Girls of Summer(9)
Rachel snapped, “For God’s sake, Lisa, everyone on this island has emotional problems!”
“But I will apply for the Vestments job. I like Vesta, and I could use the extra money.”
“Yeah, to get yourself a decent haircut,” Rachel said.
* * *
—
Vesta Mahone was young and ambitious. With her great explosion of curly red hair and her tiny little body, she was unmistakable in any group. She’d grown up chic and savvy in Montclair, New Jersey, gone to the New York School of Design, and was intuitive and clever.
Vesta was frank when she hired Lisa. “You’re perfect. You’ll pull in the older shopper.”
“I’m forty-two, Vesta,” Lisa said.
“I know. That’s what I meant. The older shopper.”
Lisa privately doubted that anyone over thirty would want the clothes with fringes, sequins, ruffles, and chains that Vesta sold, and they probably wouldn’t wear the skirts and dresses that stopped five inches above the knee and plunged deeply in the neckline. But Vesta sold a range of clothing, including silk dresses and cashmere sweaters that Lisa wished she could afford, and all ages of women flocked to her store. Vestments was a success.
Slowly, Lisa came back to life. The sensuous pleasure of fabrics reawakened her. Cashmere as light as a snowflake. Silk, cool and liquid. She’d forgotten how a color, say fuchsia, could make one woman look sallow but make another woman blaze.
Lisa watched. She learned. At night, instead of weeping at a romantic movie on TV while her children slept, she pored over fashion magazines. She studied pictures of the women at the Nantucket galas. She bought a small notebook and began making lists of who wore what and how old they were and how wealthy. Before long, she’d made a collection of information, this time about fashion and fabrics. In the evenings, after dinner, she sat at the dining room table with her children. They did their homework; she did hers. She liked making one-of-a-kind books by taking a thick loose-leaf notebook and covering it with fabric, then making a matching bookmark. She made an album of cuttings from magazines and newspapers, glue-sticking in photos of celebrities and writing her thoughts about their clothes in the margins. Juliet and Theo loved having her there at the table with them, all three of them with their heads bent over their work, murmuring to themselves about square roots or Revolutionary soldiers or sarongs.
Maybe those were her best years, when everyone in her house was busy and happy.
* * *
—
One November morning, a quiet time at Vestments, Lisa was straightening the clothing in the racks. Vesta was doing the window. Her mannequin wore low-slung camo pants, a cashmere sweater that stopped at the midriff, and cargo boots.
“That’s insane,” Lisa said.
“That’s the look these days,” Vesta told her.
“Women want to have their torsos exposed to the cold air?”
“Lisa, my target clientele aren’t exactly hiking through the Arctic.”
“Well, they aren’t shopping here, either,” Lisa countered. Vesta was ten years younger than Lisa and hooking up with an ever-changing cast of almost-perfect men. When Lisa had started working at Vestments, she’d been impressed by the younger woman’s confidence. Now, two years later, Lisa was confident herself. “Listen to me,” she said to Vesta’s firmly straightened back, “I’ve been doing the research. I know the people on the island and what they wear. I know the parties they’ll have over the holidays. Women want to be sexy and gorgeous, but not…slutty. Slutty works fine for some of the summer people but winter is different.”
“My clothes are not slutty.” Vesta turned away from the front window and faced Lisa.
“Look.” Lisa went behind the counter, picked up her large bag, and pulled one of her notebooks out. “Here’s what I think you should sell.”
Vesta looked. She made a humming noise. “Interesting, but, Lisa, we should have ordered them months ago. You know that.”
“I do. And I did. Before you blow a gasket, I want you to know I used my own charge card. I have them at home. That’s how certain I am. What can you lose by trying?”
“What are you trying to do? Take over the shop?”
Lisa smiled. “No. Just part of it.”
Vesta put her hands on her hips. “You crazy bitch,” she said. “Okay. Let’s give it a try.”
* * *
—
The next few years were so busy Lisa thought she lived on coffee. Her choices of clothing sold out as fast as the store could hang them on the rack. The shop filled all the hours of her day and most of her dreams, and several times a year she went into New York with Vesta on buying trips.
One day, Vesta announced that she had finally met the man of her dreams. She was going to get married and move to Arizona. She was closing her shop. Lisa was stunned. Now that both her children were teenagers, they were just plain more expensive. They required braces, Doc Martens shoes with a special tread, class trips to New York City, computers, and videogames. It was her paycheck that paid for these extras, and she was glad to do it. But now what?
She called Rachel, so possessed with anxiety that her teeth were chattering. “What am I going to do?”