CHAPTER TWO
STACY
“QUALITY IS ALL THAT MATTERS,” I say. “Really. There’s no secret.”
I’m trying to hide a delighted smile behind my hand as I answer April’s question. I shouldn’t be flattered, but I’m human. Still, I feel embarrassed taking the credit she insists on giving me. But I mean it, there is no magic to what I do. No divine inspiration. No blessings from God, enabling my hands to what others can’t. If she insists that my dresses are the best, it’s only because I’ve poured in the time to master the stitches. I don’t do anything fancy. I just do it well, and won’t let anything leave my shop unless it’s the best I can make it.
I needn’t bother hiding my smile. April doesn’t see it. She’s lost in her own world, giving herself a self-guided tour of my little shop, including behind the counter and the back room and all the places she’s not supposed to be. If I don’t watch her, she’ll kick open the door that leads upstairs, to the suite of small apartments I share with my family. April would probably find that adorable: me still living with my family. I have my entrance and pay my own way. I don’t see why people talk about staying close to your loved ones like it’s a bad thing.
“No secret?” April says, still flitting about like a butterfly in strappy heels. She’s less a customer than a fan. She’s acting like she’s high or drunk. Nobody should be this excited to be in a tailor’s shop — or anywhere in Williamsville. “Honey, you talk like it’s simple to make great stuff. You’re dismissing everything you do!”
“Really, Ms. Greene. It is simple. And I’m not just saying that. I just don’t sell anything until it’s as good as I can make it.”
“Will you stop calling me ‘Ms. Greene’? It makes me feel like my mother.”
“Sorry. April.” She might be younger than me. But being polite means calling my customers by their last names, unless they insist otherwise, or I know them well. I don’t know April at all.
Once she got in touch and asked if she could pick up her dress up in person, I went back and looked through her records. Then I saw just how much she’s bought through my FairTraded online store. I don’t know her, but she sure seems to know me. It’s a big deal to drive as far as she drove just to pick up a dress, but April’s reaction was the opposite.
You’re in WILLIAMSVILLE? You’re ONLY 300 MILES AWAY?
Like I was doing her a favor by being a half-day’s drive. It’s weird. I’m not used to getting adulation for doing my job.
She’s moving through the space, hands brushing orders on hangers. All the stuff she shouldn’t touch. Her dress is still on the counter, abandoned until checkout after much girlish jumping and squealing. She’s been absorbing the rest of The Perfect Fit ever since — the parts of my apparent grandeur that she won’t be taking home.
“You don’t have any salespeople?”
“I have a part-time cashier. Just someone to keep the lights on and give me a break.”
“No salespeople?”
“Why would I need salespeople?”
She frowns. I suddenly get it.
“Oh, you misunderstand,” I tell her, smiling. “All these clothes? They aren’t mine. They’re client clothes. Things people brought in to have tailored. You’re not looking at stock. You’re looking at finished orders.”
“Well, where is your stock?”
“I don’t have any. I only make things when orders come in.”
She looks toward the big back room, at the cutting table and bolts of cloth.
“Williamsville isn’t exactly big enough to support a custom clothing store. The Perfect Fit does alterations — fixing hems, taking in shirts or letting them out, things like that.”
She looks like I’ve just told her that there isn’t a Santa Claus. April thought she was in bespoke heaven, but really, she’s just in a stitch shop.
“Where do you sell your stuff, then?”
“On FairTraded.” Then, feeling like I’ve disappointed her, I rush to add, “I told you there was no reason to come pick this up in person! I’m sorry if I led you to believe—”
“No, no, no,” April says, raising a hand to stop me. Something in her manner shifts. “I’m not sorry that I came. But I’m devastated that you haven’t opened your own shop. You’d make a killing, hon. I live in Charlotte, and I fly a lot. Like, all over the world. New York, London, Paris. Sweetie, there’s nobody out there like you.”
Now I am blushing. She’s gone from flattering me to outright lying.
“Oh, I’m sure there are lots of—”
“Not like this.” April caresses her new dress. “Lots of great makers, for sure. But, how should I put this? Nothing with as much care. Not at your prices.”
“But that’s just it. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I don’t do anything special. I just care about what I do.”
“That’s rarer than you’d think.”
“Oh, I’m sure—”
She takes my forearms and turns me so I’m looking directly at her.
“I’m not actually this ditzy,” she says.
“I don’t think you’re—”
“I do understand what you’re telling me. You’re saying that you just do the work. You’re saying that there’s no magic because you put in the time and effort to do this job well. And you’re also about to tell me that your prices are low because the only ingredient of quality clothing is the care we were just talking about. From your perspective, practice plus giving a shit equals Stacy Grace clothing. That’s why there’s no secret. It’s simply sitting down to sew, and caring what you produce. Have I got all that right?”
I’m a bit stunned by the intensity of this little lecture. April has the widest, most intent eyes I’ve ever seen. And they’re staring right at me.
“Listen to me, Stacy. You need to open your own place. Not on FairTraded. It’s great that you sell there, but it’s sharecropping on someone else’s online platform. You need to open a real store. With actual salespeople. And then you sell from there, too, through your website.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere.”
“Not in Williamsville,” I say.
April shrugs, finally releasing me. “Maybe Williamsville. What’s the population?”
“I don’t know. It’s not New York. Small.”
“Well, somewhere else, then. Or all online. Or here; who the hell knows? I came here to see you in person.”
Yes, but you’re crazy.
“I couldn’t leave Williamsville.”
“Why?”
“It’s home. My family is here.”
“But you’re a tailor here.”
“One more reason to stay.” I look around the shop, realizing I’ve become a tad defensive. “My grandfather opened this shop. Three generations of fine tailoring, right here in this building.”
But April is undaunted. “I’m in marketing. You, dear? You’re a marketer’s dream. I’m telling you: you could be so much more with your own place. Trust me, I know.”
“I’m happy here.”
“Are you?”
“Yes!”
She looks at me as if she doesn’t believe me. I think for a minute that she’ll call bullshit. But it’s not bullshit. I do well on FairTraded, and The Perfect Fit has nothing but top reviews on Yelp. I have plenty of work, enough money, and all the people I love most in the world living right upstairs. My big dreams are exactly that.
Why would I ever leave all that I have?
April finally breaks her gaze and turns away with a sigh. It doesn’t seem haughty or judgmental. For some strange reason, I feel bad that my simple life has let her down.
I box her dress to kill the awkwardness. April sees what I’ve done and smiles wide when she gathers her package. But her eyes have dimmed.
It’s my business. Why should I care? But when I see the reverent way she’s cradling her box, I understand. I haven’t just given her clothing. I’ve given her a piece of myself, and she feels responsible for it.
“As long as you sell, and wherever you sell,” she says, “I’ll keep buying.”
I smile, touched. “Thanks.”
“I just … if it’s not too forward of me …”
“Go ahead,” I say, but I already know I won’t like what’s coming.
“I just hope that you’re not afraid to acknowledge how special you are, Stacy. How amazing you are in what you bring to the world.”
“Oh, I’m—”
“All it would take is a willingness to think bigger. To grow.”
“Bigger and better isn’t my style.”
April shrugs and looks at me sadly. Then we say our goodbyes, and I’m left feeling surprisingly hollow.