Vintage

by Susan Gloss

  Dedication

  For my grandmother Sally Baker who taught me that every seam has a story

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  INVENTORY ITEM: wedding gown

  APPROXIMATE DATE: 1952

  CONDITION: good, minor discoloration on lining

  ITEM DESCRIPTION: Ivory, tea-length gown with scooped neckline and cap sleeves. Silk taffeta with crinoline understructure.

  SOURCE: Dress acquired from the couple’s daughter.

  Violet

  BENEATH THE ASH TREES on Johnson Street, just east of campus, Hourglass Vintage stood in a weathered brick building, wedged between a fair-trade coffee shop and a bike-repair business. Behind the boutique’s windows, Violet Turner was buttoning a mannequin into a smocked sundress.

  She sighed as undergraduates with bright scarves and red faces rushed by the shop without glancing at her or the garments on display. Gray spring days like this one were all about hurrying and practicality, and Violet didn’t like either concept. People in practical moods didn’t wander into the shop to buy Bakelite jewelry or turn-of-the-century kid gloves. Even the hearty street musicians—bearded bluegrass players who usually staked out a spot near the crosswalk—had packed up their banjos and left.

  Violet tucked a strand of short black hair behind her ear and bent down to tie an espadrille sandal onto the mannequin’s ankle. When she got back up, a pair of blue eyes stared back at her. A girl stood outside, just inches from the window, clutching a 1950s wedding dress against her fleece jacket.

  Violet remembered the girl. She had come in a few weeks earlier and tried on half a dozen bridal gowns before selecting the full-skirted one she held now, which flapped in the wind like a surrender flag.

  The girl entered the shop and spread the dress on the counter. “I need to return this.”

  “I’m sorry, but we don’t allow returns.” Violet took her place behind the register and smoothed her checkered skirt against her hips.

  “Can’t you at least give me back part of what I paid?” The girl ran her hands over the silk fabric of the wedding gown, letting them linger on the tulle rosettes along the hem.

  “I wish I could, but it’s store policy,” Violet said. She felt a blast of dry heat from the old radiator affixed to the wall and peeled off her pearl-buttoned cardigan—a find from her grandma Lou’s closet after she passed away.

  The girl stared at the tattoo of a flame-licked phoenix on Violet’s freckled bicep, then looked away when Violet caught her staring. “I guess I hoped you could make an exception,” the girl said. “I could really use the money.” Her eyes clouded with tears—a layer of water over blue ice.

  Violet started to bite her lip, then remembered she was wearing red lipstick. She felt sorry for the girl, but she needed to be firm on her rule. Since she sold secondhand items, there was no way to tell if an item had been worn when a customer brought it back. If she allowed returns, she worried that her shop would become like a lending library for vintage clothes. She handed the girl a Kleenex from a crocheted tissue-box holder.

  The girl took the tissue and wiped her wet cheeks. “Sorry, I’m a mess.”

  “It’s okay.” Seeing the heartbreak in the girl’s face reminded Violet of a time in her own life she didn’t like to think about—the pain that had permeated the breakup of her marriage and culminated in her moving to Madison five years earlier.

  “I don’t usually cry in front of strangers,” the girl said.

  “I helped you pick out your wedding dress. I’d like to think I’m not a total stranger. I’m Violet, by the way.”

  “I’m April Morgan.” The girl shoved the crumpled tissue into her purse—a battered leather schoolboy satchel.

  “I like your bag,” Violet said. “It looks like it’s from the seventies.”

  “Yeah, it belonged to my mom.”

  Violet sensed the girl had a story to tell, and listening to other people’s stories was her specialty. Every item in the boutique had a story behind it, from a Missoni caftan to a Fendi baguette bag with the tags still on it. If Violet didn’t know the real story behind something, she liked to fill in the blanks with her imagination. She knew the caftan, for instance, was from an Italian professor who bought it when she studied abroad in Italy as a college student in the seventies. The professor said she’d had a short but passionate love affair with a distant cousin of Vittorio Emanuele, the last crown prince of Italy. Violet believed her, too, because of the way the woman’s cheeks had burned as she recounted the story.

  Violet didn’t know the details behind the baguette bag. A young journalist from the local alternative newspaper had sold it to the shop for rent money and simply said it had been a gift. Violet liked to imagine that the journalist received it from a cruel but brilliant New York fashion editor who gave it to her to try to entice her into a life of reporting on runway shows and seasonal trends. Perhaps the journalist had turned down the job in favor of writing about what she saw as more important matters, like politics and environmental issues, but kept the bag for a while as a reminder of the road not taken.

  “Do you want something to drink?” Violet asked. “A cup of tea? Shot of whiskey?”

  The girl looked startled. “I, uh, no. I’m only eighteen.”

  Violet laughed as she plugged in an electric kettle on a small table behind the counter. The midcentury table, all angles and Scandinavian oak, held a silver Victorian tea tray and an assortment of mugs. The effect was a hodgepodge of styles, like the boutique and like Violet herself.

