of her boss, but she was bigger boned and round, so the outfit didn’t hang in quite the same way as it would have on gaunt figures walking down a European catwalk. She looked as if she would have been more comfortable in a pair of jeans and fleece. Carrie followed Flora into a curtained fitting room.
I looked around the racks while I waited. Charlotte positioned herself back at her desk, where she started wrapping clothes. She asked in a thick accent, “Would you care for some fruit tea?”
I smiled. “No, thank you.”
She looked visibly relieved, as if that would be the end of her small talk, and headed to a rack of clothes that she arranged neatly into shiny white boxes with the word Charlotte’s scrawled on the front in black loop letters. She then filled the boxes with black-and-white tissue paper. I was looking about when my eyes caught new customers: the Labette twins were at the door, grinning at me.
Charlotte stiffly made her way to open the door, trying a brighter tone that seemed to be a great effort. “Come in, come in.”
Lavinia walked in and seemed unaffected by Charlotte’s sullen presence or the fact the somber air of the store would have made an undertaker proud.
“Darrrrling,” Lavinia said, rolling her words in her usual way. “Fancy seeing you here.”
I smiled. “What a lovely surprise. Are you looking for anything special?”
Lavinia nodded “We are on the hunt for just the right hat for Flora’s wedding. We had what we thought we were going to wear but . . .”
“I liked it a lot,” Lottie piped up. “Black never goes out of style, now, does it, Charlotte?”
“I am just the shop owner.” Charlotte shrugged, appearing not to know or care.
Lavinia picked up the thought. “Honey, I agree, it is a lovely hat, but the last time we wore it was for Poppa’s funeral. It doesn’t seem appropriate to wear a funeral hat if we are bridesmaids at a wedding.”
Flora slipped out from behind the curtain of the fitting room and onto a platform in the center with a three-way mirror. We all gasped in unity.
“Well, Flora, darling,” gushed Lavinia. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so lovely. You are truly beautiful.”
I looked at Flora, who had allowed just a little glow to creep to her cheeks. She looked enchanting, as if she’d just walked out of a vintage Victorian magazine. The dress was a mixture of satin and antique lace, in off white. It was gathered at her tiny waist with a satin bow studded with exquisite pearls. The sweetheart neckline highlighted her delicate bone structure perfectly, and the sleeves of transparent lace that showed just a hint of skin were fastened at the wrist by small mother-of-pearl buttons. The same buttons lay in a long elegant line down her back.
We all gathered around her as Carrie, with a bouquet of pins in her mouth, added a couple to the side of the dress. Charlotte swished from her station, bell-like, toward the dress with a critical eye. “Turn around for me,” she said. She sighed deeply as she noticed the pins in the sides of the dress. “Flora, please do not lose any more weight. You will knock out the balance and the style.”
Flora flushed. “I’m not trying to lose any weight,” she said softly. “It just seems to keep falling off me.”
“You must eat more,” rebuked Charlotte, studying the skirt a little more carefully. She said something to her niece in French, who then bustled off to fetch something from the back room. All three of us stood there, gushing and cooing.
All of a sudden, there was a hard rap on the window of the shop. I looked across, and there, staring in the window, were Ethel and Doris. In Doris’s hand was a newly wrapped wooden spoon with a bow. Charlotte seemed alarmed at being summoned to the door in such a way, and she appeared to swear under her breath in French. In her native tongue, it seemed so much more emphatic. She walked to the door and unlocked it but stood in the doorway.
“Can I help you?” she said in a tone that was as frosty as Jack himself.
Doris didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by this black stick insect with the swinging bell skirt and a wimple. “I’m with them,” she said, pointing at the three of us with her wooden spoon. She then added, with emphasis, “I’m Flora’s wedding coordinator.”
Lavinia took over with her own pleasantries. “Darling Doris, come on in. We’re having a regular party. It’s Flora’s dress fitting.”
Doris bustled in with Ethel following closely behind, leaving Charlotte no choice but to step aside or be knocked down as Doris plowed straight toward the mirrors. She instantly took over, studied the dress Flora was wearing, and said, “What are your other choices? I mean, you’re going to get married in white, aren’t you?”
Flora blinked, caught completely off guard.
“Why, this is white,” I said, tapping Flora’s hand, who looked like she had been shocked dumb.
“Really?” said Doris, peering at the lace. “Then this lace needs a good wash. Maybe it’s been hanging in the back of the shop for who knows how long. You never see a soul in here, so it could’ve been here for years.”
Not to be upstaged, Charlotte swept over and took control. “The lace is Austrian with a hint of cream, and very exclusive. The princess of Denmark had it sewn into her wedding gown. To whom am I speaking?” she asked, sharply.
Not looking up from scrutinizing the dress she said, “you can call me Doris or Mrs. Newberry.”
