head bent over a smartphone, her thumbs tapping away, texting someone. The soft rustle of fabrics blended with pop music emanating from a hidden stereo system, but she didn’t seem to notice the world around her, including her customers.
The cat remained quiet as Lily wound her way to thecounter, sidestepping displays and taking note of the artful layout, the cabinet of imported French soaps. The woman looked up only when Lily was standing right in front of her. “Can I help you?” Her eyes flickered with annoyance. Her name tag read “Chris.”
“I wonder if you know anything about this cat,” Lily began in a low voice, and then quickly told her story.
Chris shrugged, frowning slightly at the box, as if it were a burr that Lily had carried inside on her coat. “I don’t know. Don’t have a clue. I don’t think Florence has any cats. She would have a fit if anyone brought a cat in here. She’s the owner, not me.”
Not me.
So this Florence could afford to hire at least one employee. She’d probably been in business a while. Lily could see that her clothes were overpriced. “Is she here? I’d like to ask her directly.”
“Oh, hell no. Flo’s hardly ever here.” Chris laughed softly. Her silver hoop earrings and small silver nose ring glinted in the light.
Hardly ever here
, and yet her shop thrived. Or did it? A woman headed for the door empty-handed, and Chris watched with a standard brand of indifference. Did she not have an investment in the shop’s success?
“Could you call Flo?” Lily said. “Just in case. I would hate to take the cat to the shelter and then find out—”
“She doesn’t have a cat,” Chris said, her face becoming closed and guarded. “I would know. I work here, like, five days a week.”
Five days a week? What did Flo do all that time? Did she have another shop? “Could the cat belong to someone else around here? I’m pretty new in town. Maybe you have an idea?”
“Nobody has a cat like that.” Chris made as if to return to her texting, when a chunky woman, with a mountain of permed white hair, came up and draped a flowing pink shirt across the counter. “I love this but do I have to dry clean it? It says dry clean only. What alternative do I have to all those chemicals?”
Chris read the label inside the collar. “It says dry clean only.”
“I realize that. It’s a beautiful shirt, but—”
“Dry clean only. I would follow the directions.”
“You can use a mild detergent and hand wash,” Lily said. “Dry cleaning chemicals can be harsh—”
“That’s what I think!” The woman looked at Lily and smiled. “For this shirt, though?”
“You want to protect the shape of the fabric, so use cold water and don’t wring or twist.”
“How do you know all this?”
The cat mewled pitifully, and Lily’s arms were beginningto hurt from holding the box. “I have some experience with rayon. I just opened my shop across the street, Past Perfect. Vintage clothing.”
“Rayon is vintage?” The woman glanced out the window.
“Sometimes, yes.”
“Well, I’ll be. You’re in the old Candy Cottage? I’ve got to stop in there.”
Chris frowned. “You can’t return the shirt after you wash it, if you’re not following directions.”
Lily touched the shirt. It looked like rayon, felt like rayon, and the label—yes, it read “rayon.” She had learned to identify the textures of various fabrics. “In my shop, you can return a shirt like this even if you’ve washed it. I guarantee my clothes have already been washed anyway, some of them multiple times. Vintage fabrics are hardier than today’s fragile—”
“Do you want the shirt or not?” Chris cut in, tapping the counter.
The woman hesitated, then sighed and dug into her purse. “I do love the rose print on the front.” She smiled at Lily again. “Thanks, dear, for all your help. You are…?”
“Lily Byrne. I would give you a business card, but I don’t have any
The cat remained quiet as Lily wound her way to thecounter, sidestepping displays and taking note of the artful layout, the cabinet of imported French soaps. The woman looked up only when Lily was standing right in front of her. “Can I help you?” Her eyes flickered with annoyance. Her name tag read “Chris.”
“I wonder if you know anything about this cat,” Lily began in a low voice, and then quickly told her story.
Chris shrugged, frowning slightly at the box, as if it were a burr that Lily had carried inside on her coat. “I don’t know. Don’t have a clue. I don’t think Florence has any cats. She would have a fit if anyone brought a cat in here. She’s the owner, not me.”
Not me.
So this Florence could afford to hire at least one employee. She’d probably been in business a while. Lily could see that her clothes were overpriced. “Is she here? I’d like to ask her directly.”
“Oh, hell no. Flo’s hardly ever here.” Chris laughed softly. Her silver hoop earrings and small silver nose ring glinted in the light.
Hardly ever here
, and yet her shop thrived. Or did it? A woman headed for the door empty-handed, and Chris watched with a standard brand of indifference. Did she not have an investment in the shop’s success?
“Could you call Flo?” Lily said. “Just in case. I would hate to take the cat to the shelter and then find out—”
“She doesn’t have a cat,” Chris said, her face becoming closed and guarded. “I would know. I work here, like, five days a week.”
Five days a week? What did Flo do all that time? Did she have another shop? “Could the cat belong to someone else around here? I’m pretty new in town. Maybe you have an idea?”
“Nobody has a cat like that.” Chris made as if to return to her texting, when a chunky woman, with a mountain of permed white hair, came up and draped a flowing pink shirt across the counter. “I love this but do I have to dry clean it? It says dry clean only. What alternative do I have to all those chemicals?”
Chris read the label inside the collar. “It says dry clean only.”
“I realize that. It’s a beautiful shirt, but—”
“Dry clean only. I would follow the directions.”
“You can use a mild detergent and hand wash,” Lily said. “Dry cleaning chemicals can be harsh—”
“That’s what I think!” The woman looked at Lily and smiled. “For this shirt, though?”
“You want to protect the shape of the fabric, so use cold water and don’t wring or twist.”
“How do you know all this?”
The cat mewled pitifully, and Lily’s arms were beginningto hurt from holding the box. “I have some experience with rayon. I just opened my shop across the street, Past Perfect. Vintage clothing.”
“Rayon is vintage?” The woman glanced out the window.
“Sometimes, yes.”
“Well, I’ll be. You’re in the old Candy Cottage? I’ve got to stop in there.”
Chris frowned. “You can’t return the shirt after you wash it, if you’re not following directions.”
Lily touched the shirt. It looked like rayon, felt like rayon, and the label—yes, it read “rayon.” She had learned to identify the textures of various fabrics. “In my shop, you can return a shirt like this even if you’ve washed it. I guarantee my clothes have already been washed anyway, some of them multiple times. Vintage fabrics are hardier than today’s fragile—”
“Do you want the shirt or not?” Chris cut in, tapping the counter.
The woman hesitated, then sighed and dug into her purse. “I do love the rose print on the front.” She smiled at Lily again. “Thanks, dear, for all your help. You are…?”
“Lily Byrne. I would give you a business card, but I don’t have any
Similar Books
