The Secret Lives of Dresses (10 page)

Maux turned around in front of the three-way mirror. “So—what do you think? Parental approvable?”

“You look lovely.” Dora felt that there was something else to say, and groped for it. “You still look like you, just like a different flavor. You’re a really good cover version of you. Same song, different band.”

Maux grinned. “Got it.” She grabbed her bag off the floor and swooped in to envelop Dora in a perfumed hug. “Hey, I’m sorry I can’t go to the hospital with you tonight—I’ll go by tomorrow, though. Just hang in there—Mimi’s one tough bird.” She was out the door before Dora had cleared her throat to reply.

The lights had been off, and the sign turned to
CLOSED
, for twenty minutes, with no sign of Gabby. Dora paced the sidewalk, feeling foolish for not waiting inside the store, but being inside had been too much. At least outside she could try not to think about Mimi, but inside . . . inside was like seeing everything through Mimi’s eyes. At least it wasn’t cold. She shifted the bag with Mimi’s heavy Dior book from hand to hand, and dialed Gabby again.

Being late wasn’t like Gabby, but not picking up her cell phone was. “Can’t keep track of the thing,” she always said, and it was true. The list of places where Gabby had left her cell phone was lengthy and varied. The freezer case at the Kroger, in both the ice-cream and the frozen-peas sections. In the hymnal rack at church. (“At least I had the ringtone set to ‘Rock of Ages,’” she protested, after Reverend Horton had returned it her, on Monday.) On top of her car (twice). In the cookie jar at home, on top of a dozen oatmeal-raisin, which nobody then wanted to eat. God only knew where it was ringing (or not ringing—Gabby often accidentally turned off the ringer, too) now.

Dora was staring at her phone’s screen, willing it to ring, when suddenly Con was at her elbow.

“Hey, you okay?” He looked concerned.

Dora’s eyes were hot, but she had promised herself she wouldn’t cry at the store today, and she was going to count the sidewalk as part of the store. Plus, drinking one coffee with a guy did not mean you could break down in front of him.

“Gabby’s late.”

“That doesn’t sound unusual, to be frank.” Con grinned down at her. His eyes had a nice crinkle to them when he smiled.

“How do you know Gabby?” asked Dora.

“A better question would be, how could I avoid knowing Gabby?” Con smiled. “She knows all, she sees all. She even told me things about the Featherstons that I didn’t know. I bet she knows things about the Featherstons that they don’t even know.”

“She’s . . . naturally curious. Neighborly,” Dora offered.

“She’s a relentlessly nosy busybody, and I like her a lot,” Con answered, and grinned. “She doesn’t have a malicious bone in her body. She may not even have a malicious cell in her body.”

“I believe she lost those in her divorces. She got the china, and they got the malicious cells,” Dora said, and grinned back.

“If I had been married to Gabby she wouldn’t have had any divorces. . . . I offered, you know, but she turned me down.”

“You didn’t!” Dora actually giggled.

“I did. About twenty minutes after I met her, the first time. She said I was a callow youth, but that she appreciated the sentiment. She batted those eyelashes at me so hard I thought I felt a breeze. So then I told her if she ever changed her mind she should let me know. And that if she wanted to take advantage of the next Sadie Hawkins Day I would take pains to make myself available.”

“She must
love
you.”

“Well, obviously not, or she would have taken me up on my offer. . . .” Con was standing close enough for Dora to know that he smelled like Ivory soap and, very faintly, of sweat and fresh paint.

“So how was today?” Con asked. His voice was soft. Dora pretended she misunderstood him.

“Good, a couple of sales. Not too bad. I rearranged the jewelry case. Maux and I did some inventory.” Dora deliberately avoided looking up at his face. She didn’t want to see a concerned look. She wasn’t the one in the hospital.

“Not busy enough, I bet, though,” Con added. “Busy is the only thing that helps.”

“You sound like you know,” Dora said, softly. “That was the proverbial voice of experience.”

“My dad . . . had a heart attack last year. About this time.”

“Is he . . .” Dora didn’t know how to finish her sentence.

“It was bad. He was in the hospital for two months. He didn’t come home.”

“Oh.” Dora felt herself go cold. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” Con said.

