“Two choices.” She held up one finger. Her fingernail was painted with a tiny ribbon and I thought maybe a blue bird. It was cute. I wondered where she had her nails done. And if they might call her away right now for an emergency appointment.
“Choice one: Walk with me through my shop, and I’ll show you a few things. I’ll let you say no to all of them but three.”
“I only came in here for…it was just one dress…”
“You have never been in my shop.”
“That’s not true.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You have never been in my shop to shop. Handing out flyers for Bertie does not count.”
“Okay. I don’t shop here. But that doesn’t mean—”
“I think what it means is that, for whatever reason, today was the day that you thought you could take some time for yourself. Shop for something nice. I don’t expect this urge to seize you for another decade. So while you are here, while you have the time— ”
I opened my mouth.
“—no matter how short,” she went on, “I am going to make the most of it.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “What’s the second choice?”
“You can go to the dressing room, and let me bring you six things to try on.”
I did the math which was unnecessary since three things I chose was a lot less work than six things she chose.
“One,” I said, holding up my finger.
“Excellent,” she said.
“You came in for the dress. I’m going to guess you already do just fine shopping for jeans and practical shoes and shorts?”
“Yes.” Buying other clothing didn’t bother me, but when I faced dress choices I sort of fell flat.
Myra had always been into dresses. Jean too. I’d followed in my father’s footsteps. Tried to mimic him, fill shoes I was much too young to put on.
Maybe it was that, the power of being in slacks, in pants, in uniform that had kept me away from dresses. Or maybe it was just that because my sisters had taken to dresses so easily, I felt like they’d learned a secret language I’d never figured out.
“There are a few things to have in the closet for when the mood hits you. I know you prefer denim and casual on your days off.”
“Or my running clothes.”
She nodded, her eyes skimming over my body as if she could calculate which things in this shop might be right for me.
“We’re going to start easy and go wild. It should take us ten minutes to pick, then you can try on at least three selections besides the dress. Ready?”
Her eyes were bright, her face a glowy flush. She wasn’t drunk. Gods, even on vacation, had a high tolerance for things like that. She was excited.
“So ready,” I said with zero enthusiasm.
The three items ended up all coming from that circular rack. A sweater in an early morning gray—cashmere, I thought—with just the tiniest hint of beading at the low, open collar. Another dress, this one full length and more loosely structured than my first pick, in browns and greens that reminded me of Tiki heads. Lastly, and to my surprise, a pair of slacks that were high-waisted and so wide-legged they had more material than both the dresses combined.
She waved me toward the dressing room and returned to the main area to turn on music.
I shucked out of my uniform, pulled on the pants and shrugged the sweater over my tank.
They say clothes make the man, but dang, they didn’t do too badly for the woman either. The pants fit like a glove, skimming from the mid-hip to ankle so that they actually showed off less than my old, faded, holey jeans.
I liked them. Much more than I thought I would.
