What did her mother think about in those last moments? Was it panic; was it regret? Did her mother think of her?Or did she not think at all?
For Taylor’s whole life, before her fateful conversation with Aunt Gigi, it had never occurred to her that her mother might nothave even registered the fire. That she might have been in a drugged stupor.
Her mother, it turns out, was one of the lost girls.
The evidence had been there, all along, contained in the photo of her mom in the Boston bar. When Taylor finally really examined it, looking past the mirage of who she thought her mother had been, she saw the uneven hem on her mother’s cream jacket, the sleeve button falling off. The subtle rip in her mother’s hose. Her too-skinny frame.
Taylor exhales slowly. “It’s a weird thing to realize someone was not who you thought they were,” she says.
“I bet.”
She turns to him. “But it’s shaped me, you know? Like, maybe I wouldn’t be the person I am today if I knew the truth all along. Maybe…”Maybe I wouldn’t have been so materialistic, so drawn to wealth. But is she materialistic? Or is it that she’s naturally into fashion, like Vivian said?
Taylor’s been mulling over this question as of late, and the more she thinks about Vivian’s assessment of her, the more it niggles at her. Perhaps Vivian’s view is skewed. After all, it seems to Taylor that people with money like to make desire out to be somehow more elevated, refined—an upper-class rebranding of want.
Why can’t want just be want—and called like it is?
“I really don’t like my job at the med spa,” she suddenly admits, feeling all kinds of raw. “I thought I would, but I don’t.”
“You going to do something about it?” Sam shifts the Red Sox hat on his head.
“Well, I need a job, so no, not right now.”
“You’re young; you’ll figure it out. Or maybe you won’t, and that’s okay, too.”
“I know I like fashion.” It feels good to say it, out loud—thewant. But then she frowns. Is it fashion she likes, or is it everything it represents? It’s not really about the clothes themselves—it’s more about who wears them and the places they get to wear them, isn’t it?
Her phone buzzes, and when she sees who’s calling, heat immediately rises to her cheeks. She silences it, sending the caller to voicemail. She glances up at Sam, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“I know you like fashion. You’re good at it, too,” he replies, scratching his head beneath the hat. “Just keep at it, slow and steady; that’s how I built my career.”
“Thanks,” she replies, almost curtly. She’s annoyed by his response, but she can’t pinpoint why.
“Hey, you wanna talk about…” He gestures in front of them.
She stares hard at the basement windows, as if doing so will unlock some secret. Her tears have long dried. After a while, she gives up, shrugs. “I don’t think there’s anything to say.”
“Well, you didn’t get claustrophobic and pass out, so that’s something.”
She laughs. “True. Maybe the Knox fire cured me.”
“Nah. You cured you.”
They start walking back down the street, and her phone buzzes again, this time with a voicemail notification.
It was a chance encounter when Taylor ran into Peter outside the Knox a few weeks ago. She’d gone by, curious about the status of construction, now nearly complete. Peter had looked so dapper, standing on the sidewalk clutching a set of architectural plans, dressed in a fine Italian designer wool pea coat, a light stubble on his cheeks.
“Taylor!” he’d said, with surprise. “It’s nice to see you.” He’d just returned to town, “fresh out of another stint in rehab,” he admitted, somewhat sheepishly, and that vulnerability had felt toher like an invitation, a door slowly being opened. They stayed on the sidewalk chatting for forty minutes, until it had become obvious that although convention dictated they should bid each other goodbye, they weren’t ready to.
So, ever since, they’ve been in touch—and not just over the phone. Her heart quickens as she recalls the last time she saw him: the half-drunk bottle of expensive Barolo at the bedside, the crown of Peter’s head moving slowly down her navel, the 600-thread count Egyptian sheets rippling beneath them like the Nile.
Damn, those bedsheets deserve their sticker price.
The Knox is hiring; we’ve got a lot of roles to fill. Are you interested?Peter asked her the other day. He’s calling to follow up; she owes him an answer.
But Taylor doesn’t have one yet.
As she and Sam reach the end of the street, Sam pauses to check his watch. “Hey, want to grab a croissant at Ly’s Pastry Shoppe? I think it’s still open. My treat?”
