“Okay. Store’s empty. I quickly threw it on. Be honest,” she said, walking into the frame to reveal her long body in a black jumpsuit and white go-go boots that I had set aside for her anniversary date. “So?”
She was a teenager when I hired her part-time on weekends. She was twenty-four now, studying psychology part-time at Tulane, practicing some of her theories on me. She told me I was fear-based and rigid. I told her, while picking up five sugar grains on the glass countertop with the very tip of my index finger, that she sounded a lot like my mother.
She stood now in front of the mirror looking absolutely lovely, head to toe.
“Amazing,” I said.
“You think?”
“I do. You need a Pucci scarf. And pale lipstick,” I said, fetching both. And I was right. We moved towards the full-length mirror behind the door. I stood behind her, my chin on her shoulder. “Yes. A home run.”
“Are you sure I don’t look like a go-go dancer?”
“No! You’re breathtaking.”
“You should be the one wearing this, Dauphine,” she said, squirming. “You put it away for so long, and you have the curves for it. You keep talking about getting back out there. When is that going to happen?”
“I’m fine. And you are almost set,” I said, pulling out a lint brush from a drawer labeled “Lint Brushes.”
“I’ll wear it for the rest of the day, if that’s okay,” she said, while I finished rolling over her legs.
“Yes. Now go. I’ll be out front in a minute.”
As I watched her trip back to the front of the store I felt a maternal flush of pride. In the years I’d known her, I had helped her polish no less than ten online dating profiles, styling her for most of the pictures and some of the dates. Her current boyfriend, Edward, was no dreamboat, but they were clearly smitten with each other. Elizabeth had a vitality about her that she attributed to incredible sex. She and Edward were celebrating one year together with dinner at Coop’s that night, followed by live music on the patio at Commander’s Palace. Elizabeth, with her short blond hair, too-close eyes and gangly limbs, was not traditionally beautiful, yet she was never single for long. Eight-year gaps between serious boyfriends would be unthinkable for her. Life was too short for that kind of nonsense.
I looked at myself in the mirror, loosening the belt of my blue dress. Maybe I should change too. I could try on that green sundress now hanging from a coat rack, waiting to be labeled and stored. I could have Elizabeth pin the hem. Nah, too much trouble, and I’d never wear it anyway. Then why was I keeping it? I forced myself back out to the floor, passing an overstuffed rolling rack of outfits, some to be sorted, some priced. It was a quiet Sunday afternoon, but Elizabeth was occupied with a couple of customers near the display case. As I approached them, I realized she was helping the two women who had been sitting next to me at Ignatius’s, the one who stole Mark Drury from me, and the attractive older woman with red hair a shade or two lighter than mine—the one I had smashed into. The redhead dressed crisply and professionally, like my mother, and didn’t look like the type that scoured second-hand racks. The dark-haired woman dressed a little too plainly to be a Funky Monkey shopper, let alone a musical genius’s future girlfriend.
“There you are!” said Elizabeth, making it difficult for me to duck into the men’s side of the store to avoid them. “These two ladies were gushing about my outfit and I told them you picked it out for my date tonight. They were very impressed.”
“Hi,” said the redhead, her hand jutting towards me. “Great taste. Love the boots. I’m Matilda.”
“Hi. Dauphine,” I said, smiling stiffly.
“And I’m Cassie,” the dark-haired woman said, seeming a lot shier than the woman who had snagged Mark Drury’s attention half an hour ago. She could barely meet my eye.
“It’s a charming store,” Matilda said, looking around. She was definitely the chatty one. “Nicely curated. Secondhand stores can be such a hodge-podge.”
“Thank you. I like to think we know what we’re doing,” I said.
“And your name. Is it like the street?”
“My parents came to New Orleans for their honeymoon and named me after the street.”
“Oh? Where are your people from?” she asked, using the word people as in “tribe,” tilting her accent to signal that she was not only Southern but knew Southerners were obsessed with geography and lineage.
“Baton Rouge. Mostly Louisiana, with some Tennessee stock thrown in.”
“Ah. A bit of ‘cotton in the roux,’ as they say. Cassie’s from the north,” she added. “She has no idea what we’re talking about.”
Matilda yanked out a sparkly blue, floor-length, strapless number and a yellow, more diaphanous gown from the formal rack.
“I’m going to try these on,” she said, looking directly at Cassie. “Cassie, I believe you are looking for something special too. Perhaps Dauphine can help you?”
“I’ll take you back there,” Elizabeth said, gathering up the dresses.
After they left, I stood awkwardly for a few seconds with Cassie, feeling like we were two school kids forced to play together.
“So you’re from the north,” I said.