..::.. Chapter 21 - The Shop ..::..

Present

I pull up to the parking spot. Sue waits for me inside.

It's routine now. Siren calls and traffic sounds soothe my soul. All despite what it once meant to me. At one time, this was a nightmare, now it's a haven.

It's been months.

I closed up the house; made sure the curtains were drawn and turned off all the lights and the furnace. I can still feel the door lock against the key in my palm.

I let that chapter of my life end.

Jess was heartbroken, but she was more than willing to help me make arrangements. And since I live paycheck by paycheck, I had to borrow her money.

She said, "No worries." She handed over an envelope with just enough to find my feet in Chicago. Then, when I went to go deposit the cash, I found ten thousand dollars in my savings account.

I couldn't help but laugh right there in front of the teller after staring speechless for ten solid minutes. The teller was older, and she smiled warmly.

I don't know how Jess did it, but she just saved my life. I never asked.

Dad was more than generous to offer a room in their condo. I didn't want to take any more of his help. I had the house, now I'm on my own.

Well, sort of.

Sue is a delight to be around. I visit her tailoring shop that's not what I was expecting. It's small, but it's a very profitable business. She's known for her artistry, and by word of mouth, many magazines and agencies send clients her way to tailor well-made, high quality, high fashion ensembles. She has a chic style and unique stitch work.

She learned so much from her mother and grandmother. Really, all the women in her lineage were making garments for generations leaving her to continue the tradition and keep things 'close to home' as she describes. It has made her a key player of sorts, in her genre.

She plans to expand to a boutique, an extension of her tailoring work, and more people are hired to help.

I guess that leaves me to assist in keeping the brand solid and market her name to get her more clients.

To get a sense of who she is and how she works, I come into her little vintage shop, sit in a comfortable swivel chair, and watch her do her magic.

There's not much I can do but watch. Job hunting hasn't been going well, so Sue insisted I stay with her to construct a team around my expertise. I really liked the idea. Her website is a mess, so I bring in my laptop and work on strategy. But really, it's just a great excuse to come in and be around this creative energy—and the gorgeous people coming in and out.

Currently, she measures a dress for a tall, leggy Brazilian model to wear for an event. I mind my business, but Sue stands around thinking and thinking some more. Her assistants wait around on the ready to get the next swatch or bring the pins to measure a shorter hem here and there. She asks me what I think.

Me? I don't know. Her breasts are infuriatingly perky in that dress? Like, what does she want me to say?

I say, "It's nice." She chuckles.

Either way, the model stands there naked from the waist up and thinks not a thing of it. Why should she? Not a bone of shame in her body.

She leaves, and I help gather fabric swatches off the floor.

"Come here," Sue says. She's holding a swatch of silk fabric in basic black, and another piece in tulle in front of the mirror. "I can't have you going to Fashion Week without some great pieces."

I do a double take. "Who says I'm going to Fashion Week?"

She tilts her head back and laughs. "Me, of course! How else will you see for yourself how we've expanded?"

The assistant at the front desk scoffs. I haven't mentioned the tricky part of this pleasant job I've found myself in. With fashion and tailoring comes competitiveness. This chick in my business, or Sue's for that matter, is a sneering bitch who doesn't quit. The day I came in, she looked at me from head to toe and walked away. The heels she wears are enough to make you want to gnaw off her ankles and let her stomp around in bloody stumps just so she'll keep quiet.

I ignore her for the most part. But when interaction is forced, I emit my most obnoxious voice and give her sarcastic responses to anything she's bragging about. She stopped talking to me the first week.

But that scoff just now? She's dying to go to Fashion Week. It's her goal to be invited every year. This year, she's a runner-up.

The next client comes in, and Ms. Heels perks up because it's a man. She runs to his side, grabs his coat and offers him everything shy of a blowjob.

I cross my legs in a comfortable tuck and watch the show. Sue is already pinning the silk and tulle to a mannequin, and it's already a fucking gorgeous dress.

But my mind wanders again, like it has since I escaped to the city, remembering Dad's red eyes when I brought everything up.

I'm still angry.

. .

. .