My Mrs. Brown

by William Norwich

  Rachel opened the car door for Mrs. Brown. “That’s real grit, isn’t? Even if it’s sackcloth, a strong woman wears hers with style.”

  Lexington Avenue was the quicker route, but Rachel wanted to enter the Waldorf at its main doorway, on Park Avenue, so Mrs. Brown could experience the full impact of the hotel’s busy lobby.

  On the way to the salon, Rachel explained that Kenneth Battelle had created hairstyles for Brooke Astor, Babe Paley, Katharine Graham, Gloria Vanderbilt, Jacqueline Kennedy, and Marilyn Monroe, but most famously, Mrs. Brown thought, he did Millicent Groton’s hair.

  Kenneth had visited Ashville on a number of occasions over the years. There had been an article about him, in Vanity Fair if Mrs. Brown remembered correctly, several years ago. All the women at Bonnie’s had read it with great interest.

  Rachel talked away but rarely looked up from her phones. “I really apologize for being so lost in my work today, but with Oscar’s show coming up, there’s so much to do, Mrs. Brown.”

  It was a bit of a lie. Crazy-busy Fashion Weeks were nothing new, and Rachel was supremely well organized. But she was coordinating one last surprise for Mrs. Brown. That is, if television’s Charlie Rose didn’t mind waiting fifteen minutes to tape his studio interview with Oscar this afternoon.

  The Kenneth salon was even more splendid than Mrs. Brown could have imagined. And it was so quiet! Is that what real luxury is? Quietude? It isn’t a loud three-ring circus somewhere? Compared to Bonnie’s hysterics, cursing, and lousy TV at top volume, this was a Zen monastery in the Swiss Alps.

  Handsome, hirsute, with thick beard and ginger features, Andy was the head hair man at the salon. He wore alligator clogs with silver pilgrim buckles and had eagles, balloons, and chains tattooed on his forearms. He closely examined Mrs. Brown’s hair and proposed a light color rinse and feathered trim at the crown to add volume.

  “But other than that I like your cut now,” he said.

  Her expression questioned his sincerity.

  “I really do. Who does your hair, Mrs. Brown?” Andy asked.

  She hesitated before answering, but why should she be embarrassed? Wasn’t that one of the main messages she’d gotten since she arrived in New York City? Be yourself.

  “I cut my own hair,” Mrs. Brown said.

  “I’m impressed!” Andy said.

  She was pleased that he was impressed, especially considering her new hairdressing job at Bonnie’s.

  But you know what impressed Mrs. Brown most about Kenneth’s? Coffee cups and teacups were covered with silver foil so any loose hair, scent, or hair spray didn’t come anywhere near your beverage of choice. (Which in the case of the grande dame sitting next to Mrs. Brown today was a five-ounce glass of vodka on ice with a splash of fresh grapefruit juice that, at least in the mind of the grande dame, qualified the beverage as a health food drink.)

  This kind of cleanliness and good order, along with the luxurious quiet, was the height of chic in Mrs. Brown’s opinion.

  With her hair done, nails manicured, and toes pedicured in clear matte polish, the only color she liked for herself, Mrs. Brown was declared “sublime.” That was Rachel’s word.

  When they returned to the store on Sixty-sixth Street, Mrs. Brown was ushered to the changing room so quickly she didn’t notice the small group of people clustered around a white-linen-covered table.

  Mrs. Novikov was exhausted from working so hard and so fast, tailoring the dress and jacket in record time. She was also extremely pleased. As she helped Mrs. Brown into her new dress, with each millimeter of zip Mrs. Novikov’s sense of pride grew.

  “It’s a miracle you could do this. But how did you do this?” Mrs. Brown asked. The tailoring was incredible.

  “I’ve a few secrets?” Mrs. Novikov said, and laughed.

  “It’s like being held up by angels,” Mrs. Brown said, rejoicing in the support of such a finely constructed dress. The matching jacket was just as edifying.

  Rachel entered the dressing room carrying a pair of black croc leather pumps and a black cashmere cardigan sweater.

  “You look wonderful, Mrs. Brown! How does the dress feel?” Rachel asked.

  “I can’t do it justice,” Mrs. Brown answered. “I can’t explain it. It feels as I hoped it would but even better.”

  Rachel asked Mrs. Brown to turn so she could inspect all aspects of the dress. “You did an exceptional job, Mrs. Novikov. Truly amazing.”

