by Sandra Cunha
“Querida,” Gloria says, using the Portuguese word for sweetie. “You okay?”
Phew! Definitely, not a dream. There was no Gloria in my past working life.
I smile and nod in her direction.
We’re seated at either end of a long, wooden table that’s been setup in the only real bedroom of my condo. (I still sleep in the den.) Okay, so it’s not actually my condo. It’s Betty’s. She decided to keep the condo as an investment property after her and Matt bought their house together. I’m her tenant.
The “bedroom” is the official headquarters of Lady Bettencourt. There are sewing machines at both ends of the table; the middle portion is used for laying and cutting out patterns. On the side walls, there are bookcases holding sewing supplies and the deconstructed secondhand materials we use exclusively to make the dresses. Finished dresses, go on row-upon-row of clothing racks in the living room. Thankfully, I never ended up replacing the furniture Betty took with her when she moved out. I didn’t realize how much space I’d need to run my online shop once business took off.
Gloria was the first seamstress I hired to work with me. She was my mom’s former coworker at the alteration shop, but then, with time, they lost touch. Years later, through the power of my friend, the universe, Gloria and I were reunited. After that, I hired her sister, Natalia, and another former coworker from the alteration shop, Sophia. They all magically came into my life when I needed their help the most. (See? The universe—and my mom—definitely had a hand in making that happen.)
In the beginning, Natalia and Sophia worked out of the condo, too. But there isn’t enough room anymore. We are (figuratively) bursting at the seams. There’s been so much demand for our dresses that I’ve had to hire two more seamstresses, Patricia and Ming, who work on a piece-work basis from their own homes. Patricia is Sophia’s cousin. I found Ming through Patricia, as they once worked together at a bridal shop, making wedding gown alterations. Ming does most of our evening gowns now because she has a lot of experience working with finer materials.
As I’m remembering the origin story of Lady Bettencourt, and how I came to work with some of the same women as my mom, I wonder how she ended up at the alteration shop in the first place. She was going to be an artist.
When did that change?
Wait a minute.
Not only was Gloria my mom’s former coworker, she was also my mom’s friend, and even babysat Betty and I when we were kids. She may know something.
“Gloria!” I say, startling her. “Did you know my mom was an artist?”
“Yes, she was very good at making clothes.”
“No, what I meant was, did you know she was a painter?”
She thinks for a moment. “Oh, yeah. I remember her telling me one time she had to paint your bedroom because you drew all over the walls with crayons,” she says, giving me a scornful look, as if this just happened recently. (I’d forgotten I’d done that.)
“I don’t mean a painter of walls, but a painter of paintings, of pictures.” Gloria’s English is pretty good, but some things still get lost in translation.
“No, I never know she do that.”
This isn’t going anywhere.
“What about her mother? My grandmother? I know they weren’t close, but do you know anything about her?” I want to try to get something out of her.
She stops sewing the dress she’s working on. There’s a blank look on her face as she gazes out the floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s as if I can see her replaying a memory in her mind. But then, she shakes her head and turns towards me, looking straight into my eyes. “Why you ask me these questions, querida? What happen?”
Dammit! She’s on to me.
“I was wondering if you knew anything. That’s all. I’ll go make us some coffee.” I get up quickly from my chair and leave the room.
Gloria has a way of knowing when I’m not being a hundred-percent truthful. It’s better I drop it for now. I hadn’t thought out what I’d say to her. I hadn’t known I was going to say anything; it just sort of came out. But I can tell she’s hiding something, too.
I can feel it.
I’m in the kitchen, making Gloria and I coffee, when there’s a knock on the door.
It’s Mila. She walks in, carrying several full bags from the thrift store. While I occasionally go out on hunts for the secondhand materials needed to make our dresses, Mila does the majority of the scavenging now. She’s really good at finding stuff at low prices. It’s helped our profit margins a lot.
She gives me air-kisses on each cheek in greeting. I used to think Mila was this super cool model-slash-dog-walker-slash-illegal-package-handler, but she’s actually kind of goofy.
“Coffee?” I ask.
She nods her head vigorously, then walks towards the living room area to find someplace to put down the bags. I see her struggle to find a spot because of all the clothing racks.
“Erin, we need a bigger space,” she says.
For some reason, her vocalizing what I had already known to be true, makes me look around in an entirely new way. This place is a giant mess.
“I know. We do.”
It’s not that I can’t afford to rent out a proper workshop; business has been growing like crazy. It’s just that I’m, well, a little afraid. It’s scary making major business decisions. I’m always worried they won’t turn out, especially when they involve spending significant amounts of money.
“I could talk to Frankie,” Mila says. “See if he can find us some old, abandoned warehouse on the cheap.”
“Maybe, but, um, give me a bit of time to think about it first.”
I definitely don’t want to get Frankie involved—unless I have to. Frankie is . . . actually, I don’t know who Frankie is at all. I’ve never met him. I’ve only ever talked to him on the phone. But when I was running my errand service from my cubicle, I did “a job” for him, delivering what I later found out was a “not exactly legal” package.
