ten
I leaned against the closed front door for a moment, the only light in the house filtering in from the porch light. The quiet darkness of the house contrasted sharply with the sound of Tucker’s truck pulling away. I closed my eyes, trying to process the swing of emotions from an unexpected evening. So many things were the same about Tucker: his slow laugh, his wry asides, the way he made me feel as if we were just joining a conversation that had been in progress long before we’d found each other.
I tugged off my shoes and laid them soundlessly on the wood floor of the foyer. A small lamp on the kitchen counter illuminated a path from me to it, and I padded quietly through the living room, doing my best to dodge the disaster Gigi and I had created earlier in the day. I stumbled a bit and dropped hard onto the couch, still thinking about Tuck.
But there were so many ways he was different. For one, he was broader. His hands were hardened from years of working with tools. His jaw was speckled with a stubble that threatened to become a full beard if left ungroomed. But he also spoke like a man who had found his own way, like a person who was entirely sure that life would bring hard things but that he would be able to navigate them. He talked about the bedrock of faith, a subject we used to deftly avoid after my parents died. Tucker made faith sound like something very close, practical, daily, and I envied his assuredness, though the God he described didn’t sound like the one I’d known.
And yet I could see hesitation in Tucker’s eyes at times, how he looked away abruptly when we inched toward a discussion of his personal life, how he’d said good-bye in his truck as if we were former teammates on the basketball team instead of each other’s first hard and breathless crush.
I didn’t blame him, I thought as my eyes adjusted to the darkness in Gigi’s house. I was in no position to consider anything but polite friendship either. I had one foot dangling in Iowa and the other firmly planted back in New York. There was too much water under too many crumbling bridges with me and Tucker. And anyway, I reminded myself, he was seeing someone else. As he should be. Still, I wondered if there was anything we could do or if our history would always just be something we had to step carefully around when we were in the same room.
We got some good practice tonight, I thought as I settled into the couch. I smiled, thinking of Gigi’s ridiculous plan and how, while it was not what she’d hoped for, it wasn’t the disaster I’d feared either.
I closed my eyes, auditioning for sleep, but knew I was nowhere near tired. In fact, I felt the opposite. Wired. Ready to go. Or do. My eyes flew open and I reached for the lamp on the end table closest to me.
Picking up the dress I’d just been using as a pillow, I felt the fabric, a heart-stopping orange silk that fell through my hands like liquid. I worked quickly, my hands sure of the design that fabric was meant to have. A much lower V for the neckline, a higher waistband in a narrow, fabric-covered line, long layers for the skirt. I hand stitched the layers into gentle waves of fabric, humming to myself as I envisioned how the dress would move.
Finished, I shimmied out of my jeans and T-shirt, barely glancing to see if the living room curtains were drawn and not caring that they weren’t. No one in Silver Creek was up at one thirty in the morning, and if they were, they were about to see a ridiculously beautiful dress.
The fabric fell just as I wanted, and I caught my reflection in a mottled farmhouse mirror propped near the fireplace. The dress was stunning. The color was unique and fresh, and the silk felt like total indulgence against my skin. I removed the dress carefully, laid it out on the one empty chair, and picked up my next victim.
I clicked to publish the last dress and slumped into the couch, now empty of dresses and calling my name for a long, heavy sleep. A full moon suffused silvery light into the living room, and I tossed my phone onto the nearest stack of finished garments.
They were gorgeous, and I was exhausted.
The fabrics had dictated the designs, and I shook my head again, surprised at how inescapable the process had felt. The exuberant, geometric print was screaming to be a minidress, boatneckline here, V-neckline there, this one with embroidered trim, that one finished with a belt to bring the eye to a slender waist. The deep yellow silk, a cousin to the orange, was now a light and airy pantsuit with spaghetti straps and perfectly wide pant legs that would make a woman feel glamorous and comfortable with every step. One of my very favorite reincarnations was a floor-length maxi dress that would be equally at home as a day dress at the farmers’ market and dressed up for a summer’s night out. I’d posted that dress last on Etsy before falling onto the couch in a heap.
We’ll see if anyone else thinks they’re as beautiful as I do, I thought as I felt myself hurtling toward sleep. I had nothing to lose. I was blissfully close to oblivion, my aching shoulders and hands so tired that Gigi’s living room might as well have been a cave.
I didn’t know how long I’d been dozing when I heard a ping from my cell phone. I ignored it. It pinged again, and I knew it wouldn’t stop until I silenced it. Sadly, that action would require me to move.
