The Stillwater Girls(42)
“I saw the articles,” he says, “about the girls.”
“Yeah?”
“And I think it’s incredible that you’re taking them in,” he says. “I don’t know that a lot of people would take that on.”
I bite my tongue, keeping myself from telling him that they’re not feral children. As far as anyone can tell, they’re just two young women who grew up isolated from the modern world. Growing up in the wilderness doesn’t make them wild any more than standing in a garage makes me a car.
“Anyway, I’m coming home a day early,” he says, “to help you.”
I haven’t yet told him about the girls being wary of men, and I was hoping to buy some extra time to prepare them, maybe tell them more about him, show them photos and videos.
“You really don’t have to—”
“Nic, it’s already done. I’m leaving first thing in the morning. Should be home by dinner tomorrow night.”
In the distance, I spot rumble strips and a stop sign. I need to give the girls a heads-up.
“Can I call you later?” I ask.
“Of course.”
I end the call and point over the dash. “The car is going to vibrate in a few seconds. It’s nothing to worry about, okay?”
As I press my foot into the brake, we slow to a stop, the car vibrating over the ridges in the road. When I glance into the rearview mirror, the girls don’t seem the least bit fazed. Exhaling, I flick on my right turn signal and silently scold myself for not giving them enough credit.
I don’t know much about them yet and I don’t know what all they’ve endured, but I do know they’re irrepressible little things, fighters in every sense of the word.
A minute later, I’m pulling into a parking spot outside the Jade Boutique on Hancock Drive. Dr. Pettigrew is seated on a painted park bench outside the Victorian house-turned-shop, and she smiles when she sees us.
“Wren, Sage, you remember Dr. Pettigrew,” I say as we climb out.
“It’s so nice to see you again,” the doctor says, tugging her pearl-buttoned cardigan down around her pencil-thin hips. “I’ve spoken to one of the sales associates inside. She’s got a fitting room set up for us, and she’s already pulled a few items.”
Getting two teenage girls complete wardrobes from a privately owned boutique isn’t going to be cheap, but I don’t think these two are exactly mall-ready yet. There’s a Walmart fifteen miles away over in Pearson Township, but even that might be overwhelming with its abundance of fluorescent lighting and never-ending maze of aisles.
Climbing the steps to the front door, I spot a handwritten sign that reads, CLOSED FOR PRIVATE SHOPPING EVENT, just as I’d requested.
Jade Boutique is ready for us. Soft music plays from speakers in the ceiling, and the faint scent of gardenia wafts from a candle centered on a marble-topped console beside a navy velvet settee. Three dressing rooms with white satin curtains for doors flank the left wall, and a cash register resting upon a jewelry display case flanks the right.
There isn’t much to pick from here, and I don’t think teens are Jade’s targeted demographic judging by all the florals, but I have no doubt we can find them enough to get by. And if I can figure out their sizes, I can order a few more things online when we get home.
“Hi there, how are you?” A young woman with a sleek onyx braid down her back, honey-toned skin, and bright fuchsia lipstick struts toward the girls, extending her right hand. “I’m Monica. I’ll be helping you today.”
I’ve shopped here a handful of times before, mostly out of boredom since this place isn’t exactly my style, and never once has Monica greeted me with a handshake. I was worried the locals might give the girls the same cold shoulder they gave me, but maybe I was projecting? Maybe they’ll be embraced with open arms?
The girls glance at her extended hand for an awkward second before Monica quickly retreats. I’m sure Dr. Pettigrew briefed her before we got here, and I’m sure as a Stillwater local, she’s seen and heard all about these girls, but it’s impossible to know which words and concepts and behaviors are foreign and which are familiar to them.
“If you’d like to follow me,” Monica says, turning on her beige Chanel flats, which I’m 99 percent sure are replicas. No one in Stillwater would spend a thousand dollars on shoes no matter how fashion conscious they claim to be. “I’ve pulled a few things for you and hung them in your rooms. If you want to get started, we can see where we’re at size-wise and go from there. Sound good?”
Her voice is high-pitched, and her manicured hands clasp together. I’m not sure if she had way too much coffee this morning or if she’s overcompensating with the friendliness because these two make her nervous; either way, it doesn’t seem to faze the girls, who head straight into their dressing rooms and begin staring at all the clothes on hangers and hooks.
Wren traces her hand over the fabric of a navy gingham dress before inspecting the seams.
“Everything all right?” Dr. Pettigrew asks. “If you don’t like that style, we can find you something else.”
Wren’s pink lips curl. “It’s beautiful.”
Collectively, we release our held breaths, and Monica steps toward them, fussing with the ties on the dressing room curtains.