That’s also the short version of how I met Mila, the illegal package handler. Although, Mila and I don’t share that particular story of how we met with other people. We just tell them we used to work together and let them assume it was at my old job. People love to assume.
Maybe finding new headquarters for Lady Bettencourt is what I should be focusing on right now. It’ll distract me from what I’ve read in my mom’s diary. I have to stop thinking about how her life took such an unexpected turn. Because if I think about it, really think about it, I already know the answer to that. It’s as obvious as my needing to find a bigger space.
My mom stopped being an artist because Betty and I came into the picture.
CHAPTER SIX
LIZZIE CALLED.
Not Lizzie, my mom—clearly—but Lizzie, my friend from the vintage shop, who shares her name. She called last night to say they were running low on Lady Bettencourt dresses and could use another batch.
A few months ago, I began selling my dresses at the shop. Well, the higher-end ones, including The Rosie and two new evening wear designs that were added to the line for them to carry exclusively. I came up with the idea and convinced the owner it was still in keeping with the concept of the shop and would help to bring in a younger clientele. He said he’d take the dresses on consignment and that I had a month to prove myself.
I did prove myself. So much so, I got my very own rack. I love seeing my dresses in a real-life, brick-and-mortar store. I never thought that would happen. So whenever Lizzie calls for more, I make sure to always have some dresses ready to be delivered. I’d hate to lose my rack.
And that’s why I find myself in Yorkville, in the early hours of this summer morning, standing outside the vintage shop, with a pile of garment bags in my arms.
I knock on the glass front door to get Lizzie’s attention, as the store hasn’t officially opened for the day.
As she comes into view, a smile spreads across my face. Even though there’s a significant age difference between us, we were friend
s right from the start. She’s always looking out for me. When she sees me, she returns my smile and hurries to open the door.
“Hello, you!” she says, once she’s let me in.
I walk to the sales counter and place the garment bags on top so I can get a hug from Lizzie. Lizzie’s hugs are the best kind of hugs.
“How’s Betty?” she asks when she releases me.
“Ready to give birth.”
“Poor thing. It must be dreadful having to stay in bed all day. Tell her to keep a bottle of peppermint oil next to her bed. She can take a whiff of it whenever she needs a little pick-me-up.”
“I will. I’m visiting her after I leave here, so I’ll tell her, then.”
“Oh, I almost forgot. I have some news!” she says, clapping her hands together.
“Spill,” I say conspiratorially.
“The owner is selling the shop,” Lizzie says in a whisper, although we’re the only two people in here.
“The shop? This shop?” I say, not in a whisper.
“Shhh!” She puts her index finger to her lips. “He hasn’t put it on the market, yet. He doesn’t want it getting out there until it’s official. He has to ready himself for the vultures who will swoop in.”
I can see why there’d be vultures. Yorkville is one of Toronto’s prime real estate areas. Because it’s a hamlet, it’s limited in size, so there isn’t much land available, making anything that comes onto the market, extremely desirable.
But if the vintage shop is sold, it’s unlikely whoever buys it will want to keep it as such. They’ll likely turn it into a designer clothing store, like all the others on this street. I’d lose my beloved rack. But that also means . . .
“Lizzie! You’ll be out of a job!”
“It’s all right, dear,” she says, patting my arm to calm me down. “I’ll be okay. I have some savings. I’ve been thinking about retiring soon, anyway. I’m getting too old to stand on my feet all day.”
Lizzie is old. I always forget that because she has such a youthful spirit.
“But I’m sorry you may not be able to sell your dresses here anymore,” she continues. “Which gave me an idea . . . I think you should buy the shop!”
“Me? Buy the shop? With what money?”
“That part, I haven’t quite figured out. But I’m sure you’ll come up with something. I have a good feeling about this. What if I arranged for you to have a chat with the owner before he places it on the market?”
“I don’t know, Lizzie. This would be a really big step for me to take.”
“Well, it’s just an idea for now. There’s still a bit of time. Let it steep, like a cup of tea.”
“Fine, I will. But only to humor you.”
As I leave the shop, I can’t help wondering if it’d be possible. Could I find some way to do it? It’d solve the space issues we’re experiencing. There’s a back room that could be used for storage and as the sewing workshop. And Lizzie once told me there’s a small apartment upstairs the owner uses whenever he’s in town. That could be additional workspace . . . or I could live there to have one less expense.
Imagine: my own brick-and-mortar store full of Lady Bettencourt dresses!
No, no. It’s just a fantasy. There’s no way someone like me could own a place like that. That sort of thing doesn’t happen. Well, it does, but only in the movies.
And this is definitely not a movie.
I haven’t been in Betty’s bedroom for more than a few minutes when I blurt out, “Did you know mom was an artist?”
“What? She was?” Betty asks as she tries to sit up in bed.
There’s something wrong with my brain. I reminded myself not to say anything as I walked in the room, and there I go opening my big mouth. I need to divert her attention. “Hey, is that a new pillow? It looks super comfy.”
