Enchanting Lily

by Anjali Banerjee

  “He’s changed since his wife left, but who can blame him? He loved Altona so much.”

  “I didn’t know about that—about his wife leaving.” A piece of surprising news. Lily busied her fingers, punching up the price for each garment in Vanya’s pile. And what kind of a name was Altona?

  “They went everywhere together. They were inseparable.” Vanya shook her head sadly.

  “He’s divorced, then.” Lily kept her voice steady, but her insides turned over. He’d been in her house, in her kitchen, in her bedroom, looking at her bra. He’d been single the whole time. Single and angry and damaged, missing his ex-wife.

  Vanya produced a few crisp, twenty-dollar bills from her wallet. “He would have gifts sent to her at work. Flowers, gloves, jewelry.”

  “That’s romantic,” Lily said. She could hardly imagine him acting that way, giving anyone a gift. “I’m so sorry things didn’t work out for the two of them.” Poor Bish had been abandoned by her mother, too.

  “It was sudden. But come to think of it, Altona liked to travel. She always seemed kind of…restless. I’ve been working for Doc for five years, and she left only last year. He hasn’t been the same, like I said.” Vanya put the money on the counter.

  Lily picked it up, counted the bills, opened the register. “Of course he hasn’t. When you’ve loved someone—”

  “He even went a little crazy after she left, but he’s more settled now.”

  “What do you mean, he ‘went a little crazy’?” Lily imagined him racing all over town, shouting, wielding an ax. Had she allowed a crazy ax murderer, driven insane by his wife’s departure, into her cottage in the middle of the night?

  “Oh, he just, you know. He went on a bunch of dates. Let’s put it that way. Didn’t get involved with anyone, though.” Vanya looked around the shop, as if the clothes might be listening, and lowered her voice. “Some people go their whole lives pining for someone they’ve lost, but others can go right ahead and get remarried. Dr. Cole is definitely the pining type. He tried not to be. When my great uncle died, my great aunt got remarried almost right away, at the ripe age of sixty-seven.”

  “Sixty-seven is not old these days,” Lily said, handing back Vanya’s change.

  “Her second husband was eighty. They went trekking in the Himalayas together. Now, I love my husband, but if he died, I would probably find someone else pretty quickly, too.”

  “Do you really mean that?”

  “I only mean, my husband and I, we don’t have the perfect marriage, but then, every marriage has its stresses, right? Were you ever married? Then you would know.” Vanya pushed a strand of straight, yellow hair behind her ear. How could anyone’s hair be so very yellow, like the petals of a spring daisy?

  “I was married. He died.” The word “died,” hovered in the air, then popped like a bubble.

  “Oh. Wow. I’m sorry.” Vanya’s eyes widened and her expression shifted fluidly from stunned surprise to pity to carefully modulated sympathy. Lily had grown accustomed to this multifaceted response, and she understood that she had now stepped across an invisible threshold from being just another person to having the word “widow” plastered across her forehead.

  “Thanks,” she said politely. “I’m doing fine.” A lie. Only the night before, she’d dreamed that Josh was humming downstairs in the kitchen, making scrambled eggs. When she’d woken, she’d realized the humming was the cat purring. The smell of eggs came from a restaurant down the block; she had left the window open. She’d discovered that while the first floor of the cottage had drafty spots, the heat rose into the bedrooms.

  She began to fold the clothes and put them in a large paper shopping bag with handles. Perhaps when Vanya walked out carrying the bag, customers in The Newest Thing would look across the street, and they would want to be in on the action.

  “What type are you?” Vanya said, taking the bag.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Are you the type to move on, or the type to keep pining?”

  “Is there another option? All right. I think I might be the pining type. I did go on a couple of dates about six months after my husband died, but they didn’t work out.”

  Vanya tilted her head quizzically. “Okay, spill. What happened?”

  “Well, one was a blind date that a friend set up for me. He turned out to have obsessive-compulsive disorder, had to keep getting up from the table to wash his hands. I counted five times during dinner, a few more times after.”