“I am Charlotte,” she said as she straightened to confront the ballsy woman who had just taken over her shop. Her tone reflected her disgust over the fact that Doris had not even given her the common decency to properly introduce herself.
“So this is your place,” said Doris with a sniff as she glanced around, unimpressed. “I’ve always wondered who it belonged to—anytime I’m here buying my kitchen equipment.” She lifted the wooden spoon as if to emphasize what she’d been doing. “I wouldn’t think you were the owner, as you are dressed”—she looked down at Charlotte’s outfit—“like a shop assistant.”
She then caught a sight of one of Charlotte’s dangly threads and couldn’t help herself. She leaned forward and snapp
ed it off before any of us could stop her. Charlotte opened her mouth in horror, but nothing came out. Doris just smiled and held up the thread. “You had a loose thread,” she said.
Charlotte rushed from the room and started issuing French instructions in a stern tone to Carrie, who was wide-eyed and just as shocked but automatically started following her boss’s orders. She raced into an adjoining room and returned with two gilded gold chairs with black-and-white ticking. She placed them down in the center of the shop, and Charlotte barked at Doris, “You will sit.”
Doris seemed to miss the harsh tone and said, “Thank you.” She and Ethel settled themselves down as Doris shouted at the assistant, “I would love a cup of coffee.”
Charlotte and Carrie continued to pin, mumbling in French as they moved around Flora, who was now looking down at the color with apparent regret. I read her thoughts, stepped behind her, and looked at her in the mirror, reassuring her she looked perfect.
Doris settled herself, taking out her phone to make a call, and Ethel pulled out a bag of sweets and started sucking something to death. They continued to watch Flora as if it were a picnic at the zoo.
Lavinia started moving about the shop, trying on hats. She continued to chat with Charlotte, totally oblivious to the monotone one-word answers she received in return.
“What about this one?” she asked. She’d picked up a bright-red hat with a broad brim that would have looked fabulous on Audrey Hepburn. Grabbing a leopard-patterned jacket from the hanger, she slung it over her shoulder and paraded up and down the store, pretending she was a model on a catwalk. “I love red,” she said as she continued. “I’ve always wanted to be a scarlet woman.”
Lottie, who was looking at lace gloves in a wooden drawer, didn’t look up when she said dryly, “What do you mean ‘wanted to be’?”
Suddenly, the doorbell rang. Everyone looked toward the window. Ruby-Skye was peering in with her hands up to her eyes, trying to look inside.
Charlotte did not look amused by this outburst of odd old ladies descending upon her store, which probably never had more than ten customers a month. She moved slowly to the door and didn’t even ask Ruby who she was. She stood aside with distinct displeasure and bid her to come in.
Ruby was dressed in one of her own zany ensembles: a fire-red jumpsuit with gold trim, green sneakers, and hair woven into a yellow scarf. She had on her usual arm decorations, and huge looped earrings hung from her ears. As I watched the two conversing from the back of the shop, it seemed like some sort of odd, eclectic variety show, with Charlotte’s bell-like swinging and nunlike nodding and Ruby’s musical bangles clashing.
“You must be Charlotte,” said Ruby-Skye, who appeared to be out of breath. She took Charlotte’s hand and shook it powerfully, saying, “I’ve always wanted to meet you. I also have a store. I own the Wool Emporium down the street. We’re both in the same trade. I’ve never managed to make it up to your clothes shop, though. I hear they’re way too expensive.”
Charlotte pulled her hand back from Ruby-Skye as if she were taking it from a bear trap and stared at her with obvious distaste. It was evident by her expression that she didn’t want to be associated with anyone of this caliber. “I think we have very different customers,” she said, swishing back toward her desk. “So I don’t think there’s any way we can compare ourselves to being in the same trade.”
“Wait,” said Ruby, stopping Charlotte in her tracks. I watched with horror as she also leaned forward and snagged another colorful thread from her skirt and handed it to Charlotte, saying, “Don’t worry, I got it.”
Charlotte snatched at it and marched the rest of the way to her desk.
“Why, this is turning into a regular party,” said Lavinia, now adding red pumps to her ensemble. “Charlotte, do you have any music we could boogie to?”
Charlotte looked horrified at the prospect and said, “I have another fitting in twenty minutes.”
Oblivious to Charlotte’s cold inflection, Lavinia approached Ruby-Skye and kissed her on both cheeks. “How did you know we were all here?”
“I called,” said Doris through a mouthful of Ethel’s boiled sweets. “I asked her to come and check out Flora’s dress.”
Ruby-Skye nodded. “So I put a sign on the door, and I ran up here in about ten minutes flat.” She then walked straight up to Flora and took out her glasses to study the dress. Flora looked as if she was beginning to feel like an animal in a cage.
“It does have some cream undertones,” she said thoughtfully. Then she looked up at Flora. “But I think it brings out her complexion beautifully,” she added, staring back again at the dress. “I believe it will do.”
