The Second Chance Boutique

by Louisa Leaman

  “It was his partner, Mr. Garrett,” rushes Fran, unable to help herself. “The infamous undoing of a ’50s fashion house, how an intense rivalry provoked the premature end of one of the greatest design duos of the era…supposedly.”

  “There we are. That’s your version, Francesca, but I’m mostly interested in your friend’s.”

  Rafael frowns. He hates the feeling that he has been lured into a corner. He takes a slow, purposeful breath, bunches his shoulders, looks Fabian in the eye, but says nothing.

  “Very well. Francesca, you know the public story but not the real story. The world was told that my father had his hands maimed by a pair of hired thugs at the behest of his partner, Monsieur Benjamin Garrett—apparently the result of some petty argument over a dress design. It was quite a scandal at the time. The headlines spread as far as New York, where my father’s dresses had been much admired. Now it is just the padding of history, of interest only to you and I, but still…there is no price that can be placed on the truth, and between us alone, I think we can now take the trouble to, shall we say, raise the stakes.”

  Rafael holds his nerve. He knows what is coming.

  “Your grandfather Samuel didn’t like the gossip about him,” says Fabian. “In fashion, we are well connected with what is going on in the lives of our clients and their worlds. Gilles overheard plenty about Samuel and his associations with other women and everything he heard he shared with Janice. I suppose for a man of your grandfather’s status, it can’t have been easy to discover his new bride had knowledge of his infidelities and, worse, was freely confiding about them—with her dressmaker no less. I believe your grandfather’s reputation as an upstanding Englishman was deeply important to him—more important, in fact, than another man’s future. Your grandfather, Monsieur Colt, he was responsible for Gilles’s injuries. When he learned of Janice and Gilles’s confidences, and the risk it posed to his reputation, he arranged for the thugs to break each of Gilles’s fingers. To warn him off. And it certainly worked. Gilles cut ties with Janice and never designed again. No more dresses. No more Garrett-Alexia. So,” he says, drawing breath, “this wedding dress we’re all so fascinated by, its power surpassed mere weddings. It brought down a fashion house.”

  Fran sits motionless, unsure what to do with the pink champagne fizzing in her glass. She looks to Rafael, to see his reaction, but his expression is cold. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t rise up, doesn’t try to deny it.

  “I was told all of this by my mother,” says Fabian. “Wait.” He slips away for a moment, then returns with two letters, hands them to Fran. “I have kept these ever since she passed,” he explains. “She wanted me to understand what really happened to her brilliant husband. I think she hoped I might right the wrong. She was quite a bitter woman, but I suppose she had reason to be. She’d seen their prospects, their glittering future snatched away. They lived in poverty after Garrett-Alexia collapsed.”

  Fran takes one of the letters, its old paper scented with age. She opens it and reads.

  18th March 1958

  My dear Gio,

  Please tell me the dress is ready. I am so thrilled at the thought of it, although, as per our previous conversation, I fear Sammy is not being true again. He goes out at the most inexplicable hours and guess what? I found a set of feminine gloves (not mine) in his drawer, which is rather upsetting, if not surprising. But I do wish to be married and secured in society, so despite your kind advice, I have decided I will continue to put up with the nonsense and can only hope that a dress of such beauty, as you are creating for me, will be enough to turn his head my way, or at the very least, distract the society cats from their bait. Dear Gio, am I a fool? I hope not. Anyway, thank you for your loyal friendship and for being the very best couturier in the world. I shall be the envy of London thanks to your genius. Until May.

  Forever,

  J

  22nd December 1961

  My dear Gio,

  Please let me know that you are well. I write and write, and you never reply. I miss our chats. I have no real friend in the world now that you shun my letters. Sammy is an awful pig, you know. I had hoped that once we were married, he would change, but lesson learned. He has no interest in me whatsoever, yet I am routinely forced to play along and do the tedious doting-wife act when it suits him. I hate it, and I’m never allowed any fun. Dear Gio, save me like you used to. It’s all so cruel and unfair. I do wish you would find the courage to design again. I hear that your hands are healing well. One day I will need a trousseau for my daughter-in-law. That’s right. I now have a baby son—one good thing in my life. He was born last week and I have named him Lyle. He is a Colt through and through, poor mite. I miss you terribly and, as ever, am sorry, very sorry for any inconvenience you may have suffered.

