Window Shopping(10)

This is a huge chance.

I can’t help but feel undeserving, but starting now, I’m going to do everything I can to change that. I’m going to design the shit out of this window. First, I’m going to try not to throw up from nerves. Second, I’m going to draw on the knowledge I’ve managed to retain from three years of online classes and combine it with the new insight I gained last night while devouring design and marketing strategies on the internet. There have been a lot of changes in technique since I studied the art of showcasing products, but the basics are the same.

Step one: cover the window for some privacy.

It takes me twenty minutes to tape up the opaque paper with the use of a stepping stool. When I arrived after my tour with HR, my sketches were waiting for me in the tight window display space and Aiden’s scent lingered in the air. Zingy peppermint. He even smells cheerful. It’s almost fascinating.

Right. I’m blaming the weak knees he gave me yesterday on fascination. I can only imagine what my best friend Nicole would say if she knew about my left field attraction to Aiden, the polar opposite of the rebellious hellraisers whose names I used to doodle in the margins of my school notebooks.

The wayward musing about my best friend clips me on the chin, forcing me to pause in the act of tidying up the scraps of discarded paper. Suddenly she’s there, with her quick, tight-lipped smile and tan Italian complexion. Nicole is still incarcerated and will be for a while longer. Since the trial, our only communication has been through handwritten letters—and they were few and far between. We grew up together, shared everything, so the total lack of communication hasn’t been easy. I had to set a boundary, though. That’s what Dr. Skinner called it. I don’t blame Nicole for everything that happened. God, no. Ultimately, my decisions are what got me in trouble. But I can’t pretend like I didn’t get a swift push off the high wire, leaving me without a safety net.

Shaking my head to rid myself of the cobwebs of the past, I leave the window space and travel through a small storage room. And I enter the main floor of Vivant.

Cardamom and vanilla scents find me immediately, beckoning me forward with the promise of holiday luxury. Pentatonix sings about the twelve days of Christmas at the ideal volume. Not loud enough to be abrasive, but not too quiet that gossip might be overheard. Big, dramatic, original crown molding draws the eye to the ceiling, then softens the blow with properly worn art deco style wallpaper in cream and mint, offset by big, beautiful garlands made up of pine, holly, red ribbon, twinkling lights and pinecones.

It’s early, so there are no customers in the store yet, but the head of every single employee turns in my direction as I cross the thick mauve carpeting that runs between two crystal clear jewelry cases. In a skull and crossbones sweater, bangs halfway into my eyes and a giant rip in the knee of my wool tights, I am not what they were expecting.

My palms start to sweat with the need to explain myself. Or to lead with an apology.

Hi. Sorry, I’m Stella.

But then I think about the designs I spent every waking moment creating over the weekend. My theme is new beginnings. What if this is mine? What if this is really happening and I have miraculously been employed as a window dresser at Vivant? Don’t I want to start off the right way, in a manner I won’t cringe over later?

Yes. I do.

I reach the center of the floor where several main floor employees are gathered having a murmured conversation that somehow blends in seamlessly with the winsome a cappella soundtrack.

“Hi. Sorry, I’m Stella.”

Dammit.

The pack of them, impeccable in black pantsuits and gleaming gold name tags, seem to turn to me in slow motion. Once-overs all around. A few eyebrows raise. And then the most graceful of their ranks steps forward with a deliberate smile and holds out her hand. “Sorry, I’m Jordyn. I manage the main floor.” She winks a brown eye. “Welcome to Vivant.”

“Thank you,” I breathe, shaking her hand, my nausea subsiding ever so slightly. “I know we’re about to open and you’re busy, but I’m wondering if I could…” I gesture to the expanse of carpeted space where we’re standing. “This might be unusual, but I’m wondering if you’d be open to having a dress displayed here starting Saturday. I’m going to feature a certain dress in the window and when people walk inside, I want them to see it immediately along with some…direction on where they can find it in the store.”

The group of women behind Jordyn duck their heads together, whispering.

I try and keep my chin steady.

“We’ve never done that before,” Jordyn says slowly, but not dismissively. Yet. “Let’s walk.” I nod, following her to the perfume section where the vanilla and cardamom scent is strongest. “Keep talking.”

“Thanks.” I try to choose my words carefully, searching for a tasteful way to express what I’ve been reading all weekend in the Yelp reviews about Vivant. “Jordyn, do you have a lot of people walk in here and walk right back out?”

There’s a tick in her smooth, bronze cheek. “More than I would care to admit.”

“Okay. I think a lot of that might be the fault of the misleading window displays. Hopefully we can change that.” I don’t even have to call on my fashion merchandising lessons, they’re so deeply engraved on my brain. I’ve been mentally crafting windows for four years without a single tool in hand. Even though I’m nervous, getting to say these words out loud is like unbuttoning jeans after a huge meal. I can finally breathe, but I’m also short on air. “If we are able to bring people into the store with whatever I design, we need to leave a trail of breadcrumbs so they can find what brought them in here in the first place. That’s why I’m asking about the dress display.”