by Sara Celi
“I am.” I motioned for my coworker and closest friend to sit in the open chair across from my desk. “Just thinking about the holidays. It’s not going to be so bad this year. Not as bad as last year.”
Nothing could be as bad as last year.
“I’m glad it’s getting easier, man.” Peter clapped a hand on my shoulder, squeezed. “Time, huh?”
“Heals all wounds.” I shook my head and the subject away. “What about you? When do you leave?”
“Just have to get through today and tomorrow, and then I’m on the plane to St. Lucia.”
“You’re going to have a great time.”
“Not sure if I told you this, but I’m going to propose to Nicole while we’re down there.” Peter smiled. “I decided that’s the best place to do it and planned the whole thing out with her parents.”
“That’s awesome. She’s going to be so surprised.”
“Glad we decided to shut down this year. I think the rest of the team appreciates it, too.”
“They seemed happy this morning. Hard to believe that was our last staff meeting of the year.”
“Went fast.”
“Listen, I was thinking . . .” Peter hesitated and looked away for a beat. “If you feel like you want to get away, you can still come down to St. Lucia with us. You don’t . . . I mean . . . you always have an open door down there.”
“Thanks.” I took a deep breath. Since Monica’s death, Peter had tried to be there for me, and even though we didn’t say much, I knew he cared, and that was all that mattered. “I appreciate that, but I’m going to be okay. I’m going to Dayton to see my parents, and I’ll be . . . I’ll be fine.”
“Good,” Peter replied with an air of finality that both of us knew came from relief that this conversation wouldn’t get too deep, too heartfelt, or too heartbreaking. He stood, clearly ready to leave the room before he hesitated again, as if remembering the real reason he’d stopped in my office. “Also, before I forget, Nicole’s mom wanted me to give you these.” He took an envelope from his pocket and placed it on the desk. “Two tickets to the Junior League’s Winter Escape Fashion Show tomorrow. Just what you’ve been waiting for.”
“Yep.” I didn’t pick up the tickets. “Now my December is complete.”
Peter laughed to himself. “They are so thankful that you designed the invitation for the event.”
We spoke a little more before Peter left, mumbling about some spreadsheets he needed to update. I turned back to the desktop. There wasn’t much work left to do—a few emails, some out of office settings, and edits on the presentation for Chadwick Properties that was due after the first of the year. I liked this feeling—the way the holidays presented an air of “wrapping things up” that really meant winding down the hours until we had a few weeks off from the morning commute and the daily grind of life. Another hour or so, and the company Christmas luncheon would begin in the break room, the smell of honey baked ham and potluck macaroni filling the office with even more cheer.
I picked up the envelope and took out the tickets. The Junior League hosted the fashion show every year, and even though I never attended, the wives and girlfriends of my friends and coworkers often talked about it, emphasizing how an afternoon spent staring at expensive clothes and drinking spiked cocoa was all for charity, with the proceeds going to different local organizations. This year, the Cincinnati Children’s Hospital would benefit from largesse of the city’s most well-connected ladies.
Fingering the tickets, I admired what I’d created in the ticket design—a mix of scripted font, mistletoe, and a few throwback cocktail glass clip art designs that somehow came together for a vintage-yet-glamorous feel. On the back, a list of names laid out hosts and hostesses for the event, as well as the sponsors and donations the organization had received to maximize the impact of the fundraiser. One name stood out under the list of “presenting designers and boutiques.”
The Pink Box.
I hadn’t paid attention to who was doing what when I created the design. I did it several months ago during the span of an afternoon, fitting the creativity required in between projects for clients who paid more than the Junior League ever could. Point, click, scan—the whole thing hadn’t taken long at all. Anything to help Nicole and her mother, who considered the Junior League an important part of their lives.
Of course, if The Pink Box was a presenting designer, that meant Nora Shaw would likely attend the event.
I tucked the tickets back in the envelope. Even more interesting.
FOUR
NORA
I should have known better.
That thought—five simple, little words ran through my head like a ticker tape machine, playing on an endless loop. I should have known better than to sign up for this blasted fashion show. Never again.
“Come here,” I called to one of the models in the backstage area of the main ballroom of the Cincinnati Women’s Club. “Let me fix that outfit.”
The teenage model sauntered toward me wearing a leather pencil skirt, crushed velvet blazer, a pair of over-the-knee boots, and a few other accessories that gave her what I hoped was a pulled-together-as-if-I-don’t-care look. With a careful eye, I twisted the skirt and unbuttoned the jacket until the final touches of the outfit satisfied me.
“There. Now you’re ready.”
I pointed the model—Julie? Helen? Marie? —in the direction of the entrance to the runway. A few feet away, the assistant who’d been assigned to me from the Junior League gestured to another model ready to go, and I gave my nod of approval. Six women had already sauntered down the walkway; another four to go and my contribution to the Junior League fashion show would be over. Next year, if they asked me to participate, I would have to say no. While I supported Children’s Hospital and knew the league did a lot of important work, dressing models and styling outfits in the waning days of the holiday shopping season was just too much effort. I barely had enough time to run The Pink Box as it was. Next year, I would have to make some sacrifices on behalf of my business.