  “I’m kidding about the whiskey,” Violet said. “I don’t have any booze in the store.”

  “You sure have a lot of pretty old bottles, though.” April pointed toward a shelf full of vintage glassware in every shape and shade—green, cobalt, ruby red. “What’s that big jug for?”

  “I’m not sure.” Violet went over and took down a stoneware crock with a tiny finger-sized handle. She plunked it on the counter. “It doesn’t have a mark or a label or anything. Maybe someone used it to make moonshine.”

  April picked up the jug and examined the blue floral design on the front. “Where did you get it?”

  “Bent Creek, where I grew up. The owner of the local tavern gave it to me.”

  “Is that here in Wisconsin?” April asked. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  Violet nodded. “There’s no reason you would have, unless you’re a hunting and fishing enthusiast. It’s a tiny town up near Lake Superior. Population of less than a thousand.”

  “Huh,” April said, eyeing Violet’s tattoo again. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t fit in very well there,” Violet said. “When I was a kid, my mom used to scold me because I’d wear my flapper Halloween costume to school on a regular Tuesday or put on my First Communion glov
es for a trip to the grocery store.”

  Violet remembered with a smile that on such occasions, her maternal grandmother would stick up for her if she was within earshot. Grandma Lou would wink at Violet and say, “Some people were just meant to sparkle more than others, honey.”

  Violet waved a hand to avoid any more questions about her past. She opened a mahogany caddy and thumbed through rows of tea bags nestled inside the satin interior. “Are you sure you don’t want some tea? I’m making some for myself anyway, so it’s no big deal to make another cup.”

  “Okay, sure.” April put down the jug and unzipped her jacket. “Thanks.”

  “And here, lemme hang up that dress. It’ll get wrinkled.” Violet whisked the wedding gown from the counter. She smoothed it out and put it on a tall rack next to the register.

  “I don’t care if it gets wrinkled,” April said.

  “I do. That thing took me over an hour to steam before I put it out on the sales floor. Silk taffeta is a bitch to press.”

  Shit, thought Violet, scolding herself for swearing in front of a customer. There goes my mouth again. She cast a glance at April, who didn’t seem to have noticed or, at least, seemed not to have minded.

  “What kind of tea do you want?” Violet asked as she poured hot water into two hand-painted china cups. “I’ve got green, Earl Grey . . .”

  “Do you have anything without caffeine?” April asked, placing her hand on her stomach.

  Violet noticed a bit of roundness at the girl’s waist and wondered if April was pregnant. Her speculation came with a wave of jealousy and pity. Violet had always loved babies, but lately the desire for one of her own had kicked in with unexpected ferocity. This new longing bothered her, not because she was thirty-eight and single, but because she liked to think she was content with her life the way it was. She had Miles, her pit bull, and an eclectic group of customers who had become her friends. Babies and biological clocks were, in her opinion, conventional. Violet prided herself on being independent and nonconformist—never mind the fact that she sold vintage aprons and corseted dresses in her shop.

  “I like chamomile, if you’ve got it,” April said. “My mom used to make it for me.”

  Violet put tea bags into the cups and handed one to April. “So what made you decide to buy a vintage gown?”

  “I live down the street, so I walk by here a lot,” April said. “And I like old things. I don’t know why. I guess I like the idea that everything has a life behind it, that the past has meaning.”

  “I know what you mean,” Violet said. “I also like to think things were simpler years ago, though I’m sure I’m kidding myself.”

  “I still remember what you told me about the dress, that the lady who wore it ended up being married for fifty-five years.”

  “Wow. I’m glad someone actually listens to my stories,” Violet said. “I mean, I tell customers details about the merchandise all the time, but I figure most people kind of nod politely and tune me out. I realize not everybody is quite as obsessed with old stuff as I am.”

  “What you told me about the dress is one of the reasons I chose it. Well, besides the fact that it’s beautiful, and so unique.”

  “Isn’t it?” Violet cast a wistful look at the gown, which kept its shape even while hanging on the rack. “It was handmade by the bride. You just don’t see that sort of detail on something mass-produced.”

  “Did the lady who made it bring it in?” April asked.

  Violet shook her head. “The couple’s daughter did. Her parents died within a week of each other.”

  “That’s so sad.”

  Violet sipped her tea. “I suppose, but they had a long, happy marriage. That’s more than a lot of people get.”

  “I meant sad for the daughter.” April’s voice wavered. “Were you in the middle of something? I don’t want to hold you up if you have stuff to do.”

  “Business isn’t exactly booming today.” Violet gestured around the empty store. “Do you want to talk about what happened? Why you wanted to return the dress, I mean.”

  The girl shook her head, whipping strands of blond hair against her cheeks. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”

  “I’m just changing out the window displays for summer. It’s nothing that can’t wait.” Violet glanced over at her two mannequins in the window, now mismatched with one in a sundress and the other in a peach mohair sweater.