  Forever,

  J

  Fran folds the letters and passes them to Rafael. Her soul feels cold. No wonder the dress has such conflicting whispers. Designed with hope, made with passion, only to be reduced to a wasteful, dispiriting cloak of deceit within a sham of true love.

  “It takes a special level of narcissism, no?” says Fabian. “I get the feeling Janice looked upon my father as her pet, there for her own amusement, someone to whine to, someone to dress her up in pretty fabrics and prime her for society. She talks of the ‘inconvenience’ in many other letters, as though it is mere trivia to her.”

  He sighs, shakes his head. “If Gilles had only stuck with dresses, just made dresses like he was born to and not played into her vanity. I suspect your grandfather gave quite a few bribes to the authorities to make sure the truth of his barbaric act was buried. The papers of course blamed Benjamin Garrett, who also died in poverty. Who are we though, we Garretts? We Alexias? Mere fashion men. But you Colts, you’re philanthropists. In name at least.”

  “Do you want something from me?” says Rafael coldly. “Is that what this is about?”

  “No,” says Fabian, raising his champagne glass.

  “Are you planning to take this to the press?”

  “I don’t deal with the press, my friend, unless it is about fashion week. I only want you to understand. I don’t hold you responsible. It happened sixty years ago, long before you were even an idea. But, like I said, falsity is damaging. I no longer want to live my life smoldering in anger about the lies of history. I have watched the growth of your foundation with interest, and it seems that you, at least, have gone on to do great things in your family’s name—a true giver, in spite of, or perhaps because of, your ancestry. As for me, I’ve built my own empire. If it had simply been handed to me, maybe I would not feel so satisfied. To learn that the wedding dress is still around, however…this reopens the wound. I wonder if seeing it might somehow be healing, but I don’t know. For now, at least, I will shake your hand if I may and leave the ghosts in the dust.” He holds his hand out to Rafael.

  Fran watches in silence, unsure what Rafael will do. A moment passes, then seconds. Please, she wills him. Take this chance, smooth the jagged edges, face the truth that hurts, and let it go.

  He remains stony, hard-faced, his lower jaw grinding into his top, but then she notices a single, silent tear trickling down his cheek. He accepts Fabian’s hand. The shake turns into an embrace and the air all around them fills with peace.

  * * *

  They escape to the green relief of the Jardin des Tuileries, where the wide gravel promenades are bathed in evening light and the lawns are lush with grass. Every turn seems to be crowned with a fountain or statue, while under the shade of aging elms, friends mingle at outdoor cafés, sipping citron presses and tiny cups of Pernod.

  Rafael pulls Fran toward him in a low-slung embrace and they amble toward the octagonal pond.

  “I feel a hundred pounds lighter,” he says, checking his hands and feet as if to work out where all the weight came off. “Fabian Alexia had incredible dignity, don’t you thi
nk?” Suddenly he breaks away, runs toward the pond, and flings his body into the water, laughs like he’s a child again.

  Fran watches, isn’t quite sure what to make of it. This is certainly a side of him she hasn’t seen before, but he is happy, and this makes her happy. He runs back to her, grinning, almost feverish.

  “Don’t you see? This changes so much, Fran. I don’t have to feel guilty anymore. I don’t have to be beholden to the vile fuckups of my deceased relatives. I’ve made peace with the one person I needed to. The rest of the world can go to hell.”

  Fran smiles. “I’m so glad for you,” she says, “but I have one question…did you know?”

  “The story—one of many—has dogged our family for years, all hush-hush of course. I never heard it directly, only in whispers. One of those Colt family things…everyone knew, but pretended they didn’t.” With Fran at his side, the numbness he has carried in his heart starts to lift. His thoughts uncurl, and the more they uncurl, the more they urge to be released.

