And while she waited for that flawless strategy to pay off, she had Rae. Which, shockingly, wasn’t turning out to be a total disaster.
Earlier that morning, she’d pitched her latest plan to George during the drive into town. She’d called it Operation Small-Town Chic Club—left out the part about it secretly being a friendship club for the town’s most delightful weirdos.
“We’re talking transformation,” she’d said, waving a perfectly manicured hand. “Not just fashion. Confidence. Presence.”
George had grunted something about not owning anything that required presence. But he hadn’t said no.And that was enough to bump the idea from casual fantasy to officially happening.
Now, inside Threads, Frankie glanced back at Rae, who stood near the door with her shoulders hunched and her strategy dialed to full-onplease don’t make this worse.
“You’ve been here before, right?” Frankie asked.
Rae tugged at the sleeves of her oversized hoodie. “Yeah. Mom shops here sometimes, but there’s never anything in my size. She says I’ll grow into it.”
Frankie smiled tightly. “Today’s lesson: We don’t settle for ‘good enough.’ We find things that fit.” She hesitated, then added, “Or we make them fit. Because life isn’t about everything falling perfectly into place. It’s about learning to pivot. In fashion. In jobs. In men.” She arched a brow. “Especially men.”
Rae snorted. A soft, startled sound like her sense of humor had slipped out by accident.
As they moved deeper into the store, a voice rang out from behind a rack of sequined scarves.
“A treasure hunt, you say? Count me in!”
Frankie turned, startled, as a woman appeared. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, with hair piled into a neon-pink beehive, a brocade jacket, and striped wide-leg pants. Like a time traveler from the 1970s who’d raided David Bowie’s closet, survived disco, and emerged victorious.
“You must be Francesca B,” the woman said, flashing a grin. “The runaway heiress. Gi Gi’s Crossing is buzzing about you.”
Frankie arched a brow. “You’ve heard about me?” She smirked. “Let me guess, just the PG version made the rounds. If the gossip didn’t include the part where my shoes are to die for, I want a rewrite.”
The woman laughed, clearly delighted. “Oh, your shoes made the top of the list. Right after your mysterious arrival and the rumor you once dated a deposed prince.”
“It was not my fault the prince was deposed. I simply suggested the monarchy needed a makeover.”
“Well. If that’s the energy you’re bringing, I already know I like you.” The woman stuck out her hand. “Evelyn Willow. Temporary ruler of Threads.”
“Temporary?” Frankie asked, shaking her hand.
“Grandmother left this morning to gallivant around the Mediterranean. I’m holding down the fort.” She turned to Rae with an easy smile. “And who’s this?”
“Rae,” Frankie said, nudging her forward. “We’re here to find her some clothes that fit and maybe feel like her.”
Evelyn’s grin widened. “You’re in the right place. Carry on with your treasure hunt and let me know if you want a second opinion.”
Rae didn’t say anything but brushed her fingers along the edge of a floral skirt like it might bite.
“Thank you,” Frankie replied to Evelyn, before steering Rae toward a rack of jeans. “Rule number one: Ignore price tags. Look for quality first. Then check the price. But never let a number tell you your worth.” She paused, then added, “Or a man.”
Rae hesitated, lifting a pair of worn jeans. “What about these?”
Frankie assessed the stitching. “Not bad. They’ll be too long, but we can fix that.”
As Rae rifled through a nearby rack, Frankie clocked Evelyn flipping through scarves, her outfit still blaring neon-chic confidence.
Frankie leaned in. “See Evelyn?”
Rae glanced over warily.
“She’s not wearing what everyone else wears. She’s wearing what she wants. Her style doesn’t have to work for anyone but her.”
Naked Runway’s guest columnist, Sophia E, had once said something similar in her column, Confessions of a Professional Daydreamer, except with metaphors and a fairy godmother reference.
