Chasing Serenity

by Ashley, Kristen

  “I’ve hiked before, Judge,” I stated coolly.

  “Right. Okay, we’re good then.” He tipped up his chin. “Thanks for the pizza. Later.” With that, and before I could even stretch out a hand to give Zeke a goodbye pat, or say a word of farewell to his dad, Judge shook the lead, made a kiss noise, and murmured, “C’mon, buddy.”

  And that was it.

  They were out the door.

  I stood in it for several seconds, watching them walk to his Cherokee before I realized I was doing it.

  Then I closed and locked the door.

  I stared at it and declared, “I’m not going to fall apart.”

  I did not fall apart.

  I tidied the pizza and beer bottles, then put the dishes in the washer. I packed up my laptop in preparation for the next day. I poured myself a glass of wine.

  After I accomplished all that, I headed upstairs, brushed my hair, twisted it up again, pushed it back with a band, cleaned my face and slathered on a mask.

  I read for half an hour as I sipped my wine.

  I then took off the mask, moisturized, brushed my teeth, took the clip out of my hair and twisted a silk scrunchy in it. I walked my wineglass back down, rinsed it, turned out the lights, made sure all doors were secure, then I went upstairs and climbed in bed.

  Lying there, wide awake in the dark, then and only then did I allow myself to fall apart.

  And when I did, I was unsurprised I didn’t crumble away.

  Instead, I shattered to pieces.

  Chapter 15

  The Allies

  Chloe

  The next day, I was inventorying the floor, checking to see we had browse availability of all sizes that were in stock, when I heard, “Excuse me.”

  I turned and then smiled at a woman who was probably around my mother’s age. Great hair, fantastic pair of glasses, curvy figure, fabulous outfit.

  She was also carrying two peach bags with black handles, and in bold, feminine script of gold foil written across the sides, my store’s name, Velvet.

  “Can I help?” I asked.

  “Mi-Young, your manager, told me you were the owner,” she said, tipping her chestnut-with-champagne-highlighted head toward the checkout desk where Mi was standing.

  “I am.” I turned fully to the customer. “Is everything all right?”

  “I just wanted to say, I drive by this store all the time. I noticed your windows months ago, but since I’m driving by, I never got the chance to really look at them. Even if I did, I would just expect it was another kind of store.”

  I wasn’t sure by her demeanor that I wanted to know what kind of store she thought it was.

  Even if she was carrying two bags containing my merchandise.

  “I met someone for lunch down the way,” she went on. “Walked by, and saw you had a curvy model in your window. I couldn’t believe it. I came in, and then I couldn’t believe what I found.”

  She seemed to have found a lot. I’d noticed her perusing and spending a good deal of time in our changing rooms.

  And her bags were filled to the brim.

  “I’m hoping your bags mean you found some things you adore,” I remarked.

  “I did. And I found all of it in my size,” she stated.

  She couldn’t know this, and I wasn’t going to tell her outside what she experienced. But I didn’t stock designers who didn’t go up to at least 3X and size twenty-four.

  I smiled. “I’m so pleased.”

  “Your clothes are stylish.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  “You don’t get it. Shops like this…” She shook her head. “Your things are edgy. Chic. Current. For the most part, I find things that Bea Arthur would wear on Golden Girls. It’s okay, but it definitely tells me to act my age. I just don’t understand why my age has to be defined as waiting-for-my-grandchildren-to-be-born.”

  “It doesn’t,” I replied firmly, sticking to only those two words, because if one got me started on this subject, I could rant on it for days.

  And never get me started on the term “plus-size.”

  I loathed it.

  Women were women. There was no reason to segment them.

  Label them.

  Legs came in different lengths it was necessary for fit to note how a hem might fall.

  But there were not “normal-sized” women and “plus-sized” women.

  There were women.

  The end.

  “I know, and I’m glad you do too,” she replied. “I’m delighted to walk in a shop and not have to hold my breath that some styles I like won’t come in my size, and as such, won’t be for me. I’m thrilled that it’s all mixed together. Even your jewelry, which a lot of the time at other places doesn’t fit around my neck, or my wrist.” She lifted one of her bags. “Yours does.”

  I kept smiling. “One of our lovely associates helps me make certain that everything we carry is inclusive.”

  I was alluding to Jocelyn, who was on staff, but doubled as our body positive model on social media because she was a size 20, but mostly because she was fabulous, and she knew it.

  Incidentally, I sold staff the merchandise at cost, and in most cases, let them pick what they wanted me to order before I purchased it for the store, so I could make sure they’d have the pieces they wanted, and they were wearing them fresh when the stock was on the floor.

  Albeit most stores gave a discount, I had two students on staff who wouldn’t be able to afford it, even on a discount.

  So at cost it was, and no skin off my nose, the rest of the clothes were being ordered regardless, throwing more pieces in only increased my status with my suppliers.

  It was a tried-and-true system to have your associates attired in your apparel.

  I’d tried it, and it held true.

  The customer nodded and carried on.