  Vanya laughed. “And what about the second date? Was it any better?”

  “He was a nice man, but he wanted to get me into bed right away, saw me as desperate or something, but it was too soon.”

  “Oh, I see. But maybe sex isn’t so bad. My husband and I still, you know.” Vanya patted her belly again and lowered her voice. “Doctor says it’s okay.”

  Lily’s cheeks heated. Too much information. “Um, that’s—”

  “Sex can be a healer. Why don’t you go for Dr. Cole? When I first started working at the clinic, I had, like, this huge crush on him. I was so jealous of Altona.”

  “I’m sure that happens fairly often, an employee developing a crush on her boss.” Lily tidied the receipts in the register drawer.

  “Everyone had a crush on him, and I mean everyone. Something about him being inaccessible, I think. But you got to see him in the night, right here. You’re lucky.”

  “It wasn’t a date!” Lucky to have a brooding, desolate man in her house? “The cat had a hairball.”

  “Yeah, he told me. Funny.” Vanya looked over at the cat and winked. “She has hairballs, pretty typical. Well, I’d better get back to work. You both have a nice day. I’ll be back.”

  “Tell all your friends—about my shop, not the hairball!” Lily called out as Vanya maneuvered her belly out the door. Just as she was leaving, a stooped gentleman came in, looking around with a tentative expression. Lily recognized him as a ferry worker who loaded and unloaded cars on the Seattle run, only he seemed bare without the bright orange vest, like a tree in winter. Thin and long-limbed, he wore shades of gray that matched the sky.

  The cat trotted over to him, somehow knowing that he would be friendly, that he would kneel to pet her with affection. Lily thought him handsome in a gaunt, understated way, but the moment the reaction came to her, she caught a glimpse of a man standing across the street. It was Josh, staring in at her, untouched by the rain, his eyes sad. In the instant, she remembered the first time he had held her hand, the first time they had walked the beach just north of San Francisco, where they’d seen a gray whale spouting offshore. She remembered their first kiss on that beach at sunset, a moment charged with electricity. It all rushed through her, taking her breath away. I’m sorry, Josh. It will always be you. How can it be otherwise?

  A passing car obscured her view, erasing Josh, as if he’d never been standing there.

  “Do you have a suit for a funeral?” the gaunt man was asking her. “And I don’t want anything black.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Lily

  “Just a moment, sir. I’ll be right with you.”

  Lily knew she seemed distracted and crazy, but she had to run across the street, to see where Josh had gone. As she hurried down the sidewalk in her running shoes, she felt the cold rain on her face. The bushes rustled in the wind, shop awnings flapping. She heard metal clanging on the town dock down the street, smelled the dank odors of the beach at low tide. She stopped in the spot where she had seen Josh. Here on the sidewalk, right in front of The Newest Thing, she could see into the front window of her own shop. Soft lights illuminated the mannequins, which appeared to be backlit silhouettes. Then the cat hopped into the window, a pale aura surrounding her.

  Lily looked right and left. No sign of Josh. The rain was seeping through her sweater to her T-shirt. She had imagined him. She had hallucinated. But he had seemed real. Maybe his spirit had really been here. Such things happened.

  She ran back into the warmth
of her shop. The dust on the countertop looked slightly disturbed, as if someone had run a finger across its surface. She shivered and turned her attention to the new customer.

  “Sorry about that,” she said, wiping the water from her face. “I had to go out and see something.”

  The man nodded, glancing out the window, then returned to browsing.

  “I’m sorry you have to go to a funeral,” she went on. “There’s no rule about wearing black. I didn’t wear black to my husband’s memorial service, but only because he didn’t want me to. He mentioned wanting people to wear bright colors and dance at his funeral. But he didn’t realize he would die so soon.” Why had she just told all this to a complete stranger? Was it the rain and cold, messing with her mind? Would the man turn and run out of the shop, never to return?

  His face softened and he came right up to her. “I’m sorry you lost him. So what color did you wear?”

  “I wore a deep turquoise dress, not quite black but close enough.” She smiled. Sometimes, revealing a little of your pain, your vulnerability, can bring people closer to you, she thought. “What color would you like to wear?”

