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.”
She seems curious, but a little affronted. “What about this floor? It’s not appealing?”
“It is. If I can pull off the first window and Aid—Mr. Cook likes what I do, then I have an idea to draw people into this space, as well.”
Her eyebrow goes up when I almost call our boss Aiden. Does that mean he doesn’t ask a lot of people to call him by his first name? My stomach probably shouldn’t be doing a somersault over that. I shouldn’t be glancing over Jordyn’s shoulder toward the elevator banks and wondering if I’ll see him today, either. He’s such a dork. He probably says phrases like hunky dory and holy cow. Why was my first waking thought, what kind of kisser is that man?
Because he might be a massive dork, but he’s…surprising.
I never know what he’s going to say. But he always finds a way to nudge me…center. Instead of off-center. Whether he’s telling a story to pull me out of an anxiety spiral or purposefully sitting ten feet away so I’m not uncomfortable, those thoughtful moves have me daydreaming about my boss when no good—or bad—can come of it. Nothing can come of my tiny hint of curiosity, so I need to blow out that flicker of interest real quick.
Anyway, even if he wasn’t my complete opposite, I read the employee handbook this morning and members of management are, “strictly prohibited from fraternizing with employees,” so that’s that. End of story.
Good. Anything else would be ridiculous. I’ve only been out of Bedford Hills for a month. A lot of that time has been spent simply getting used to being in public again. Ordering coffee from a barista, making small talk with my neighbors, going to the grocery store. Super-basic things. A romantic relationship of any kind, especially with someone so vastly different from me, seems less likely than being abducted by little green men holding stun guns.
Jordyn opens her mouth to respond to my request, but it snaps shut, her eyes narrowing on something over my shoulder. I become aware of the sound of rolling wheels.
“Morning, Miss Jordyn.”
“This motherfucker again,” sighs Jordyn, raising my eyebrows. Didn’t see that coming from the flawlessly coiffed floor manager. She crosses her arms and leans to the side, pinning whoever is approaching with the kind of look a mother gives a toddler tracking mud through their living room. “Seamus. What did I tell you about wheeling your dumpster through my department?”
Turning slightly, I see she’s addressing a young man, around my age. A custodian, based on his gray jumpsuit and the fact that he’s wheeling a big container full of white trash bags. His head is shaved, but coupled with his fair, freckled complexion, it’s easy to tell he’s a redhead. He’s not holding back his open admiration for the manager, his expression openly longing.
“Sorry, Miss Jordyn,” he sing-songs, a heavy dose of Brooklyn drawing out his words. “You know I can’t pass up a chance to see your beautiful face.”
I stare, transfixed, as the brown of her cheeks turns richer. “You’re about to see the back of my hand, Seamus, that’s what I know.”
His answering laugh is carefree, as if she didn’t just threaten to smack him. “Did you have your coffee yet, my queen? I’m doing a run. Cream, no sugar, right?”
“For the last time, I don’t need you to get me coffee—”