  “All your daydreams about dead grooms and the good old days, Fran, when people were so polite and respectful and charming, maybe now you see it wasn’t so rosy. Arguably Lyle and Samuel were two of the most illustrious dead grooms you could ever imagine. Their philanthropy meant they were revered, untouchable. But behind closed doors, you know what? They used their vanity and their power to control everyone around them, and they had no respect whatsoever for the sanctity of their marriage vows.”

  He bows his head, tries to calm his racing mind. “Have you any idea what it’s like to watch your own mother waste away in isolation? It was no wonder she lost the power to speak. She was tormented. He treated her like a stupid, worthless fool. They all did—my father, my grandfather, even Janice, when she wasn’t drunk out of her head, shouting at staff, throwing chairs in the lake. As for your wedding dress—their wedding dress—it’s nothing but vile to me. Why do you think I wanted nothing to do with it? It wasn’t an icon. It was a prison sentence.”

  He has never before said so much to anyone. He feels raw, exposed, vulnerable. The sense of it shocks him.

  Fran cups her hand over his, lets him talk.

  “You know, I could never understand why my father, a man who gave so much to society, could have nothing for his wife,” he says. “She was like an outcast to him. Occasionally he’d pull me aside and tell me to keep an eye on her, but that was the most care he ever showed. His priorities were always elsewhere, like Samuel.”

  “In the genes,” says Fran quietly.

  “My father traveled a lot—‘a girl in every port,’ as the saying goes.”

  “Why did he stay married to her?”

  “Guilt, I imagine. And to keep up appearances.”

  Fran lowers her eyelids. Poor Alessandra. Did she sense it, she wonders, that evening, trying on the dress? Did she fear it coming, the heartache, the betrayal, her life and freedoms squeezing down to nothing? Is that why she punched the mirror? “I have to wonder why she went through with the wedding. She could have backed out, ditched him at the altar. I mean, it’s a pretty low blow, but under the circumstances, I would understand.” She feels his hand tense beneath hers.

  “He gave her no choice,” he says grimly. “She was pregnant.”

  “Oh.” Fran ponders the altered hem of the dress, its expanded waistline.

  “My grandparents didn’t want the scandal of an illegitimate child,” Rafael explains. “They were still frantically trying to cover their own indiscretions.”

  “Lots of brides find themselves accidently pregnant on their wedding day,” says Fran reassuringly. “It happens.”

  “No, Fran. This wasn’t an accident.”

  His eyes glaze with tears. “They met at some weekend jolly in the country. Her father was an Italian shipping magnate. She was only nineteen, shy and naive, fresh from finishing school. Her English was shaky. I imagine he charmed her, like he charmed everyone. He charmed her…and then he forced himself on her.”

  Fran gasps.

  “I, Rafael Colt, am the product of a rape. There you go. How’s that for a headline?” He looks up at the sky, blinks away tears, then looks back at Fran. “So now you know.”

  “Oh, Raf,” says Fran. “I’m sorry. No wonder you were so skeptical about marriage, so afraid to let anyone in.”

  “‘Were’?” says Rafael quizzically.

  “It’s not set in stone. People can change.”

  “Maybe,” he says, sighing.

  He pulls Fran toward him. She sinks into his arms and they remain that way, silent and still, unnerved and elated, the sun setting around them. Unaware of the synchrony of their minds, they both dare to start thinking about the possibilities, a future together—a future that suddenly seems uncannily obvious now that they have shared this truth, chased it into the open, raw and unedited. When they finally return to the moment, it is as if both their worlds have changed.

  “I meant what I said to Janey, you know,” Rafael whispers, “that I’m falling in love with you. It’s real. Ever since I saw you.”

  “Saw me?”

  “Never mind. Don’t talk, just kiss.”