  “Eloquii and Lane Bryant have some great clothes, and Nordstrom has a nice curvy section. But most of it is online. I like to shop. Try on. And the clothes are separate. Either completely different stores, or clothes for me are in another section. Like, people like me need to be hidden away. Like, the people not like me don’t want to be rubbing shoulders with me when they shop. They don’t want to look at me. And they definitely don’t want to think that something they wear might be something I’d put on my body. It makes me feel like a pariah. Like I should feel shame when I’m shopping. Shame about my body, shame about wanting to look good. I love shopping, but it’s sometimes hard, and there are times it even makes me sad. I actually have friends I don’t shop with anymore because it’s uncomfortable. Their clothes aren’t in my section, and vice versa.”

  “I’m glad you weren’t sad in Velvet,” I said quietly.

  “I wasn’t, not at all,” she asserted. “You’re young, you’re slender, so beautiful, so you can’t even begin to know what it means…” She cleared her throat. “Like I said, I have friends. A lot of them. In every shape and size. Those other stores…” She lifted both bags this time. “To quote a pretty woman, mistake. Big mistake. Huge.” She grinned at me. “See you again sometime soon.”

  “I hope so,” I replied. “And when you return, ask for Chloe or Mi. One of us is always here, and we’ll take personal care of you. And if you give us a heads up, we’ll have a bottle of champagne waiting.”

  The woman actually got tears in her eyes before she dipped her chin, gave me a trembling smile, and walked out of the shop.

  I watched her go, thinking how beautiful it felt I gave that to her.

  As well as how badly I needed what she just gave me.

  I then finished the section I was working and started to head to the back to grab some sizes to restock.

  “Hey,” Mi called before I cleared the floor of the store.

  I turned to her. “Hey.”

  “That lady made your week,” Mi told me.

  She didn’t.

  She made my month.

  Best thing that’d happened so far, considering the
good parts with Judge were blown to smithereens by the fact we lasted “a minute” and he was happy to move on.

  “As in, she bought that red leather jacket, among a ton of other things,” Mi explained.

  I turned to our red section and saw the only red leather jacket that we’d had left—a size 20—was gone.

  That had been a hot item that I was pleased, in Phoenix, I took the chance of stocking two in each size, rather than one. I’d sold all the others at full price, which was $850. I didn’t want to discount the last. It was a good markup, a tidy profit.

  Add that to another bag and a half worth of stuff and yes, maybe she did make my week.

  It felt better that maybe I made hers.

  “We need to do more marketing around our size ranges,” I noted, thinking about that conversation, and how maybe testimonials, or even customer models on professional shoots, were possible ways to go.

  Tell them their friends could come to the shoot. Have select items on hand for a discount.

  “That’s hard, Coco,” Mi replied, cutting into my buzzing mind.

  It was.

  Because our new customer had not lied.

  An extended size range appealed to women who were size 14 and over.

  It had the opposite affect with the others.

  That said, 68 percent of women were size 14 and above, 25 percent of all online shopping was browsing for curvy size clothes, and again, 68 percent of “plus” consumers were interested in participating in fashion trends.

  And I would repeat, one shouldn’t get me started on how I felt about dressing mature women.

  Hint: Unless she enjoyed the freedom of caftans and jersey sets and flowy kimonos, she should embrace whatever style she wanted.

  However, the golden goose marketing strategy for Velvet was one that appealed to millennials, Gen X, and people of all sizes, not to mention all colors.

  As yet, my experience was, such a strategy didn’t exist.

  But if it did, I was determined to find it.

  “We can brainstorm,” I told her, then shared, “I’m heading back. There are things to restock.”

  Before I took two steps, Mi called, “Chloe.”

  I turned to her again.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  No, I absolutely was not.

  “Of course,” I answered.

  She tipped her head to the side, her sheet of gleaming ebony hair tipping with it.

  “Sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I began to move away again.

  “You haven’t said a word about Judge. Not since you texted me you were still with him at five on Sunday,” she noted.

  “We saw each other last night,” I told her.

  She brightened.

  “We worked on the project. We have a solid plan. It’s good. We also decided not to see each other in that way. Too messy.”

  Her face fell.

  “It’s okay,” I outright lied.

  “I thought he was really nice, and Jacob super liked him.”

  He was nice and super likeable.

  It was also very nice my best friend approved of him and strangely, even better her boyfriend got on with him.

  Women could be hoodwinked by men (with the men doing the hoodwinking).

  Other men could often see through that.

  “He works for my soon-to-be-stepdad,” I pointed out.

  “He’s very into you,” she returned.

  He’d seemed to be.

  “And you seemed very into him,” she carried on.

  Hmm.

  “If it didn’t work, it would be uncomfortable,” I noted.

  She now appeared confused. “Are Duncan and Judge good buddies?”

  “They work together,” I reiterated.

  “I thought Duncan was the CEO of the chain and Judge was the director of their kids’ program.”

  “That’s right.”

  “They work side by side every day?” she asked dubiously.

  “They see each other every day.”

  “There’s like, hundreds of River Rain stores across the nation,” she declared.

  “I think that number is actually something like seventy-seven,” I corrected.

