Miss Scarlet's School of Patternless Sewing (7 page)

Saide put her hands behind her back and nudged her shoulder at him. “The window or a date?”

“Both,” he said. Daisy, her spirits lifted, began to measure the window with her arms, while Saide and her new beau chitchatted.

The three of them worked all weekend to create a magical visual tribute to Carmen. In addition, Madge and Javier decided to carry Daisy’s accessories in their store, which became so popular they had to hire a small staff to produce them. Daisy and Saide never returned to Miami. Both their families were heartbroken, but the girls paid no mind. Saide had found her soul mate, and Daisy her career. They rented the room above Her Madgesty’s Closet and filled orders that came in from around the globe. Models, socialites, costume directors, photographers, movie stars, and magazine editors… everyone scrambled for Daisy originals.

Of course, the fairy tale didn’t last forever. Saide married Javier, but they divorced a year and a half later, and she refused to ever speak of it. In fact, some kind of falling out took place between all of them. Daisy, estranged from Saide, became somewhat of a recluse, even after she hit the big time. Someday I hope to learn the details of this mystery!

I have several reasons for sharing this story. In spite of all the obstacles of her family, heartache, and tragedy, Daisy found a way to make her mark in the world in a big way. She took risks, raised eyebrows, and went against what everyone expected of her because she believed in her talent. She also teaches that ultimately, we don’t have control of what happens. Sometimes you have to let it go and have faith that God, the universe, karma—whatever you want to call it—will bring it back in a better way.

I have a lot of opposition in my life right now, many challenges to conquer. But Daisy’s story gives me hope and pumps me up. Tomorrow is a new day and I’m going to make it the best I can. Besides, you’ll NEVER believe what I scored at an estate sale last weekend—the jar of Carmen’s lucky buttons! They were passed on to a woman from her grandfather who used to live in Coconut Grove. I only paid $50, but we all know they are priceless. My dream is to someday meet Daisy in person and return this precious gift to her. Daisy, if you are out there, come find me!

So go out there and make the most of what you have to work with! Find your own window display to gussy up, put together your own jar of lucky buttons! Miss Scarlet, Daisy, Saide, and Carmen want you to!

S
carlet, flat on her belly like a squirrel in midflight, swept her arm under the massive, low-set armoire in search of her black-and-white saddle shoes. A decent set of ground grippers were in order today; she had a heck of a lot on deck.

At last, her middle finger felt the smooth edge of the wood heel. With one last stretch, she grabbed it and joyously hugged the long-lost footwear to her heart. She then jogged down the hallway and set the shoes on top of the dresser next to the antique radio that played Glenn Miller. Actually, it was her iPod system parked behind the radio that played Glenn Miller—all the same to Scarlet.

After an ego-deflating Thanksgiving dinner, Scarlet came home, wrote on her blog, and sewed up a storm to reconfigure her confidence levels. She started and finished a new dress that came out much different from all her others. The frustration from the dinner had filtered its way out of her system by way of satin and lace. Scarlet loved that she could process negativity and transform it into an item of beauty. However, she felt groggy from the stitch-a-thon. It was already seven thirty a.m. and she still had to dress for work.

As she combed through the racks in her walk-in closet, Scarlet practiced breathing exercises to calm her nerves that were currently more tangled than a tarantula’s jump rope. She needed to find another location quickly for the sewing class, or scrap the idea and find another way to pay her Johnny Scissors tuition.

Otherwise, she’d fail miserably and prove her family right.

She took a deep breath and let her worries float away, if only for the moment, so she could focus on Glenn.

Music always got her going. Her limbs warmed from the inside out as she swayed to the peppy grooves and toe-tapped her way into the kitchen. Her trusty percolator smiled back at her as she filled it with water and added the coarse grounds to the brew basket. On went the gas flame, and she set out a pink Stetson Melmac cup.

Savoring the peaceful vibe created by the scent of fresh coffee and the sound of “Sunrise Serenade,” Scarlet wondered why she let herself get so worked up in the first place. Mother Nature beckoned the girl to relax. The cool November air flowed through the open ninety-year-old kitchen window and it already smelled like Christmas. She squeezed her eyes tight and thanked the universe for what she did have going in her favor.

She may have been the ill-fitted square peg at her folks’ house the previous night, but not here. Scarlet’s casita measured one thousand square feet of pure palatial paradise. Formerly her Nana Eleanor’s residence, the classic 1930s Craftsman bungalow was now a historical Glendale landmark in the Caitlin Court neighborhood. Scarlet had more memories of walking up the shallow steps to the triple-arch porch than she did of her parents’ southwest stucco entrance. Every day in front of the rock wall fireplace, Nana conducted a type of home-ec boot camp for Scarlet. She taught her how to pin the perfect hair curls, bake foolproof piecrust, polish silver, and make tamales
at Christmas and menudo at New Year’s. Nana had schooled Scarlet right. And even in her adult years, Nana Eleanor proved to be her strongest ally.

When Scarlet decided to trade in a ruler for a measuring tape and do the fashion thing, it was the night of her twenty-eighth birthday celebration. Before she blew out the candles on her red velvet cake, she announced to her family, friends, and fiancé that pursuing her dream was the best present she could give herself. The crowd freaked, just as Scarlet had expected. But what made her flinch the most was when Cruz, her dapper fiancé of four years, dumped her that very night—on her birthday!

As the couple drove home from her parents’ house to his Ahwatukee condo, he gave her an ultimatum: Take one of the six-figure engineering jobs that had been generously offered to her or move out. His reasoning was that even though he supposedly loved her, he had “put up” with her fascination of all things retro long enough. He assumed Scarlet would transform overnight into a business-suit-wearing corporate maven—a perfect match to his law career.

