Kind of like my heart, I catch myself thinking. I have to roll my eyes.
I peel my jacket off and hang it on the back of the door with a sigh. I love living here, but sometimes it reminds me of the life I had before—the one with Mark. And while my feelings for him died a swift death long ago, the desire to meet someone to share my life with hasn’t.
Anyway, enough. Just because tonight’s date sucked, doesn’t mean I need to be morose. The next one has to be better.
Right?
3
Ihang the 1950s-inspired dress on the rack, stepping back to admire it. It’s one of my best yet: low sweetheart neckline with a red halter strap, fitted red waistband and a big flared skirt—all done in a navy fabric printed with red cherries. I’ve always loved clothes from this era. They’re just so pretty and fun and feminine.
With a smile, I turn the sign in the door around from “closed” to “open,” and head back behind the counter, taking a long sip of black coffee.
This place has been my haven for eight years now and I can’t imagine doing anything else. I got my first sewing machine at age ten, spending many late nights in the attic of my mom’s Long Island house, one foot rhythmically tapping the pedal, my hands smoothly guiding fabric under the needle. Over the years, I made all my own prom dresses, as well as some for friends. They were always full of life and color.
When Mark and I got together, I was on the cusp of setting up my own store with all my own original designs. I didn’t have a lot of money but I had a dream—and he wanted to support me. Except, he thought that maybe sellingjustmy designs wasn’t a good idea. He convinced me to turn it into a vintage store, with a few of my own designs thrown in. And I didn’t mind too much, because I love vintage stuff almost as much as I love making clothes. That’s why my store is called Loved Again; it’s full of clothes and other items I think deserve a second chance to be loved.
The actual shop is not huge. I’m wedged between a cafe and a barbershop in the East Village, with a single front window and door. The store stretches back from the street, and there’s a staircase that leads to a basement which doubles my shop space, as well as providing some storage. Each wall, both upstairs and down, is lined with racks of clothes, and upstairs a narrow table runs down the center with accessories and other interesting vintage bits and pieces like toys and homewares.
I glance around the store as I sip my coffee, soaking in the silence before the day begins. For the most part the store has done okay, but over the past three months, things have been tough. I made the mistake of trusting a friend to organize a business deal and the shit hit the fan, leaving me in debt.
Anyway, no point dwelling on my stupid mistake. Time to put my game face on, seize the day and all that.
I plug my phone into the sound system, selecting a playlist. Marvin Gaye’sI Heard it Through the Grapevinecomes on and I hum along under my breath.
The door opens with a little ding of the bell and I smile as a couple of twenty-something women enter the store. They look through the racks, occasionally showing pieces to each other, then one of them turns to me, gesturing to the fifties cherry-print dress I just hung on display.
“Do you have any more like this?”
“Yes!” I lead her to a small rack of my dresses by the counter.
“These are so cool,” she murmurs, fingering the fabric of another dress with black and white polka dots. “Who is the designer? Do you know if she does custom orders?”
“Oh,” I say, unable to stop the smile tugging at my lips. “They’re my designs. I could do a custom piece if you like?”
She gives an enthusiastic nod, and I take down her details so we can arrange a time to do her measurements and finalize everything. After she leaves, I lean against the counter, smiling to myself. I haven’t done a custom dress for ages and I’m excited to explore some new ideas. I love making beautiful dresses like these, even if I don’t wear them anymore.
I pull one of my dresses out and hold it up over my frame, turning to look at my reflection in a full-length mirror. At five-foot-three I’m short, but I’m not petite. I’ve got curves, though I do my best to stay in shape with the gym and yoga. I’ve been dying my naturally dirty-blond hair gray-blond for the past few years, keeping it cut to chin-length. I used to dye it funky colors—and wear more of my own designs—but that’s just not practical anymore. Most of the time I wear a black tank top, black jeans, and combat boots—or if I’m going on a date, a sexy little black dress. I seem to only have two modes: work and date.
Etta James’sSomething’s Got a Hold on Mecomes on over the speakers and my mouth twitches into a smile as I place the dress back. This kind of music makes me happy.
“Morning,” Hayley says, breezing into the store. She’s my part-timer, and she’s fantastic. She loves the store like it’s her own, she’s flexible with her hours, and she hates Mark almost as much as I do—a fact I’m reminded of later that day, when Mark shows up.
“Ugh, I didn’t knowhewas dropping by,” she mutters, peering out the front window along the street. She’s spent most of the day creating a new window display, but now she’s hurrying toward the stairs. “I’ll be pricing stock in the basement if you need me.”
I turn back to the front door just as Stevie comes trotting in, her leash trailing behind. It’s silly, but Mark and I share custody of this little pug. We got her when we were married, and neither of us wanted to give her up.
Actually, I think, as I scoop to pick up her warm body and nuzzle her fur, she was the one good thing to come out of that marriage.
“Hey,” Mark says, sidling over.
I glance at him over Stevie, holding her protectively against my chest. Mark is wearing his usual dark ripped jeans and tee, silver chain around his neck, mermaid tattoo on his forearm. He’s tall and lean, with dark mussed hair and gray eyes, a stubbly jaw. Some days I look at him and remember the man I used to make love to, planning our future together. Other days I look at him and am filled with rage for all the hurt he’s caused me.
“Hi.” I place Stevie down on her little pillow behind the counter.
“Do you have a minute?” Mark scratches his chin. “I need to chat with you about something.”
I frown. Mark hates to talk. This can’t be good.