  “Yes, I did,” Mrs. Novikov said.

  “Oh,” Rachel said, “these shoes. Try them on. They will go well with the dress. And also try this cardigan. Sometimes you won’t want to wear the matching jacket. It’s a good look, too, more modern than the jacket . . .”

  The expression on Mrs. Novikov’s face left no doubt that she disapproved of what Rachel was saying.

  “With all due respect to the jacket and the dress combination. Oh, Mrs. Novikov, I mean no insult,” Rachel said, and continued with her style counsel. “And if you want to make the dress even less formal, Mrs. Brown, you can try a color cardigan sweater instead of black. White is nice, red also.”

  Mrs. Brown stepped into the shoes and rose three inches in height and miles in confidence—funny thing how that always happens in a good pair of heels. Rachel held the cashmere cardigan open, and Mrs. Brown put it on, the softest thing she’d ever known.

  After she paid for the dress, if she was going to save as much of the money from the sale of the hutch as she could, then she couldn’t afford the shoes, but maybe the sweater? “How much is the sweater and how much are the shoes?” Mrs. Brown asked.

  “Mrs. Brown, both are presents from me to you.”

  Mrs. Brown was not comfortable with this. “You mustn’t, Rachel. I can’t accept. You’ve done so much for me already. If I’m to have either, I must pay, really, I must.”

  “Mrs. Brown, I respect and appreciate what you are saying, but really I insist,” Rachel said.

  There was a polite standoff. Silence.

  “Oh, go on, dearie, take ’em,” Mrs. Novikov said.

  “Well, let me go pay now and see what the total is. I want to pay for the sweater at least,” Mrs. Brown said, and exited the changing room followed by Rachel and Mrs. Novikov.

  Mrs. Brown noticed that a tall, dapper gentleman was coming toward her. He was very sophisticated, very tan, and very good looking.

  “My goodness,” he said in a Latin accent. “You look fantastic! Yesterday, when I first heard about you from Rachel, I didn’t understand, why does this lady want this black dress? Sure this style is one of our biggest perennial sellers, but if you’ve saved your money, and you’ve taken all the trouble to make your first trip to New York to buy something from us, why not one of our more feminine numbers?”

  This was the patron himself, the designer Oscar de la Renta.

  Rachel had arranged for him to delay his interview with Charlie Rose for fifteen minutes so he could stop by the boutique to meet Mrs. Brown. Oscar wanted to personally present Mrs. Brown with one of his favorite alligator handbags. It would go so nicely with her new dress and shoes.

  The designer introduced himself. “I’m Oscar. It’s so good to see you, Mrs. Brown.”

  With all the old-world elegance for which he was famous, the designer took Mrs. Brown’s hand and kissed it. Rachel had also organized a “champagne reception”—the buffet table in the front of the store had buckets of champagne and little pastries on a tiered silver server. Oscar didn’t let go, but sweetly held Mrs. Brown’s hand in his until a bottle of champagne was uncorked with a thunderous pop and everyone applauded.

  Glasses were filled. Oscar proposed a toast to Mrs. Brown’s health and safe trip home. He thanked her “for honoring us with your excellent choice in dresses.”

  He made a short speech. Oscar said that when fashion becomes too big a business, a designer might forget the reason he got into it in the first place: to make a lady’s life happier, and to give her confidence.

  “You’ve r
eminded us what our primary purpose is.” Oscar took Mrs. Brown’s hand and kissed it. “And we all thank you.”

  Mrs. Brown was stunned. “No,” she said, almost pleading. “I thank you. I thank all of you so much.”

  It was Rachel’s turn to say something to Mrs. Brown. “Since I saw you yesterday, I’ve felt I have a new pair of glasses. Knowing you, Mrs. Brown, even for such a short time, has meant so much to me.”

  “But you don’t wear glasses,” Mrs. Brown said.

  “Okay, then, a new pair of contact lenses.” Rachel laughed. She embraced Mrs. Brown.

  Over Rachel’s shoulder Mrs. Brown saw Anthony Bruno entering the store and, through the glass storefront, his red Mercedes convertible waiting. He was driving her to Penn Station.

  It was time to say goodbye to these sweet people.

  Anthony greeted Mrs. Brown. Rachel introduced him to Oscar de la Renta. But they’d already met, which astonished Rachel. Anthony’s company had done the floors at the designer’s country house, and both men, as they discovered, were avid fans of mariachi music. Someday, Anthony promised, he would sing for Rachel (at our wedding, he was thinking).