  April placed her teacup on the counter next to the register, knocking over a pile of papers. “I’m so sorry,” she said, bending down to pick them up.

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s my fault for having my filing lying around. One of these days I should probably get all my records computerized, but I just don’t know where to start. Plus, pages full of numbers aren’t exactly my strong suit,” Violet said. “I’d rather spot-clean a silk blouse or iron vintage linens any day.”

  “I love numbers,” April said. “I got a scholarship to study math at UW starting next fall.”

  The bells over the door jingled, and a dark-haired woman in a pink sari walked into the store. The shiny folds of the fabric rustled as the woman approached the counter.

  “Excuse me for a minute,” Violet said.

  “I’ll get out of your way.” April zipped her jacket. “Thanks for the tea.”

  “No, you don’t have to go. It’ll probably just be a couple of minutes.”

  April took a few steps toward the door, then turned around. “Oh, I forgot the dress.” She gave Violet a pleading look. “Is it okay if I just leave it here? I don’t have any use for it, and I don’t want to have to look at it every time I open my closet.”

  “Sure, that’s no problem,” Violet said, thinking perhaps she could make an exception to her return policy, just this once. She reached toward the cash register—a hulking metal thing with round buttons similar to a vintage typewriter. When she pulled the lever to open the cash drawer, it stuck. She jiggled it, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “If you can just hang on a minute, I’ll get this thing open,” Violet said. But when she looked up from the register, April was gone. Instead, the woman in the sari stood in front of the counter, rummaging in her handbag. Violet noticed stripes of gray hair near her part.

  “Hello,” Violet said, hiding her surprise with a smile. “What can I do for you?”

  The woman’s hands emerged from her purse with a red fabric pouch. She turned it upside down and a rainbow of bangle bracelets clattered onto the counter. “I would like to sell these,” she said.

  Violet picked up one of the bracelets—a thin gold band embedded with blue stones. “They’re lovely. Are they costume jewelry?”

  “I don’t understand what you mean.” The woman wrinkled her forehead, creasing the red bindi in the middle of her brow.

  “What I meant is, are they real gold?” Violet asked.

  The woman shook her head. “I have some eighteen-karat gold bangles at home, but these are just inexpensive ones. The blue ones were a gift from my husband, back when we were young and didn’t have any money.”

  Violet set the bracelet down. “Oh, perhaps you want to keep the blue ones, then? It sounds like they mean something to you.”

  “No. Not anymore.” The edge in the woman’s voice signaled that she didn’t want to talk about her husband, and Violet respected that. She knew from personal experience that some stories were too painful to tell.

  Violet picked up a bracelet with a pink and orange design etched into the metal.

  “That one belonged to my daughter,” the woman said. “I have been cleaning out her room because she got married recently and bought a condo across town with her husband. That is why I am wearing a sari and bindi and all of this.” She touched her forehead. “I only wear them for special occasions. This morning we held a small prayer ceremony, a puja, for the newlyweds. My daughter refused an Indian wedding, so her father and I had to settle for a puja and brunch after they returned from their honeymoon.”

&nb
sp; “Are you sure your daughter won’t want this?” Violet asked, placing the bangle on the counter.

  The woman nodded. “She is the one who told me I should get rid of the things she left behind. I told her I did not mind keeping some of her belongings around, but she said it is time to—how did she put it?—‘move on.’ She says I hold on to too many old things.”

  “You and me both.”

  “Do you have children?” the woman asked.

  Violet shook her head and said with forced brightness, “My dog is kind of like my baby, though.” She opened the leather-bound inventory journal where she kept records of everything that came into and went out of her store, from a Chanel suit to a crocheted halter top. After checking a couple of entries for similar pieces of jewelry, she said, “I can give you twenty dollars in cash for the lot, or thirty dollars in store credit. Which would you prefer?”

  “Cash, if it is not too much trouble,” the woman said. “I have so many more things at home. Not just bracelets, but other items, too. I could bring them in sometime this week if you are interested.”

  “Sure,” Violet replied. “We’re open every day from ten to seven.”

  “And what is your name so that I may ask for you?”

  “I’m Violet. But you don’t need to worry about finding me. I’m the only person who works here, and I’m always here. I live upstairs.”

  “My name is Amithi.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Violet smiled. “I’ll just need to see some ID. I have to check it for anyone who sells something to the store. It’s a state law, to prevent people from trying to sell stolen stuff, I think.”

  Amithi produced her license, and Violet opened the register drawer and handed Amithi the money for the bracelets.

  “Thank you.” Amithi tucked the bills into her purse and glanced toward the windows with a worried look. “And now, I hope you will not think I am being strange . . . it is probably nothing, but I wonder if you know that man who is parked outside your store. I did not think anything of it when I came in, but I noticed that he is still parked in the same place and that he keeps looking over here.”

  “What? Which car?” Violet went over to the large display window and looked out at the street, where vehicles crammed the curbs, parked bumper to bumper as usual in this college town.