I sighed loudly, eyes still heavy with sleep, and swept my arm along the couch cushions until I found the location of the pinging. I blinked hard, doing my best to focus on the screen. I blinked again, hard, to verify the message and make sure I was, in fact, awake.
“Etsy Alert!” the screen read, right next to a miniature image of the maxi dress. “Your first item has sold! Way to go!”
I laughed out loud, still staring at my phone. One sold. I checked the clock on my phone and saw only a few hours had passed since I’d put the dress up for sale and fallen asleep. One already sold! One dress, at least, given the blessing of a stranger who saw its beauty and said yes. I laughed again, hope filling me in a way I hadn’t known in weeks.
“Well, good morning. Finally,” Gigi said, coming into the cluttered room from the kitchen. “You didn’t even stir when I came through here at seven or so.” She looked amused at my rumpled hair and face. “How was dinner?” She grinned. “Sorry I got waylaid at the post office.”
“For hours?”
“Sadly, yes.”
“After it closed for the night?”
She shrugged, still grinning. “I know people. People who have keys to post offices.”
I narrowed my gaze. “You didn’t even go to the post office, did you?”
“Nope.” She sounded gleeful. “Came straight home and heated up leftovers. I hoped you wouldn’t be back with my tacos until long after suppertime, and I was right!” She leaned against the railing and folded her arms. “So?”
“So,” I said, drawing out the word, “it was nice. Super weird at first,” I said, more sternly. “Very awkward and full of interminable silences during which I plotted my revenge.”
Gigi rolled her eyes. “A necessary evil. But it ended all right? Did you talk and smooth things over and act like adults?”
“We did,” I said with a gracious nod of the head. I gave her no more details, and I could tell it was killing her.
“Adults who could one day fall back in love, get married, and give me some great-grandchildren?”
I shook my head, unable to stifle a laugh. “Not that kind of adults, no. But ones that still enjoy each other’s company, yes.”
Gigi pursed her lips. “You sound more elderly than my bridge club.” She scanned the room, and her brow furrowed. “Have you been at this all night, you crazy girl?”
I stood, wobbly with fatigue and happy to have a distraction. I picked up the maxi, twirling it slightly as I swayed with it against my frame. “What do you think?”
Gigi’s eyes grew wide as she watched the dress move. “How did you do that?” she said, shaking her head. “How did you make my clunky, ho-hum dress look like that?” She pointed, eyes still big.
I laughed. “And it’s already sold! I just got the ping from Etsy! Sold, and it’s only been up for a few hours!”
Gigi walked toward me, concern registering. “Honey, I think you’d better get some sleep. I don’t understand a word of what’s coming out of your mouth.” She put her hand to my forehead but I intercepted it and forced her to waltz with me around the piles of dresses. By the second time around the room, Gigi was giggling like a schoolgirl and I was whooping in a way that would have been right at home in Times Square when the clock struck midnight on New Year’s Eve.
“Now, wait just a minute. You’re going to kill an old woman,” Gigi said, stopping to catch her breath. “Explain to me in normal-person language what is making you stay up all night and act like a lunatic.” She froze, a hopeful smile starting in on her face. She pointed a finger at me. “Tell the truth, now. Did you and Tucker find your way to the root cellar? Is that it?” She tsked, faux disapproval lighting the mischief in her eyes. “You sly dog, you.”
I rolled my eyes. “No cellar visits, Gigi. I told you. We are friends. Nothing more.”
She raised one eyebrow.
“Promise. Besides,” I said, prickly, “can’t a woman be this excited about something having nothing to do with romance?”
“Sure,” Gigi said. “I can’t imagine it’s as fun as the cellar, but explain to me the pinging Essie and I’ll let you know.” She pointed me toward the kitchen. “Coffee?”
I followed her to the kitchen and launched into a brief explanation of the online indie marketplace and how we’d just made twice what we’d made at the flea market, on only one dress. My phone pinged again from the living room and Gigi put a hand over her mouth.
I grinned and took the cup of coffee she’d set on the counter before me.
She waited as I sipped. She worried her bottom lip for a minute before shrugging. “I’m glad you understand the bit about the Etsy. That part sounds like something Goldie would like and I would hate. But I’ll tell you this much, kiddo.” She clinked her coffee mug on the edge of mine. “You might have just found yourself a way back to that big city you love so much.”
I toasted her back, and then again, for good measure.