  Mrs. Brown asked one of the salespeople for the bill for her purchases. When it was presented, there was a big mistake. It said the amount Mrs. Brown owed was half of what she expected to pay.

  “What’s this?” Mrs. Brown asked. “It must be some mistake.”

  The salesperson didn’t know how best to respond, but here was Oscar de la Renta to help.

  “We’ve an expression on Seventh Avenue. It’s music to most women’s ears. ‘I can get it for you wholesale,’ and, Mrs. Brown,” Oscar said, “if I can’t get it for you wholesale, then we’re in a lot of trouble around here.”

  With that, he said his goodbyes.

  The better it gets, the better it gets; Mrs. Brown couldn’t believe her good fortune and everyone’s kindness. While she changed back into her traveling clothes, her dress was packed in tissue inside an Oscar de la Renta dress box. It was wrapped with ribbons and tied with handles for her to carry.

  Given that she had a considerable amount of money left over, she wanted to buy something for Mrs. Fox and for Alice. She noticed a gold bracelet with one charm on it, the designer’s initials, ODLR. That seemed perfect. Something Mrs. Fox would never buy for herself, that glittered, and that felt “very New York,” in the words of Rachel’s assistant, Daniel, who wholeheartedly approved the purchase.

  It was harder to choose something for Alice. Mrs. Brown decided on a navy blue enamel frame about five inches square. It was a handsome frame, and she could imagine the note she could write when she presented it. Something along the lines of “For your favorite photograph of Milo.” Clearly, Alice was falling in love with him, and Mrs. Brown wanted to be encouraging.

  “I’m going to come visit you! Okay?” Daniel exclaimed.

  Why not? “Please do,” Mrs. Brown said. “Do you like hair salons? I think Bonnie would like you.”

  “Do I like hair salons?” Daniel responded. “Y-E-S! Clothes stores, spas, hair salons, they’re my churches, Mrs. Brown.”

  Mrs. Novikov was heading back to the dressing room to gather her sewing things. Mrs. Brown stopped her. She took her hand and pressed a hundred-dollar bill inside. Maybe not for the famously rich one percent, but for everyone else a hundred dollars was still a lot of money. And Mrs. Brown, having the sewing skills that she did, knew how masterful Mrs. Novikov’s talent was.

  “What’s this?” Mrs. Novikov asked.

  “I want to thank you is all,” Mrs. Brown said.

  Mrs. Novikov unfolded the bill. “A tip?”

  Mrs. Brown worried that she had offended her, the last thing she intended. But she knew how nice it was, and rare, to receive a truly generous gratuity for a job well done.

  “I hope I didn’t offend you?” Mrs. Brown said.

  “Offend me?” Mrs. Novikov smiled. “Not at all. You’re a good woman, Emilia Brown. I wish there were more like you around.”

  Anthony brought Mrs. Brown’s dress box to his car. Rachel said she would overnight the handbag, shoes, and cardigan because they would be too much for Mrs. Brown to manage on the train. Daniel had packed a picnic supper, chicken salad sandwiches with bacon and two small bottles of Evian water, for Mrs. Brown’s trip to Ashville.

  There were hugs and smiles and promises to be in touch. Even the salespeople who had been so suspicious when they first saw her enter their emporium yesterday were sad to see Mrs. Brown leave. After all, they were just doing their jobs and now regretted the rush to judgment.

  Rachel’s eyes filled with tears. She insisted Mrs. Brown promise to come back to New York City to visit. Rachel and Mrs. Brown hugged one more time. When Rachel said goodbye to Anthony, instead of giving him a kiss, she shook his hand.

  Mrs. Brown wasn’t pleased to observe this, but she was ready with a plan. She conveniently forgot to return the set of apartment keys Rachel had given her yesterday when she went to her office, in case Mrs. Brown wanted to go for a walk.

  Just as Anthony drove up to the Seventh Avenue entrance to Pennsylvania Station, Mrs. Brown decided it was the perfect time to remember the keys.

  “Oh, good Lord,” she said. “I’ve kept Rachel’s apartment keys by mistake.” She pressed the keys into Anthony’s hand. “Will you please return them for me as soon as possible? Rachel will be so worried that they are lost.”

  Anthony nodded that he would.

  “She won’t feel safe until you put them in her hand yourself.”