They were stopped at a red light on Chandler Boulevard when Cruz confronted her, the softness in his big brown eyes replaced by emptiness. In that moment Scarlet knew his supposed love for her came solely from her income-earning potential. She should have seen this coming, but Scarlet’s downfall was that she always noticed the good in people first.

Looking back, Scarlet had no idea why she had stayed with the louse as long as she did. She preached to high heaven on her blog all the time that her readers should surround themselves with positive people. And yet there she was, being made to feel like a misfit minx by the one person who should have been holding her pincushion. There at that stoplight, Scarlet decided to take her own advice. She made Mr. Man pull over and gave
him a piece of her mind. She ditched his fancy wheels, called a cab, and went straight to Nana’s.

Spending the night at her grandmother’s house after emotional distress was healing, thanks to the combined blast of cologne, spray starch, and vitamin E oil when Nana opened the front door; the fresh fruit pie and the pitcher of sweetened tea always ready in the fridge; and the collection of ceramic elephants in the china chest. Everything her grandmother had lingered from decades past. In any other setting it would seem odd, but in Nana Eleanor’s house, it all belonged.

Scarlet and her nana nibbled that night on apple empanadas and washed them down with cups of café con leche while the music of Pepe Aguilar crooned through the record player. Nana lent Scarlet one of her frilly nightgowns from the ’40s and made up the couch for her to sleep on. She promised her granddaughter that the karmic scales were tilted in her favor and told her to sleep tight. Scarlet did as she was told. She couldn’t care less that she had been dumped on her birthday, had no place to live, and not a lick of a fashionable job opportunity.

The next morning, Nana asked her to drive her to see Scarlet’s mom and dad. And there, over grilled burgers and potato salad, Nana informed them that she wanted to move to Thunderbird Retirement Resort and rent her house to Scarlet. Nana explained that at eighty, she was too old to tend to the property.

Fast-forward twenty-four months, and Scarlet had converted one bedroom into her sewing studio and office space, and the carport into a potting shed. She picked up where her nana had left off in the outside garden and planted flowers, vines, and veggies. Her dad even installed a bench swing in the center of the lush garden, making it her go-to sanctuary for self-reflection. Aside from that, she kept almost every doily in place. Most of
her possessions were bona fide relics that ranged from the 1920s to the 1970s, but she also accumulated modern resources as needed. Miss Scarlet couldn’t go without her iPhone, MacBook Air, Lean Cuisine, or local Target!

Scarlet reminisced as a jazzy piano version of “The Way You Look Tonight” piped through the house. Before she dressed, she stopped by her glass curio to admire her most-prized Daisy collectibles: autographed glossies, magazine clippings, limited-edition Daisy wallets, the jar of Carmen Miranda’s buttons, even a Daisy toy doll.

Scarlet adjusted the straps on her slip and wormed her way into a polka-dot shirtwaister, but it reeked of Shalimar. Must have been the one she wore dancing last week, and she accidentally hung it back in her closet. OK, black pedal pushers and a paisley smock it was. Standing in Nana’s pink-and-black tiled bathroom, Scarlet tied on a silk scarf to hold back yesterday’s teased bouffant with the sprayed curl at her forehead, patted her tan skin with Pan Cake foundation, then swiped her lids with a broad line of black eyeliner, followed by two coats of mascara. Last—and most important—cherry matte lipstick.

One swoop left on the bottom lip, and pat, pat, pat on the upper. As Scarlet meticulously applied her lip color, she gave herself an internal pep talk. Even though Carly didn’t promote her and her dad hurt her feelings and she had no place to hold her class… and even though she’d have to pull money from savings she swore she’d never touch in order to make her first down payment on the Johnny Scissors program… she would find the silver lining.

In this life, Scarlet told herself, people have to look at the big picture and what it takes to move forward. Sometimes sacrifice is involved. So Scarlet would make an offer to the universe and sell off a chunk of her vintage record albums.

At thirty, Scarlet had more vinyl on her wall-unit shelves than dollars in the bank. The records took up an entire wall in the living room. She carefully selected fifty titles to escort to the indie record store on Glendale Avenue, Vega’s Vicious Vinyl.

Sometimes when Scarlet needed a break from the sewing machine or felt like embroidering in an abstract setting, she’d head over to the indie record store and chat with the owner—the brooding, mellow, and mysterious Mr. Marco Vega. An odd fellow, he was. His store carried hundreds of collectible recordings, and he could recite the categorical details of every one of them, but that was about it. Most indie shopowners, whether they ran scrapbook stores, vintage clothing boutiques, or record stores, considered their business a marriage. Yet Scarlet noticed that Marco treated Vicious Vinyl like a long-lost adopted cousin. He kept it going, but clearly, the love wasn’t there.

Scarlet didn’t know why, but he made her jumpy—perhaps because he towered two heads taller than her. Sometimes if her eyes lingered a second too long on the curvy shape of his lips, she’d lose all train of thought. She wondered what they would look like in a full smile, teeth and all. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear she had a crush on him. But never in a lifetime would he take her seriously. Scarlet knew she made his head spin with all her talk about old Hollywood scandals, Daisy de la Flora, and her soft spot for Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. Scarlet would yammer on, and Marco politely listened. She often wondered what crossed his mind, as he rarely spoke unless it was to complete a transaction or help a customer.

One day when she walked in, she noticed he had a ripped shirt pocket. To an addicted seamstress like her, it was like the last drink of beer to an alcoholic. She couldn’t let it be, and she offered—no,
demanded
—to stitch it up for him. His face turned paler than bleached cotton. She took it as a hint to back off. But
just when she thought he’d had enough of her, he invited her to choose the tunes to play in the store. She played cuts from her LP collection and told him all about her favorites. He assured her that if she ever wanted to sell any of them, she knew where to go.