“How long did it take you to learn how to say ‘thank you’ like that?” Dora asked. “Don’t you want to just hit people who say they’re ‘sorry’ to you?”

“I did. A lot. Want to, I mean, not hit people.” Con looked rueful. “I did hit one guy.”

“You did?”

“I went back up to New York, where I had been working, and a guy said it was all for the best because I’d be back in time to get a new project, and if my dad had ‘hung on’—that’s what he said, ‘hung on,’ like he was overstaying his welcome—a couple more weeks I wouldn’t have been able to get that project. So I punched him. And then I quit.”

“You quit?”

“Well, considering it was my boss I punched, it seemed like the right course of action.”

“Good point.”

“Besides . . . I was going to quit anyway. The punching just made it simpler. I didn’t have to give two weeks’ notice. And the security guards carried all my stuff for me.”

“Clever, definitely clever.”

Con tapped his forehead. “I is
smart
.”

“So what were you doing in New York?” Dora asked. “You were a contractor up there, too?”

“No, I was an architect.”

“Wow.” Dora turned and looked at him consideringly.

“What, I don’t look like an architect?” Con tried to look offended.

“Well, you’re not wearing glasses, for one thing. I sort of thought all architects wore glasses.”

“Contact lenses. Have you heard of them?”

“Ah. So did you turn in your heavy black glasses when you left the office?”

“No, no, I still have them. In case I ever have to draw up any blueprints, instead of just holding them while posing in my hard hat.”

“You have a hard hat?” Dora turned to look at him again.

“Sure, it’s in my truck. I’ll let you wear it sometime, if you’re good.” Con smiled at her again.

Dora looked at the blank screen of her cell phone again, feeling oddly flustered. “What could be keeping Gabby?” she said.

“She probably ran into someone she knew on the way. It’s statistically unlikely that she wouldn’t,” Con replied. “Why don’t I just give you a ride? We can always track Gabby down later, but visiting hours end soon. Anyway, maybe Gabby got confused, and thought she was meeting you at the hospital.”

Dora hesitated.

“If you’re thinking, ‘What would Mimi do?’ I’m pretty sure she would say take the ride, and give Gabby a piece of your mind at a more convenient date.”

Dora smiled. “She would. Just let me put a note on the door, in case Gabby’s lost her cell phone again and doesn’t hear my message.”

“Here, let me.” Con opened his aluminum clipboard with a flourish and produced a large sticky note. It said
MURPHY CONSTRUCTION
in red letters across the top. He wrote “GABBY—TOOK DORA TO SEE MIMI. CON.”

Con looked down at Dora’s bag. “Let me carry your books? My truck’s right over there.”

It said
MURPHY FINE CONSTRUCTION
on the side of it.

“Is your last name Murphy?” Dora asked. “If I knew your last name, then this wouldn’t technically be ‘getting into the vehicle of a strange man.’”

“It is Murphy. Although, if it weren’t, I’d tell you it was anyway, at this point.” Con opened the door for her.

“That’s . . . not exactly reassuring, but I am not going to ask any questions,” Dora said as she clambered up into the cab.

“Good call.” Con grinned and got in himself. He put Mimi’s book on the back shelf seat.

The short drive to the hospital felt awkward. “I should warn you . . . ,” Dora started.

“Don’t worry. I know. I bet she looks worse than she is, doesn’t she?”

“I hope she looks worse than she is,” Dora said.

“When my dad was sick . . . it was like the hospital added twenty years to him. I think it’s the lightbulbs, and the food, and having people come in and ask you if you’re comfortable when you’ve just fallen asleep.” Con was quiet for a moment.

Con skipped the entrance to the parking garage before Dora could protest. “Look, I’ll let you off in front, so you can go in right away, and I’ll park and meet you.”

“Thank you.” Dora hopped out quickly. Now that she was here she found she couldn’t wait another minute to see Mimi. She let herself imagine the doctor meeting her at the door to Mimi’s room, with the phrases “miraculous recovery” or “tremendous progress.” Mimi sitting up in bed, doing the crossword puzzle with Gabby, telling the nurse about a more flattering way to do her hair, or politely flipping through an Avon catalogue. Mimi giving her a hug, exclaiming over the dress.