“Erin, how do you know mom was an artist?”
I should know by now, there’s no tricking Betty. That once I made a statement like that, I’d have to back it up.
“Um, I was going through some of her things, and I came across something. Apparently, she went to Paris and painted at the Louvre.”
“Really? Wow. I always wondered where you got your artistic talents.”
“You’re artistic, too. You take amazing photos.”
“I guess, but what was this ‘something’ you came across?”
“Oh, just, um, a note she’d written.”
“A note? Cool! Can you bring it the next time you come to visit? I’d love to see it.”
Crap. How am I suppose to do that?
“Okay, sure. I’ll bring it. It’s not that big of a deal. It was just something she wrote down.”
“Still, I want to see it. I’m missing her a lot, lately. Being pregnant makes me realize how much. There’s so many things I wish I could ask her about her own pregnancies. Like, were we breastfed? I never thought to ask her.”
“We weren’t exactly thinking about that kind of stuff at that age.”
It never occurred to me how hard this must be for Betty; her being pregnant and not having our mom here to give her guidance. She has to rely on her parenting books, as most of her friends haven’t had babies, yet, and I don’t think she’d feel comfortable talking to Matt’s mom, even though they get along well. Maybe I should show her the diary entries, in case there’s something in there about that.
But how would I explain that I’ve already started reading them? She’ll know I kept it from her. She always knows. I need more time to think it over before I tell her. I don’t want to make a hasty decision.
“Oh, yeah,” I say, wanting to change the subject. “Before coming here, I went by the vintage shop to drop off some more dresses. Lizzie told me to tell you to take a sniff of peppermint oil whenever you feel down.”
“Hmm, I hadn’t heard of that. I think we have some, so I’ll give it a try. I’ll try anything at this point. Tell her, thank you for me.”
“I will. She mentioned something else, too. Apparently, the vintage shop is going up for sale and—get this—she thinks I should buy it. Isn’t that crazy?”
Betty thinks a moment. “Interesting. It’s not completely crazy. It depends on the numbers. Get me the numbers, and I’ll tell you if it’s crazy or not.”
I can’t believe Betty actually thinks there’s a chance.
Has the whole world gone insane?
“Betty, I don’t exactly have millions of dollars laying around.”
“Obviously. But there might be another way. We can figure something out . . . once we have the numbers.”
The only numbers I can see making this happen are lottery numbers.
Maybe I should buy a ticket.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE NEXT DAY, as I was sitting in the sewing workroom, supposedly brainstorming ideas for new dress designs, what I was really doing was brainstorming how to tell Betty about our mom’s diary. She got so excited when I told her our mom had been an artist; there’s no way she wouldn’t want to know more. So once Gloria has gone home for the day, I go to my bedroom and look for the package underneath my mattress.
It’s still there.
I don’t know why it wouldn’t be. Maybe because losing things is one of my mastered skills.
As I remove the little bundle of papers from the envelope, Coco peeks around the corner of my (non-existent) door, and then comes to lie on the small patch of floor beside my bed.
I place my hand on top of the letter our mom wrote us—and I know this sounds weird, but it makes me feel as though I’m touching her hand.
My plan is to practice reading the artist entry aloud, so I can read it to Betty on my next visit. Sort of like a book reading but different. I’m dramatic that way. But as I finish removing the binder clip from the bundle, my phone rings.
I set the package aside and search the room for my phone. It’s not in here. I follow the rings until I find it on top of the table in the workroom.
“Hello,” I say hurriedly, hoping whoe
ver is on the other end hasn’t disconnected.
Please let it be Aaron.
“Erin! Brian from the frame shop here!”
“Oh, hi, Brian.”
“I’m calling because we found a hidden message in the canvas of your painting.”
“You, what?” My breathing stops. I take a seat on one of the chairs in the workroom, in case I faint.
“A secret code, like, you know, in The Da Vinci Code.”
A secret code? Is this another clue from my mom? But she wrote that we wouldn’t find anything else.
“Hello, Erin? Are you still there?”
“What does—what does the code say?” I close my eyes in anticipation.
“The code says . . . fooled you again!”
I’m going to kill this man! I’m never framing anything at his shop ever again!
“Ha-ha. Good one,” I say, even though I’m annoyed. He doesn’t know the significance of all of this.
“What’d you find in that package I gave you?”
“Just some, um, old receipts.” And he won’t get to know the significance after that little prank he pulled.
“Well, that’s no fun. What I actually called to tell you is that your painting will be ready for pick up on the first of September. Come by anytime after ten to get it.”
“Okay, thanks. I will.”
“Have a super-duper day!” he says, ending the call.
I’m so gullible. I can’t believe I bought his “secret code” joke. I guess when it comes to my mom, I’ll believe anything if it means I’ll get more information about her.
When I get back to my room, the package is no longer on my bed. I’m sure I left it there. I check underneath the mattress, in case I put it back. But it’s not there, either.
Where could it possibly have gone?
It couldn’t have disappeared into thin air—could it?