  Fran obliges, her stomach fluttering, captivated, in his arms. He has faced his demons and is ready to love. She feels it. Aches for it. Dare she say it too? She shuts her eyes, braces herself.

  “I—I think I’m falling in love with you too.” The words rush out of her, make her feel exhilarated, alive—and exposed.

  Beneath the shade of a nearby willow tree, they lie down together, arms entwined, faces close, the boughs cloaking them in their leafy dome. The air is warm and sweet, vibrant with the sounds of crickets and song thrushes. Nature, thinks Fran, is the only thing that matters more than love. Just them and the earth. It is perfect.

  He holds her gaze, leans toward her, kisses her slow.

  The breath leaves her body, circles up to the treetops. She feels light and suspended, caught in the bliss of the kiss she has wanted all her life, the Prince Charming kiss.

  He shakes out her neat pin rolls, sets free that glossy mane of auburn waves.

  She loves his scent—musk and spice—and the shape of his shoulders, the way his arms surround her. Her heart beats hard as he runs his hands through the folds of her dress, finds a passageway to the skin beneath.

  The emerald satin of her dress ripples and settles, gathers between her legs. She feels his hand against the inside of her thigh and a volt of pleasure shoots through her soul, ignites the desire she had all but forgotten. She wants it to hasten, but then also, to take forever. Each touch, each kiss fuels the fervor. They are mere meters from one of the busiest streets in Paris, but no one would know, hidden inside their own secret sphere, the willow fronds forming a gracious veil all around them.

  Oblivious to the world, they strip to their skin, consumed by the urge to feel more keenly the realness of each other. It has been long, so long, since either of them has felt such honest, sensuous physical connection. He traces a finger down her neck, draws teasing circles on her breasts. Her whole body arcs, and she takes his erection in her hands, kisses him deep, then kneels to straddle him, and takes him inside her. He throws his head back, shuts his eyes, and sighs. They make love in perfect synchrony, the breeze unsettling their willowy veil, then rest in each other’s arms, silent and still, both paying respect to the peculiar fortune that has somehow, through the tracks of their distant and different lives, brought them together, brought them to this moment—as though it were meant to be.

  * * *

  They spend the night in the Hôtel de Crillon, an eighteenth-century mansion where Queen Marie Antoinette once took piano lessons, now an homage to luxury travel design. Inside a sumptuous bedroom with a vast Carrara marble bathroom, they talk little, sleep little, kiss lots. Their passing dreams are peppered with scenes of the days’ intimacy, while their tired minds process the sh
ift in them. Stunned that the tendrils of romance could burrow so deeply, flower so tantalizingly, Rafael turns over in the sheets. Fran, never believing she could do it again—give herself away so completely to another—murmurs with restless astonishment. Two locked-out souls on their way back to the most primal emotion in the universe.

  In the morning, the shuttered sunlight lures them into the day. When Rafael goes to the bathroom, Fran, unable to contain herself, takes the chance to bounce up and down on the canopied bed, to indulge its plush layers of feather and silk. She has never seen an interior of such splendor before, never stayed in a hotel that has more staff than guests. Spellbound by the lavishness, she doesn’t notice that Rafael sees her through the door.

  The sight of her untamed playfulness brings him to confront the many other women he has known in his life—the disastrous infatuations of his youth, the one he proposed to then betrayed, the one who betrayed him, the one who wouldn’t leave him alone, plus all those liberated types from Seekers, whose faces blend into one, with their boozy, no-strings one-night stands and clumpy mascara. Of the women he seriously dated, only two were “approved” by his father, who’d never been shy about expressing his marital expectations for Rafael, or making it plain that the prospect had to be proper, preferably blue-blooded. But they were so dull, those women, so preoccupied with their wish to be seen in the right way, in the right place, with the right person. So unnatural. Fran is altogether different. She is potent.

  He pushes the door open, and Fran, blushing and giggling, shovels herself back under the covers, pretends she’s been lying there all along.

  “We could stay another night,” he offers. “I have a few meetings on Monday, but I’ll call Mimi, get her to postpone.”