  “Maybe the cat will help me decide.” He made for the south wall, glancing at the suit jacket on the male mannequin. “Maybe that one.”

  “It’s just a display,” she said quickly. “And too small for you.” She had not heard from Dr. Cole since their nighttime encounter, which now seemed like a distant dream. Perhaps he’d mentioned needing a suit merely to be polite.

  The cat stayed close to the gaunt man as he browsed, his long fingers touching the fabric with precise delicacy. Lily kept glancing at the road, but the image of Josh did not return.

  The man was talking to the cat in a low voice. “Last time I wore a suit was at my graduation…” and “…don’t even know what size…” and “…should wear my birthday suit…” The cat purred at him.

  He pulled out a white suit. “Whoa, now that’s an eyesore.”

  “That’s a Palm Beach linen suit, circa nineteen thirties, one of my oldest pieces. Probably not great for a funeral, even if you’re steering clear of black.”

  He nodded, putting the suit back. “I bet you wouldn’t wear a Palm Beach suit, huh, kitty? What’s your name?”

  “She’s just kitty,” Lily said. “And I’m Lily.”

  “I saw the flyers you posted in town. Looks as though the little kitty has settled in here pretty well.”

  “If her owner comes, she’ll go home.”

  “She is home, I think. I’m Rupert, known as Rupe to those who love me.” He pulled out a dark purplish-blue Jarvis suit. “This is perfect. The color of royalty, Willy Wonka, eccentricity and audacity and all that.”

  “Are you sure you want purple?”

  “Why not? What kind of suit is this anyway?”

  “Three-piece, fabric-covered buttons, polyester in a lightweight poplin weave.”

  “Looks like my size.” While he tried on the suit, the cat waited outside the fitting room, as usual.

  Rupert emerged looking surprisingly good in purple. “What do you think?” He tugged at the shoulders. “Michael said I should go to a men’s specialty shop instead. They know how these things are supposed to fit, but I’m not sure.”

  “I can alter the suit for you.” Lily wondered who Michael was, then realized Rupert and Michael were probably partners. She couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed, although she had no intention of getting involved with anyone.

  Rupert gave her a skeptical look. “Michael says the men’s tailors know better.”

  “I know a few things, too. You don’t want the jacket to pull at the armpits. The padding in the shoulders is the right width. The jacket has a waist, and it’s just the right length. It shouldn’t go all the way to the thigh.”

  Rupert raised his brows at her in the mirror. “You’ve done this before. I’m impressed. Your prices are good, too.”

  Finally, she could imagine the shop teeming with people who trusted her nimble sewing, her understanding of fabric and alterations. “You need to choose the shoes you’re going to wear at the funeral, or at least similar shoes.”

  “Then find me a pair. I wear a size twelve.”

  “And you can’t wear that T-shirt underneath.”

  Measuring him in the suit, when he wore the right dress shirt and shoes, felt like a fluid dance with the tape measure and pins.

  “The sleeve should break at the wrist,” she said. “One slight crease in the pant, and it breaks just at the top of the shoe.”

  “Breaks,” he said. “I like that word. Like a wave breaking, makes me think of surfing.”

  “It’s a term I learned in the industry.” Could Florence say as much? When Lily had finished flitting around Rupert, pinning and measuring, they both looked out the front window. Florence’s display had changed yet again. A new mannequin had appeared, this one in motion, legs bent, the woman leaning forward. She wore a knit cap and parka, two ski poles in hand. Florence stood in the window, laying a blanket of fake snow.

  “She’s creative, I’ll have to give her that,” Rupert said, taking off the jacket and draping it across the counter next to Lily’s coffee cup.

  She forced a smile. “It doesn’t snow on the island too often, does it?”

  “Couple of times a year, but it melts after a few days. Most people head up to Mount Baker or some other mountain resort to ski. You ever been?”

  “I prefer cross-country,” Lily said, fussing with the price tag on the jacket. “I can have this ready for you in a couple of days. We should do a second fitting, make final adjustments.”