If I was still in business. My breath caught in my throat as I realized I probably wouldn’t be. Since getting the email from Chadwick Properties, I’d reached out to them three times to get an extension on the rent increase. I’d even composed a sad, plaintive email back to the company, hoping that someone would feel sorry for me. But my pleas hadn’t been heard. I needed to face the reality of my situation.
Don’t think about that right now. Not yet.
Pushing that worry from my mind, I sent the rest of the models down the catwalk, joined them for the finale, and finally breathed a welcome, relaxed sigh as my contribution to the fundraiser was over. While it had felt like an honor to participate back when they’d asked me in the fall, I hadn’t taken into account all of the coordination, effort, and attention that would happen during what I would have argued were the most important shopping days of the year. The holidays were stressful enough, and this added to it.
Big time.
“Whew, I am exhausted,” I said to the Junior League volunteer. “I’m going to get a drink.”
Giving her a small wave, I left the backstage area and wandered to the mahogany bar in the far corner of the room. The fashion show continued and the emcee introduced a downtown menswear shop specializing in bespoke hats and ties. I asked the bartender for a Bloody Mary, rolling my shoulders a few times as the tension in my back released. I didn’t often drink during the daytime and couldn’t remember the last time I’d had one, but a thick cocktail of tomato juice, vodka, salt, and other spices sounded perfect. When the bartender handed over the drink, I chugged down a large gulp.
“Hey there, Nora.”
I jumped, then turned in the direction of the voice. “Scott, what are you doing here?”
“What everyone else is doing.” He held a glass of dark beer and nodded at the runway in the center of the room and the father-son model combination currently walking down it. “Getting the scoop on the best holida
y fashions and upcoming spring looks, of course.”
“Well, I can tell you that cream is big this year, along with color blocking, but you don’t want to overdo that.” I widened my eyes for emphasis, knowing I was flirting with Scott a little, and enjoying it immensely. “That can cause you major problems, and by the middle of next season, you won’t want to wear anything that’s in your closet.”
“Sounds serious. I’ll try to remember that advice.”
“You better. We can’t have any fashion disasters in your future.” I laughed, noticing the relative easiness of this conversation. It had been a long time since I’d felt this comfortable around any man, but something I couldn’t place about Scott made me feel relaxed. “Honestly though, I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I designed the invitations, and they gave me tickets as a thank you. I didn’t have anything else to do, so”—he spread his hand— “here I am.”
“Not having anything to do sounds amazing. Especially right now, during the holidays. I can almost always think of something that needs to be done.”
“Well, you know . . .” He shrugged. “My office has shut down until after the New Year, and I don’t have any plans until my family gets together for their annual dinner.”
“Do they live around here?”
“Outside of Dayton. Most of my family is still there. I’m the only one who moved away.”
“That’s not far. Probably good to have them around since . . . well, since . . .” Since your wife died. I faltered, catching myself before I said it. Talking about his wife was probably the last thing that he wanted to do. “Since this time of year can be tough on a lot of people.”
“Yes.” Scott downed the last of his beer and placed the empty glass on the modular bar. “What about you? I’m guessing by your comment the store keeps you busy.”
“It does, and things like this do, too,” I replied, and it sounded like the right thing to say. A moment later, the spectators broke out into applause, signaling the end of the fashion show, and my shoulders relaxed. “I hate to end this conversation, but I need to pack up and get out of here. Tara, my lone employee, is monitoring the store for me, and I want to get back before I have to pay her for another hour.”
“I’ll let you go, then.” He flashed me another grin, one that sent an almost unfamiliar mix of delicious anticipation racing through my veins. The more I was around Scott, the more I found myself liking him. Still, I had no time for this. No time at all. Not with the store, the rent I still had to find a way to generate, and the hectic headiness of the holidays themselves . . .
“Bye,” I added, then slipped away right after he said goodbye, too.
But twenty minutes later, with my car loaded up and the store in my sights, my cheeks were still flushed.
FIVE
NORA
“How was the fashion show?” Tara asked when I walked through the front door of The Pink Box. She stood next to the cash register, folding red and navy cashmere sweaters.
“It was good.” I hung my coat and scarf on the hook just to the side of the checkout area. “Tiring, but good. Hopefully, some of the people who attended will stop by the store, since their gift bags included those fifty-percent-off-one-item coupons they have to use before January first.”
“I hope so, too.” Tara folded the last item and gave the stack a satisfied survey. She had an eye for detail and precision. I admired those qualities about her, marveling as well that she’d bothered to work part-time at The Pink Box since I was twelve. My mother often said she couldn’t make it in business without Tara. “These are all ready for that front table.”
“Thanks, I’ll set them out in a little bit. Did anyone come in while I was gone?”
“Only one person, and they bought a clutch.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I even put the welcome sign out on the sidewalk, hoping that would get more people to come in as they did their last minute holiday shopping. This weekend is usually so busy for shoppers.”
“Hard to believe that Christmas is almost here.”
