Ruby emerged again, carrying the white taffeta 1950s Givenchy cocktail dress I’d found at, of all things, a yard sale. Unfortunately, I had missed the moth holes that dotted the hem, along with the stain under the right arm. Before I realized that saving it was futile, I had thought I could dye the dress and wear it to my cousin’s black-tie Savannah wedding in late summer. Just as well, since I would have had to contract three stomach viruses and live on a diet of lettuce for five months to fit into it, and no dress is worth a life without Girl Scout cookies.
But as much as it pained me, the dress wasn’t salvageable. I had put it in the “not salable but maybe it has another use” bin I kept in the kitchen/storage area.
I waited for Ruby to say something as I scooped up the notepad I’d dropped onto the shelf. I needed to make a list. New stapler, crates, and a smaller office chair. I scrawled the last few items before looking up. “You need something, Ruby?”
She thrust the dress out. “You put this in the nonsalables?”
“I did.”
“Do you mind if I take it? I could give you something for it.”
“Why? It’s got moth damage and a big stain.”
“Um, I’m doing a little project,” she said, uncertainty shadowing her words, making me feel like the big bad wolf. Which was weird because most people thought I was a kitten. I was benign, mostly. From a young age, my mama had taught me to stand up straight, be gracious, make others comfortable, give charitably, and always be a lady. A smile was your best accessory, after all. So as much as I smiled at Ruby, I found myself up against a locked box with the younger woman. She wouldn’t let herself relax around me, and it made me wonder about her life. Who had hurt her? What had made her so reserved and wary?
“Sure. Take it.” I smiled again.
“Thanks.” She disappeared like a fart in a breeze.
“Hmm,” I said, adding “thumbtacks” to my list, wondering why she wouldn’t tell me about the little project. What kind required a vintage haute couture dress of little value?
“Oh my God, I adore this fabric,” a voice said.
What the . . .
I blinked and looked around. It sounded like someone was in the office with me, but I was totally alone.
“It’s super pretty,” someone else said.
Glancing around, I noted a vent centered on the scarred wall. Directly on the other side of the wall was the showroom that featured some of the vintage quilts and silk drapes imported from France. Minutes ago, I had noticed Julie Van Ness and her eternal sidekick, Bo Dixie Ferris, walk into Printemps. Both women were friends of mine, but not friend friends. More like the kind of friends with whom I might dangle a glass of wine at a party and talk about how amazingly the soccer coach filled out his Umbro shorts. Julie didn’t work beyond doing Junior League stuff, and Bo Dixie wrote a gossip column for the local society page.
Yeah, page.
There was only one page in the shrinking Shreveport Daily dedicated to those who attended fundraisers and threw darling wedding showers. Probably because only a handful of people cared . . . and they were the ones throwing the parties.
I shouldn’t eavesdrop. Such a low thing, eavesdropping. But I was no angel, and those two were infamous for having the skinny on anyone and everyone within a hundred-mile radius. What would it hurt? Plus, I couldn’t help that the vent allowed me to overhear their conversation. Total happenstance.
“Nancy Parrington found a vintage dress here and wore it to the Dallas Symphony Derby. Everyone raved. I think something like that would be perfect to wear to cotillion this year. Or my cousin’s engagement party this fall. Or maybe something to take to San Francisco for Shaun’s conference,” Julie said.
I gave a fist pump. The display of luscious dresses, jaunty hats, and even vintage shoes had been a hunch and a secret project of mine. Period dramas on streaming television services had given modern women a peek at how gorgeous dresses once were, making them more desirable, and I had spent half a year finding the designer gems I had in my collection. Nancy had fallen in love with a soft-yellow Balenciaga and declared she’d send more people to Printemps to “upcycle.” I murmured a silent thank-you to my mother’s best friend.
“You already have your cotillion dress. Besides, Nancy’s old.”
I made a face. Bo Dixie should stick to bad write-ups of Mardi Gras balls . . . not fashion. Nancy’s sense of style was timeless and flawless.
“True. But maybe I want something unique for the California trip. What about this?”