  “Yes, of course, Mrs. Brown. I will.”

  “And, Anthony,” Mrs. Brown said, stepping onto the sidewalk, “when you telephone, and I do mean telephone, not text, Rachel about the keys, don’t let her tell you to leave them with her doorman. You understand? You return them over a nice dinner in a quiet, romantic restaurant, not one of those places that are so noisy you can’t hear your heart.”

  Anthony smiled. He understood her plan. “You bet I will!” He came around the car and hugged her so affectionately that he lifted her off the sidewalk. “Thanks, Mrs. Brown. Thank you!”

  ALICE SAT AT MRS. Brown’s kitchen table, Santo, the cat, asleep in her lap, and waited for her friend’s return home.

  Alice had barely breathed a decent breath since receiving Mrs. Brown’s telephone call yesterday afternoon saying she wasn’t coming back to Ashville last night. Even if she might have been able to relax, her grandmother’s anxiety was overwhelming. They’d conferred on the telephone right after Alice got Mrs. Brown’s call.

  Mrs. Brown had explained everything. In theory it all made sense. That she had to stay in New York until the jacket and dress in her size options arrived from another boutique, that she had been offered a fine place to stay with the young woman who was once Mrs. Groton’s assistant. They had met during the inventory of the great lady’s things. Hadn’t she told Alice all about Rachel Ames? How was this for a small world? She now works for Oscar de la Renta. She had come to Mrs. Brown’s rescue.

  Yes, Alice remembered hearing about Rachel, but still. She worried. Mrs. Brown at night in a stranger’s apartment in New York City? She might have protested Mrs. Brown’s decision except for one thing. She didn’t often admit it, but she’d become a daily devotee of the horoscope in the Ashville Bulletin. Her grandmother hadn’t stopped delivery of the paper before she went to Vancouver, and Alice checked the horoscope every day before going to work.

  Yesterday it had advised her to “keep your nose out of what other people do. Leave them to sort out their own dilemmas while you get on with your life.”

  With this in mind, she kept her lips buttoned and simply thanked Mrs. Brown for the alert and wished her a wonderful night in the city. Then she’d read this bit of ink-stained astrological advice to her grandmother to keep her calm. It hadn’t worked. Mrs. Fox was sleepless in Vancouver last night, awake worrying.

  Now, tonight, if all went according to today’s plan—which she assumed it had
because if it hadn’t, surely Mrs. Brown would have telephoned—Mrs. Brown should have been here four minutes ago!

  How ridiculous it had seemed to Alice when Mrs. Brown first declared her intention to save for the Oscar de la Renta dress. How many weeks—months actually—did it take her to finally realize that for Mrs. Brown this wasn’t ridiculous, or frivolous, that she was experiencing something profound?

  Alice wished she’d been less judgmental and more supportive from the start. She could have been more enthusiastic. But the one thing she was glad for was that she had never told, and never would tell, Mrs. Brown how Paul Gallico’s Mrs. ’Arris Goes to Paris, the book that had so inspired her, ends.

  It may offer an enlightened ending, but not a happy one, certainly not for the dress.

  Soon after Mrs. ’Arris returns to London from Paris, a spoiled rich girl Mrs. ’Arris cleans for is in a state of despair about what to wear to an important event where she must make a good impression on a well-heeled suitor. The too kind and too generous Mrs. ’Arris lends her dress—which she herself has yet to wear. Hours of partygoing later, the dress is irreparably ruined, and the rich girl just leaves it in a pile for Mrs. ’Arris to find when she comes in to clean.

  Was this a bad omen for Mrs. Brown’s dress? Doomed by the folly of its acquisition? That’s what worried Alice.

  But Alice never said a word.

  IT WAS AFTER THREE in the morning when Mrs. Brown finished telling Alice the story of her day and night in the city.

  Alice had heard footsteps on the sidewalk just after midnight. The bountiful Oscar de la Renta dress box was so big it had to enter the house first. Mrs. Brown presented the blue enamel picture frame, and it was much appreciated for the reasons Mrs. Brown had hoped. The bracelet for Mrs. Fox, wrapped by Daniel, was described and then put on a high shelf in the closed kitchen cupboard where Santo couldn’t get to it.

  Next, the pièce de résistance: the dress box was opened and the dress and jacket examined on its hanger as if they were treasures just discovered on an archaeological dig at one of the great temples in Greece.