  “A second fitting! You are an expert!”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, but if you like my work, do me a favor and tell your friends.”

  “I most certainly will.”

  Just as Rupert came out of the fitting room in his street clothes, the mailman waltzed in, decked out in blue rain gear, and dropped a pile of envelopes on the counter. He tipped his hat and left. On top of the pile was a glossy, oversized postcard bearing the logo of The Newest Thing, a watercolor pink dress on a hanger next to a matching purse, and the announcement: Now offering New to You Clothing on Consignment. What on earth?

  Rupert must’ve caught her frowning at the postcard. “Recycling bin,” he said.

  “Why do you suppose they’re doing that? Suddenly now, Florence is selling clothing on consignment?” Her voice rose to a shrill pitch. Her shop didn’t even have a logo.

  “Everybody’s trying to make a living in this economy,” Rupert said gently. “Just ignore it.”

  “But I thought The Newest Thing—”

  “Listen, I know Florence. I’ve known her all my life. She’s a good businesswoman. She’s always trying new things. Clothing on consignment is probably selling better than her new clothes. And that is a good thing for you.”

  Selling better? What a joke. What could Florence possibly offer? What did she know about vintage clothing? How could she have the nerve to tread on Lily’s territory? But should Lily even feel territorial? After all, maybe two shops would attract more bargain shoppers than one, right?

  Would Lily have to carry new clothing now? She couldn’t imagine such a thing. She and Josh had always talked about remaining true to their vision.

  “Don’t worry,” Rupert said, patting her shoulder. “There is room enough in this world for all of us.”

  But was there? Lily watched a new sign go up in the window of The Newest Thing, in a font to match the words on the postcard. Now Selling Clothing on Consignment.

  Beneath the postcard on the countertop, she found only bills—telephone, electricity, credit card, and the list went on. After Rupert left, she reached across the counter to pick up the purple suit, and her elbow knocked her coffee cup, spilling liquid all over the jacket, which she had so carefully pinned. How could her day get any worse? It could. Stepping into her shop was a woman she had last seen two years ago, a woman she had known when Josh was ali
ve, a woman she had not expected to see again.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Kitty

  As the slight woman steps in across the threshold, the spirits bask in the glow of her beauty. I’m lovelier than anyone, but for a human, she is stunning, her platinum hair twisted up into a fancy do. She must have trouble grooming that getup.

  The man who comes in behind her is smitten. He is square, as if made of a series of blocks. He doesn’t know that the woman has secrets, and he has secrets of his own. The smells cling to their clothes, hair follicles, and beneath their fingernails. Their histories stick to the soles of their shoes. The woman smells of sidewalks and department stores, doctors’ offices and perfume. The man smells of cologne and car exhaust and other women.

  As they close the door, a blast of cold air blows in after them. Lily pretends to be busy laying out the wet clothes to dry, but everything about her is aware of these new intruders.

  The inky ghost of the old woman slides over to the blocky man. She has mistaken him for her lost lover—the captain of a sunken ship. She touches his hair with her phantom hand, but she’s not really touching him, only imagining that she is. He reaches up to run his fingers through his hair, perhaps sensing her nearby. His sculpting spray has fought a losing battle with the wind.

  The inky spirit tries to grab his shoulder, and the man shivers. He closes his black umbrella and leaves it in the bin by the door. Lily can no longer ignore these visitors, so she turns around, strides up with squared shoulders, and puts on a bright smile.

  The delicate woman pulls off her white gloves, smiles back with fake sweetness, and unbuttons the collar of her coat. Jewels glint on her neck, and I have an urge to leap.

  “Lily, I’m so happy to see you.” The woman reaches out to shake Lily’s hand.

  “Drew,” Lily says. I can feel her mind hurtling back in time. “Wow, I didn’t expect to see you. You look great.”

  “So do you,” Drew fibs, withdrawing her hand. “You’ve lost weight. I heard you moved up here, out to some island.”

  “You found me!” Lily wants them to lose her again.