“Mon Dieu!” Charlotte said.
“The problem,” said Doris, “is the light in this pokey shop.”
Charlotte’s eyes hit the ceiling, and she spluttered out a French swear word that she didn’t even try to hide. Then she started to rant at her niece, who was red faced and flushed, pinning one of Flora’s hems. Charlotte continued without even hiding the fact she was talking about Doris, made even more evident by pointing at her. Doris, on the other hand, seemed completely oblivious at Charlotte’s growing frustration. She bounded out of the chair, stood next to Ruby-Skye, and took out her own glasses.
“Yes,” she said decisively. “It’s the lighting in this shop. It doesn’t give you a clear idea of what the final color will be.”
I could see Flora was close to tears, but before I could say anything to defend her, Doris said, “Step closer to the window, Flora.”
Without giving Flora a chance to respond, Doris took her by the elbow and shuffled her toward the door of the shop. Flora obliged her because she didn’t really have any choice, and Doris nearly bowled over Carrie, who was practically still attached to the gown.
“This is very exclusive,” said Charlotte, moving alongside Doris with haste, as if she feared she would make off with her dress with Flora still in it.
“I just want to see it in the light,” snapped Doris. “After all, this is Flora’s big day. It might need a little scrub with some bleach water. I think this will be the time to find out.”
“I think it looks adorable,” Lottie piped up as she tried on an exquisite pair of gloves. “In fact, I believe we should all go in cream accessories to match the bride.”
Charlotte bounded across the length of the shop and squared off with Doris, but Doris pushed her aside as if she were nothing more than a ragdoll. Before anyone could say anything, she opened the door and pulled Flora into the street. I ran to her side—Flora needed to be rescued, and she needed to be rescued now.
“That’s better,” said Doris as she appeared to reevaluate the color.
Suddenly, someone honked their horn, and we all looked around. There, waving at us from the car, was Dan, who had just been driving past. Flora shrieked and ran back in the shop, pulling Doris and Ruby with her, who both still had a firm hold of the dress on either side. She ran straight over Carrie, who had come to join them at the doorway and had just taken hold of the bottom of the dress to straighten a pin. Flora tripped over the top of her, and what followed was a long, tearing sound followed by echoing silence.
Flora detangled herself from Carrie and raced to the back of the store as she burst into tears. All the women froze except me. I made my way to the dressing room, where Flora had fallen into a large lace-and-satin heap in the center of the floor.
I knelt down beside the sobbing girl and said, “Flora, it’s going to be OK. It’s just the hem. I’m sure Charlotte will be able to fix it.”
“It’s not that,” she said, forcibly wiping her tears with the heel of her hand. “Dan just drove by while we were standing outside, and he saw me. He saw me in my wedding dress. That’s bad luck for him to see me before the wedding.” She plunged into tears again, and I rooted a tissue out from my pocket and handed it to her.
“That is superstitious poppycock,” I said. “There’s no one more suited to be together than you an
d Dan, and you’re going to have a very long and happy life together. You just wait and see.”
Chapter 8
A Bump on a Log & Reverend Doris
John sat in the center of the circle of ladies, feeling as out of place as a pork chop at a Jewish wedding. He had arrived at Doris’s ten minutes before, greeted by the short woman with the grumpy expression. Now he found himself seated in the middle of this odd-looking front room on a blue-and-white stripy deck chair, right in the center. He had looked around the room and already forgotten most of their names, and before he could say anything, a plate of what looked like coconut cake and a cup of tea had been thrust into his hand. He didn’t get a chance to tell them he didn’t really like tea or cake, so he just sat there holding them, with everyone all staring at him like a first grader at show-and-tell.
This was not what John had planned. He could feel all of his sharpened streetwise senses being sucked from him as the women wore him down, one sugary smile at a time.
He had never meant to be here: He had been waiting outside Flora’s house to speak to her now that he knew where she lived. He had been smoking under a lamppost, waiting for her to come out so he could confront her with what he knew, when he was accosted by Lavinia Labette, who had been dropping something off at Flora’s for the wedding. In trying to come up with a story, he’d said he was there to talk to Flora about their book club. The next thing he knew, Lavinia had said she was on her way to a meeting, that Flora was probably already there, and, looping her arm in his, had announced that he was welcome to come with her. Not finding a way to back down without lying again, he’d had to come along, hoping to pull Flora aside somehow.
“So,” said Lavinia, pointing her cake fork in his direction, “tell us everything.”
He stared back blankly.
Lottie must have sensed John’s discomfort. “Oh, Lavinia, let the man drink his tea and eat his cake.”
John took up his fork, happy to oblige. This would give him time to think. Who was he? Where was he from? What story was he going to tell them? He looked across at Flora, who was sipping her tea. How would he get her alone?
The Rejected Writers' Christmas Wedding Page 7
