half a dozen other guys from her recent past.
After a while I came to Fabrications. It was the only boutiquey fabric store in town and it had prices to match, but I loved it, loved going in to wander among the Liberty cottons, to stand in awe before the wall of silks in the back. It was a quiet store, rarely populated by more than one other customer. I’d never bought more than a spool of thread.
From the sidewalk I looked in the window. There was a sleeveless blue dress hanging there, beautifully simple, with a square neckline and a nipped-in waist. The envelope for the pattern had been pinned to one shoulder, a Vogue pattern I’d used once. Through the window I couldn’t really tell what the fabric was like, so I went inside and reached over the display ledge for a touch: it felt like silky tissue paper.
I turned around. The store was empty, not even a salesperson in sight, just bolt after bolt of gorgeous fabric. I breathed in deeply. Places like House of Fabrics and the Sewing Center smelled harsh from all the sizing, all the manmade fibers, but in Fabrications the only smell came from a bowl of potpourri on the counter at the cash register, its contents changed with the seasons. I crossed the store and looked into the bowl. Today it held dried peach pits, sprigs of rosemary, and slivers of a fragrant, spicy wood.
From the back room someone coughed, and I left the counter and approached the silks, columns of them on swinging arms. I found the blue of the dress and reached for the tag: thirty dollars a yard. At that price all I could make was a sash.
Yet I didn’t turn away. The silks were exquisite: shiny satins and shimmering jacquards; colors clearer than cotton could ever be, subtler than wool. A pale gray shadow stripe suggested a coat dress with a notched collar; a brilliant black and red and gold print some kind of fluid pantsuit with a black camisole underneath. Who knew where you’d wear such a thing, it would be enough just to get the fabric home and touch it, work with it, be surrounded by it for a while.
Reluctantly I turned and left the store, the question of what to do next filling me with anxiety. Then I thought of Mike’s brother, scooping ice cream a block farther up the street, and although I had no idea whether he’d be working or not, I headed that way.
It was six o’clock on a weeknight, but the place was jammed—people spoiling their dinners, or maybe having them. John was alone behind the counter, dressed in a blue-and-white striped shirt and a little paper hat, and he smiled when he saw me come in. I took my place at the end of the line and watched him work, admiring how calm he was despite the racket, the voices of all the people ahead of me bouncing off the black-and-white tile floor.
The crowd thinned out and finally it was my turn. “Dinner rush?” I said.
John laughed. “I guess. Personally, the idea of ice cream makes me want to puke.”
“Nice.”
Behind me there was a couple in navy blue business suits, the woman wearing a little scarf that made her look like a flight attendant. I said they could go ahead, and they moved forward and ordered: a single chocolate chip milkshake that John made in a big metal cup, the sound deafening while the ice cream churned. The store smelled of sugar cones, sweet and waffley. He poured the shake into a paper cup, and they paid and left.
Now we were alone, and John blushed a little, looking at me.
“Do I get a free one?”
“Sure.”
“What do you recommend?”
“Bubblegum’s popular.” He pointed at the container: lots of pink bleeding around the gumballs. Next to it was something called Hawaiian Blue, which certainly was.
“Let’s concentrate on the brown family,” I said. “How about Toffee Crunch, how’s that?”
He dipped a tiny plastic spoon into the ice cream and offered it to me.
I tasted it. “Sold.”
“You mean given.”
“Right.”
He scooped the ice cream onto a cone and handed it over the counter.
After a while I came to Fabrications. It was the only boutiquey fabric store in town and it had prices to match, but I loved it, loved going in to wander among the Liberty cottons, to stand in awe before the wall of silks in the back. It was a quiet store, rarely populated by more than one other customer. I’d never bought more than a spool of thread.
From the sidewalk I looked in the window. There was a sleeveless blue dress hanging there, beautifully simple, with a square neckline and a nipped-in waist. The envelope for the pattern had been pinned to one shoulder, a Vogue pattern I’d used once. Through the window I couldn’t really tell what the fabric was like, so I went inside and reached over the display ledge for a touch: it felt like silky tissue paper.
I turned around. The store was empty, not even a salesperson in sight, just bolt after bolt of gorgeous fabric. I breathed in deeply. Places like House of Fabrics and the Sewing Center smelled harsh from all the sizing, all the manmade fibers, but in Fabrications the only smell came from a bowl of potpourri on the counter at the cash register, its contents changed with the seasons. I crossed the store and looked into the bowl. Today it held dried peach pits, sprigs of rosemary, and slivers of a fragrant, spicy wood.
From the back room someone coughed, and I left the counter and approached the silks, columns of them on swinging arms. I found the blue of the dress and reached for the tag: thirty dollars a yard. At that price all I could make was a sash.
Yet I didn’t turn away. The silks were exquisite: shiny satins and shimmering jacquards; colors clearer than cotton could ever be, subtler than wool. A pale gray shadow stripe suggested a coat dress with a notched collar; a brilliant black and red and gold print some kind of fluid pantsuit with a black camisole underneath. Who knew where you’d wear such a thing, it would be enough just to get the fabric home and touch it, work with it, be surrounded by it for a while.
Reluctantly I turned and left the store, the question of what to do next filling me with anxiety. Then I thought of Mike’s brother, scooping ice cream a block farther up the street, and although I had no idea whether he’d be working or not, I headed that way.
It was six o’clock on a weeknight, but the place was jammed—people spoiling their dinners, or maybe having them. John was alone behind the counter, dressed in a blue-and-white striped shirt and a little paper hat, and he smiled when he saw me come in. I took my place at the end of the line and watched him work, admiring how calm he was despite the racket, the voices of all the people ahead of me bouncing off the black-and-white tile floor.
The crowd thinned out and finally it was my turn. “Dinner rush?” I said.
John laughed. “I guess. Personally, the idea of ice cream makes me want to puke.”
“Nice.”
Behind me there was a couple in navy blue business suits, the woman wearing a little scarf that made her look like a flight attendant. I said they could go ahead, and they moved forward and ordered: a single chocolate chip milkshake that John made in a big metal cup, the sound deafening while the ice cream churned. The store smelled of sugar cones, sweet and waffley. He poured the shake into a paper cup, and they paid and left.
Now we were alone, and John blushed a little, looking at me.
“Do I get a free one?”
“Sure.”
“What do you recommend?”
“Bubblegum’s popular.” He pointed at the container: lots of pink bleeding around the gumballs. Next to it was something called Hawaiian Blue, which certainly was.
“Let’s concentrate on the brown family,” I said. “How about Toffee Crunch, how’s that?”
He dipped a tiny plastic spoon into the ice cream and offered it to me.
I tasted it. “Sold.”
“You mean given.”
“Right.”
He scooped the ice cream onto a cone and handed it over the counter.
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