Mary
“What the heck?” Kyle asks. “That’s… It doesn’t seem like a compliment. That’s some extra-special shade.”
It only takes a minute for my memory to click, and I chuckle. “Oh, I know who this is from… kind of. She sent me an email last week to say she’d just discovered me, and even though I’m not her usual style, she thinks my designs are ‘pretty.’ It was the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever gotten.”
Our amazing receptionist shakes his head. “And now she felt the need to send a card to say what basically amounts to ‘good job trying’? People are so strange.”
I shrug. “Some people don’t realize their input isn’t always needed. It’s like when someone asks for a stir-fry recipe on social media and gets a bunch of comments that say, ‘I don’t eat stir-fry.’”
Kyle’s snort-laugh is a thing of beauty. “So you think this woman is the real-life equivalent of an inability to keep scrolling?”
“Pretty much. I probably shouldn’t have replied with a thank-you to her email. Now she feels like we have a connection.” I move to toss the card in the trash, but Kyle snags it from my hand.
“I’m keeping this. It’s a reminder of the arrogance of humanity. And it made me laugh.”
Chuckling, I wave him off. “Whatever you want.”
Once he’s gone, I give in to temptation and grab my phone again. Griff’s replied, and I open the message with trepidation, hoping I won’t need to apologizeagain.
haha yeah, I do. That kind of partly conditional love is nice.
Relief floods me—he didn’t take my message the wrong way. Then his words sink in.
*Partly* conditional? Aren’t dogs supposed to love unconditionally?
Whoever said that never met Vivi.
Just kidding. Aside from one or two things she gets mad about, the rest of the time she adores me.
Grinning, I lean back in my chair and think about my response. I’m not completely sure, since I’m so bad at it, but I think Griff might be flirting with me? Not in a “let’s find a dark corner and fuck” way, though. More like friendly flirting.
Either way, it’s fun.
I’m stillin an incredibly good mood when Pamela McLaren sweeps into the fitting room several hours later, a wryly smiling Calla in her wake.
“There you are, Phil,” Pamela declares in her quietly authoritative way.
I’m not sure where else she expected me to be, but I just smile and move forward to exchange air-kisses, which I learned the hard way she prefers over a handshake.
“Hello, Pamela. It’s good to see you.” The words come easily, which is a relief but not a surprise. Pamela might know what she wants and expect to get it, but she’s not aggressive or stressful. It helps a lot that she’s been very clear about how much she likes my work.
“And you, darling. I know today is only the toile, but I’ve still been looking forward to it.”
“We have your fabric here too,” I tell her. “You’re going to love it—Calla worked miracles to get it.”
Pamela raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow, and I marvel again at the talent of whoever does her Botox. There aren’t any lines where there should be lines on a person her age, but she still has great mobility in her features. When I finish this dress for her, I’m asking for a card, just in case. “It doesn’t surprise me that Calla is capable of miracles. I see a lot of myself in her.”
She turns and heads for the private dressing area, and Calla pretends to swoon. She’s grinning, though.
Thirty minutes later, Heidi, our head seamstress, sits back on her heels. “That’s better.”
I study the hemline again and nod. “Yes, I like that length a lot more on you, Pamela.”
The McLaren matriarch gazes into the mirror with a critical eye, turning slightly to see how the dress moves. She’s an old hand at this, and it shows.
Finally, she smiles. “Yes, this is excellent. It’s very romantic, but still age appropriate.” My thoughts must show on my face, because she chuckles. “Ah, you’re one of those people who doesn’t believe age should restrict clothing choices.”
“I want you to feel beautiful, whatever you wear,” I reply, aiming for diplomacy.