But the door was closed. There was no doctor, no nurse, no Gabby. Mimi was not sitting up and doing the crossword puzzle. She was lying terribly still, and Dora held her breath for a moment, listening for the beep of the machine. She counted three beeps before she stepped all the way into the room.

Dora pulled the chair closer and reached for Mimi’s hand. There was a bandage across the back of it. It made Dora feel indignant, thinking of them poking Mimi with needles, no matter out of what necessity. She sat there, holding Mimi’s hand.

“You should talk to her,” said Con, appearing in the doorway.

“I know. I just don’t know what to say.”

“What did you usually talk about?”

“Well, lately, it was how I didn’t need to be working in a coffee shop while I’m in school, and, oh, by the way, what did I want to do with my life? How I should wear just a little lipstick, it would brighten my whole face. How Birkenstocks aren’t really shoes. You know, the usual.” Dora hated how her voice sounded.

“I agree with Mimi. Birkenstocks aren’t really shoes, and I always wear lipstick when I need to brighten up my face, which is never, by the way. And if people didn’t work in coffee shops, where would I get my coffee?” Con smiled. “There. We’ve exhausted all those topics of conversation. When . . . when my dad was in the hospital, we used to sit there and tell old family stories. My brother trying to make soufflés when he was ten—he’s a big-deal chef now, so it was fun to tease him about how bad his cooking used to be. What my grandmother did when she found a big old rattlesnake in the garage. That kind of thing.”

Dora couldn’t help herself. “What did your grandmother do when she found a rattlesnake in the garage?”

“Well, she was right by the door, and there was a little jar of kerosene there that my grandpa used for his camping lantern, and she just threw it at the snake. The jar broke and doused the whole floor. And she was a pack-a-day smoker, so she grabbed a match and tossed it down, too. Whoosh! No more snake. Then she ran back inside and called the fire department.”

“Did she burn down the garage?”

“Nah, there wasn’t that much kerosene. I think she just figured that if she set something on fire she’d get a bunch of men there double-quick to take care of the snake cleanup.”

“Quick thinking!”

“So what are the Winston family stories? They’ll have to be pretty good to top my snake-fighting arsonist grandma.”

“Even if they were I wouldn’t know them. Mimi didn’t want to talk about my folks. ‘Let the past stay past’ is what she always said.”

Con leaned against the wall. “Nothing? Not even a ‘Your dad used to do that’? Or ‘You have your mother’s eyes’—actually, wait, you have Mimi’s eyes.”

“She never told me anything. Gabby told me once that she had been fighting with my dad when my folks died, and that it tore her right up.”

“Mimi, fighting with someone? That doesn’t sound like her.”

“I guess my dad didn’t want to take over running the department store, and they were arguing about it. And then I was born, and that made it worse—Mimi thought my dad needed a real job, now that he had a baby. And so they weren’t speaking.”

“Poor Mimi. What a thing to carry around.”

“I never could get any more details out of Gabby—she says Mimi never talks to her about my dad.” Dora leaned over the bed and brushed Mimi’s hair back, away from her forehead. “She’d hate it if she knew I was telling you all this.”

“I don’t know about that. We talked a lot, me and Mimi.”

“Really?” Dora tried not to sound surprised.

“Well, I hide in her shop sometimes, to get away from Mrs. Featherston, and we just get to talking. And I’ve been working on this new project—I want to convert one of those Victorians down by the university into a storefront, and she was giving me advice on what a store owner would like. She was very easy to talk to. And she didn’t know my folks, which made it easier, somehow. Especially when my dad was sick.”

“Everybody always knows your business in Forsyth.” Dora grimaced. “Whether you want them to or not.”

“But Mimi didn’t make any suggestions, you know? She didn’t tell me how to feel, or what to do, or about somebody’s friend’s cousin’s father who had the same thing and was now playing golf twice a week.” Con looked grim. “I hope no one is saying that kind of stuff to you.”

“Not yet.” Dora held Mimi’s hand a bit tighter.

A nurse stuck her head in the door. “Miz Winston?”

For a minute Dora thought the nurse was talking to Mimi, but then she beckoned to Dora to come into the hall.

“It’s okay,” Con said. “I’ll stay here until you get back.”

It was Dr. Czerny again, waiting in the hall. She looked tired, or maybe it was just the unforgiving overhead light.