  “What I’m saying is, they both have important jobs, but you shouldn’t hold back because it’s not like Judge is Duncan’s assistant or the VP of buying. He runs a program that’s somewhat independent of the stores. Even if they work in the same offices, there are probably a lot of people who work there. It’s unlikely they interact day to day.”

  “What I’m saying is, we’re not that into each other.”

  Mi-Young read my tone and her lips pursed, pushing up into her nose.

  It was cute.

  It was provoking.

  It told me she knew I was in a mood, she was not going to deal with me in this mood, but this conversation wasn’t over.

  “Can I go grab that stock?” I asked fake-sweetly.

  “Be my guest,” she returned, taking my sweet to the highest heights of fake.

  I shot her a bored look.

  She flicked her sheet of perfect hair.

  God, she always won in a catfight.

  I did my best to move away at a cavalier pace.

  But I feared I looked like what I was.

  Escaping.

  * * *

  “I’m feeling…lobster,” I announced that evening about two seconds after the server walked away from our table with our drink order.

  I hadn’t even looked at my menu.

  “Of course you are,” Dad murmured, sitting on the other side of the booth from me, grinning down at his menu, looking gorgeous, as always.

  Tall, lean, fit, athletic, dark, with patrician features that had more than a mild hint of roguishness.

  Dad did not have the look of the knight in shining armor.

  He had the look of the prodigal son.

  Every girl knew that was not the smarter choice, but it was the better one.

  He’d been a heartthrob as a breakout teen star on the tennis circuit.

  He’d become a heartbreaker when he’d grown up.

  And that (no prejudice, truly) had never died. I saw the fanmail his assistant had to sort through every month. It was not a joke.

  And just like Mom’s, it could get unnerving.

  I allowed him time to make his selection (I really was feeling, and ordering, lobster, so I didn’t bother looking) and to put down his menu before I asked, “And how are you, mon père bien-aimé?”

  He smiled. “I’m well, my beloved daughter, how are you?”

  “Perfect,” I chirped.

  His face clouded.

  “Oh Christ, what’s going on?” he asked, likely because I never (ever) chirped, then, before I could answer, he presented another question. “Is it your mother fixing you up with Judge Oakley?”

  It seemed odd that he’d use both Judge’s names.

  “I’d heard the kids ribbing you about things during Christmas,” he went on. “Though I had no idea who he was then, since he was only referred to as Judge. When Gen shared what she was up to, I told her it wasn’t a good idea. But then you showed and went outside with him, and you two seemed close when we were having dinner.”

  We had?

  “And he’s a good kid,” Dad carried on. “Far as I know, he has been his whole life.”

  I blinked.

  “Sorry? His whole life?” I queried.

  “Yeah, I met him when he was…” Dad had to think on it and then he said, “Four, five. You weren’t born yet. Or maybe your mom was pregnant with you, or about to be. Around that time.”

  What…the…fuck?

  “You…know…Judge?” I pushed.

  Judge hadn’t mentioned this.

  Neither had Dad or Mom.

  “‘Know’ is a stretch,” Dad answered, his gaze never leaving my face. “Though I know his father, Jamie.”

  I drummed my fingers on the table and glared at him.

&nb
sp; “What’s with the patented Chloe Death Stare?” he asked. “Are you seeing him?”

  “No.” That hurt to say, but I pushed through it. “But it would have been nice if you,” or Mom, “had shared you’d met him before.”

  “Once, when he was four. That said, Jamie speaks of him a lot,” Dad stated. “You’re not seeing him?”

  “No,” I bit off.

  “Too bad,” Dad mumbled.

  Of course Dad liked Judge.

  Of course.

  I kept at him. “Mom didn’t mention you’d met him either.”

  “I’m not sure she would know. She was still doing Rita’s Way back then. She was at home in California. I was in New York doing a fundraising thing. That’s how I met Jamie. There was a ball the night before the match. He introduced himself. It was the next day during the match I met Judge.”

  Hang on a moment.

  “Wait, during the match?”

  “If you Google it, there might be pictures,” he noted. “The crowd loved it.”

  Good Lord.

  There were pictures of Dad and Judge on a tennis court?

  “He wandered out on the court,” Dad went on.

  And there it was.

  Yes.

  There were pictures.

  Dad kept speaking.

  “He’d grabbed one of my rackets before anyone noticed he was out there. The crowd started tittering, he nabbed a ball and lobbed it at me. I had another racket in my hand. We had a five-minute play match. He won. Natural backhand, by the way.”

  “He was four and had a backhand?”

  Dad shrugged. “Saw me use it and emulated me. Almost picture perfect. It was uncanny. I told his dad to get him lessons.”

  “Judge didn’t mention this,” I murmured, thinking it was absolutely something you mentioned.

  Maybe even in your top five things to know about this person you were making out with copiously.

  For instance, Say, when I was a toddler, I played tennis with your dad.

  Or, I beat your father in tennis. I was four.

  “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t remember it,” Dad said. “At least, he didn’t mention it.”

  Seriously?

  “Even if he doesn’t remember, I can’t imagine his father doesn’t have a picture of him playing tennis at four with the Great Tom Pierce,” I drawled. “Or hasn’t told that story a thousand times since that day.”