The store is larger than it appears—almost cavernous—with stacked bolts of fabric nearly reaching the ceiling in every direction. And it’s not just the towers of fabric that are surprising—it’s the decor, too. Upholstered chairs are scattered through the store; a few are occupied by customers who are curled up and sketching. This isn’t a business that’s purely transactional, that wants people to hurry in and hurry out. This is a haven for artists. The warm, fluffy feels I typically get when entering a fabric store are multiplied by a million here, and when I spot an overweight cat meandering around, my heart almost gives out completely.
Setting my almost overpowering thoughts of cat cuddles aside, I walk over to a large wooden cutting table that separates the sales floor from what I’m assuming is an office of some kind. I only wait a few moments before a woman emerges, wearing jeans and a white cotton shirt with her curly sandy-blond hair in a ponytail. Her whole appearance would be unassuming were it not for the eyeglasses she has dangling from a golden chain around her neck.
I see you, Chanel.
“Buongiorno,”I offer with a smile that says,please don’t hate me for barely knowing any other Italian phrases.
“Buongiorno,”she replies. “May I help you?”
With my American accent detected and accepted, I breathe a sheepish sigh of relief. “Yes, I’m here to pick up some fabric for Gia Luca Designs.” I hand her the order slip, and she gives it a quick look before gazing up at me.“Un momento,”she says before disappearing into the back room.
Finding it physically impossible to wait without exploring, I’m pulled toward the first bolt of fabric that catches my eye and I run my fingers over its edge. Fabric stores are my happy place. Just like avid readers can wander bookstores and libraries for hours on end, I could happily spend a lifetime losing myself in aisles of fabric. Each bolt is a choose-your-own adventure game. A story waiting to be told. I walk into a store with one idea and walk out with a billion.
Knowing I’ll be leaving in a matter of minutes, I memorize as much of the store as I can, making note of the different sections. Solids, patterned, felts and wools make up most of the front while silks, laces and satins dominate the far wall. Turning to study the wall opposite the cutting table, I find a stack of designer fabrics. Each bolt has a hand-labeled sticker on the end for customers to see. I fleetingly spy Lancetti, André Laug and Versace before the sound of someone coughing pulls me out of my reverie. I whip around and find the saleswoman waiting for me, holding a bolt of bronze silk. I hurry over, and she passes me the material.
“It’s already paid for,” she informs me. Safely cocooning it in my arms the same as I would my Theodore, I run my fingers over the unbelievably soft surface. The cost per yard has to be astronomical.
“Thank you,” I tell her. “And this store is incredible. Really incredible. You know when Julie Andrews spins around, singing in the mountains at the beginning ofTheSound of Music? That’s me in my mind right now. If I could spin and sing in this store, I would.” The saleswoman just looks at me and I’m thinking my fangirling was a bit much for her. Squeaking out a quick, “Sorry,” I turn and beeline it toward the exit. I’m nearly there when I then hear the woman say,“Aspetta.”
Stopping and popping an abrupt U-turn, I find her holding out a fabric square. I walk over and take it even though I have no idea why she’s offering it to me.
“I like to match my customers to the fabrics,” she goes on to say. “This one is you.”
I look down at the square again, seeing that it’s a midnight blue silk charmeuse. It’s featherlight and has just enough shine to look luxurious but still makes sense for everyday wear, even if it isn’t the easiest to maintain. And I know that to anyone else this would just be a piece of fabric, but to me, I’ve never felt more seen.
“Thank you,” I say again, this time meaning it even more.
She gives me a small grin and I leave the store feeling a little off balance. I wonder if it’s typical in Italy for shopkeepers to randomly see into your soul. I’ll have to test that theory when I shop there again on my own time, because there’s no way this is going to be my last visit.
At Gia Luca, I return to find Lorenzo’s office empty. I scan the surrounding area, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Feeling a little useless just standing around, I’m about to go in search of Marco when a passing woman stops beside me.
“Are you looking for Lorenzo?” she asks with a melodic Italian accent.
Still holding his order as carefully as I can, I turn around to face her fully. “Hi! Yes, he sent me on a fabric run, and I’m not sure where I should leave this.”
“I’ll take it,” she tells me. “Lorenzo just went out to lunch so there’s a good chance we won’t see him again until tomorrow.” She flashes me a shrewd smile and I happily return it as I pass her the material.
“Thank you. I’m Violet, by the way. I’m one of the summer interns here from New York.”
“Piacere, Violet. I’m Mira, assistant head of logistics.”
“Piacere,”I tell her.
She looks at the fabric she’s now holding and can’t resist smoothing a finger over it as well. “You must have been to Louisa Tessuti. Tell me, what did you think of it?”
“Honestly, if I wasn’t already interning here, I would have asked for a job application. I think I still might.”
Mira smiles again, and I can tell she must love the store as much as I do. “And there was this woman there,” I go on to say. “I don’t know if she’s the owner or the manager, but she gave me a fabric square she said matches me.”
“That’s Louisa,” Mira replies. “She does that on occasion. Which fabric did you get?”
“A silk charmeuse,” I answer a little shyly.
“Oh, she must like you, then. She doesn’t give the silks to just anyone.”
Is it wrong that hearing that kind of makes my day?
“Well, I’m very honored,” I wind up saying.