“Yep.” My helper picked up a few of the fluffy sweaters. They reminded me of cotton candy, and I remembered how much I’d liked their soft knit on my New York City buying trip earlier that year. Maybe people will decide they want these in January. Maybe. “It always seems like this part of December moves so fast.”
I followed Tara’s lead, then walked over to the empty center table. As we fanned the sweaters out around the small Christmas trees, I trained my gaze on the classic painting of water lilies Mom had placed on the wall when I was sixteen. I miss you, Mom. I wouldn’t ever change the look of the store completely—not when she’d spent so long perfecting it. But I did switch up minor details every now and then to keep things feeling fresh.
Tara and I had already talked about how I wanted this area of the store to look, and it didn’t take long before the sweaters looked like the spokes of a wheel, fanning out from a small, artificial Christmas tree I’d set in the center of the table.
“This looks fantastic,” Tara said. “I like it a lot.”
“I do too.” I glanced at my watch. Every minute she stayed in the store meant more money I’d have to dig out from my dwindling budget, and while I enjoyed her company, I couldn’t afford much more of it. “Listen, I don’t want to keep you any longer . . .”
“It’s okay. You know, I didn’t want to say anything, but my dad told me the other day that Chadwick Properties wants to raise the rent on all of the tenants in this shopping center.”
I bit back a grimace. It didn’t surprise me that Tara knew this since her dad played a huge role in the daily operations of that property management company, but I still wasn’t prepared to talk to her or anyone else about it. Asking for help wasn’t easy for me to do. “I got the notice the other day. It’s not going to be easy to come up with the money.”
“Did you try to talk to them?”
“They won’t take my phone calls or answer my emails.”
A low whistle escaped her lips. “Do you want me to talk to Arthur?”
I shook my head. “You don’t have to pull that string. This is my problem, not yours.”
“But what are you going to do if you can’t come up with the money?”
I gave a helpless shrug, the defeat of the situation pushing through me. “I don’t know. Close, I guess.”
“No way.” Her eyes widened. “You can’t.”
“What other choice do I have? If we don’t start getting new customers and making more of a profit . . .”
“But your parents loved this store. They put so much time and effort into it. They would be devastated if you had to close. This place is a Watch Hill landmark.”
“Trust me, no one feels that more acutely than I do. I’ve thought about it a ton.” Prayed about it, worried about it . . . “But I can’t run a failing business forever, and people’s habits have changed. They shop online now, and the economy isn’t so great . . .” I sighed over the weight of it. “I’m sure Chadwick Properties will be able to get an amazing tenant in here if I leave. Someone or something more in line with what people want—like a salon, or a Pilates studio, maybe.”
“There are plenty of Pilates studios.” Tara looked around the room. “But this—this place has a wonderful ambiance to it. You can’t get this from online shopping.”
“I wish more people felt the same way.”
Tara didn’t stick around much longer after that, and when I was alone, the conversation we’d had played again in my mind. She was right—my parents would be devastated if they knew I was considering shutting down the store after so many years in this little strip of Watch Hill. Owning a business like this had been their dream, and they’d been talented at it, working for years making sure that The Pink Box had a stellar reputation and a loyal customer base. But part of the magic had been my mother’s dynamic personality, her flair for cutting-edge style, and her eclectic taste. Without her selling expensive dresses under a cloud of Fren
ch perfume and choosing pieces that made The Pink Box utterly unique, something huge was missing.
Try as I might, I couldn’t replicate her, no matter what I did.
Maybe I was hanging on because giving up the store meant giving up part of my parents’ memory, something I wasn’t ready to do because I was still grieving. And God, it felt like I’d been doing that for a long time, as if it were a never-ending process I couldn’t shake. That was one of the biggest things no one ever talked about when it came to death and loss. Grief hung around like a bad disease, always threatening to rear its nasty head.
One other customer came into the store that afternoon, a man I didn’t know, and he bought a dress for his wife along with a few accessories. He wanted the purchase gift-wrapped and the $236.96 he paid represented the largest single sale I’d had that month. It certainly helped ease the pain, but I would have given anything for at least two other customers to rack up price tags as large as that one.
When he left, I thought again about how my mom would have managed this, how she would have perceived the kind of setbacks I had since taking over the operations. She always had such great ideas, and always seemed to know what do, never letting the daily grind of owning a specialty boutique seem too challenging. How many times had I wished for that quality? It felt even more out of reach that year.
Three years was a long time, and not long enough.
I closed the store just after six and considered going home. It certainly sounded attractive. But going home would probably turn into a night watching made-for-TV holiday movies on cable and drinking whatever wine I could find in my kitchen, all of which simply sounded depressing. And while I would have probably used that term for the holidays in general, I wasn’t in the mood to make things worse.
Instead, I headed to Watch Hill Community Church.
The nondenominational congregation had been part of the town since its founding, and hosted services in a white clapboard sanctuary near the shopping center with an engraved cornerstone listing the date of the groundbreaking. I was by no means a member, but WHCC hosted a cantor music festival every weekend during Advent, and it had something of a following in the area. Church leadership brought in singers and musicians from across the region. A few years earlier, the local news rated the concerts as one of the top events to attend during the Christmas season.