Vintage (35 page)

Gary got up, holding a piece of paper and a stencil that went over it. “How does this look?” he asked, removing the stencil so Violet could see the drawing. “Is this what you had in mind?”

“It’s beautiful,” she said, touching one of the long, delicate legs of the starfish in the picture.

“Then have a seat.”

Violet settled back into the reclining chair and rolled up her sleeve.

“Your bicep again?” Gary asked.

Violet nodded. “The other one this time.”

“You know, I’ve gotta hand it to you. A lot of chicks want ’em somewhere you can’t see ’em, like their hip or their back.”

“Yeah, well I’m not most chicks.”

Violet thought she detected a faint smile on his lips as he wiped her arm with rubbing alcohol, then pressed the stencil to it. When he removed it, there was a blue outline of what the tattoo would look like.

“So why the starfish?” he asked. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want, but I like hearing folks’ stories if they’re okay with talking about ’em.”

“Me too. I listen to my customers’ stories all the time,” Violet said. “I picked a starfish because they can heal and regenerate, even if they are injured or lose a leg. I’ve had a lot of loss in my life lately.”

She thought of Sam, and how much she longed to be in his easy presence again, to feel the strong warmth of his arms around her. She thought of Grandma Lou and of Betsy, who had become much like an adopted grandmother to Violet. She thought, too, about her old life in Bent Creek and how, in distancing herself from Jed, she’d necessarily had to distance herself from her parents, too, and all the echoes of the girl she used to be.

“Regeneration.” Violet let out a half laugh. “That probably sounds really flaky, doesn’t it?”

“Nah, it’s cool. I’ve heard far flakier.” Gary went to work putting together an intimidating contraption with a needle and tubes. Violet watched, trying not to get nervous. The whole point of getting the tattoo, after all, was to remind her that something good could come of pain.

He rubbed ointment over Violet’s bicep and leaned toward her with a needle attached to a bag. “You ready?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Remember to breathe.” Gary switched on the machine.

Violet felt a prickling stab. Her arm radiated pain as the needle touched her skin with a buzzing sound. To keep herself from dwelling on all she’d lost, she focused instead on her new house, her new start. It might take a long time, but she was determined to grow whole again.

“Doing okay?” he asked.

She nodded, clenching the fist of her free hand.

The buzzing stopped and Gary lifted the needle. “Good work. We’re done with the first line, and that’s always the worst part.”

Violet smiled. “It’s always good to know the worst is behind you.”

T
he next morning, Violet’s arm still felt sore. She smoothed ointment on it and searched her closet for something to wear that would cover up the raw, red-looking tattoo for now but wouldn’t rub against her skin. She startled when the doorbell rang. It was only eight thirty—an hour and a half before the shop would open.

She threw on a soft cotton T-shirt dress before running down the stairs to get the door. When she opened it, a man in a suit stood in front of her, clutching a briefcase. Violet’s heart pounded. She remembered her run-in with the process server a few months earlier.

“May I help you?” she asked. She didn’t invite him in.

The man set his briefcase down on the worn wooden slats of the porch. “Are you Violet Turner?”

“Yes. What is this regarding?” she asked, trying to keep the edge out of her voice.

“My law firm is handling Elizabeth Barrett’s estate,” he said. “And I’ve been instructed to contact all of the interested parties.”

Violet exhaled. “Oh, well I’m not an interested party. I mean, she was a friend of mine, but I’m not a family member or heir or anything.”

“According to Mrs. Barrett’s will, you are to receive some of her possessions.”

Violet sucked in her breath. “What?”

“Mrs. Barrett named you as a beneficiary in her will. You’re the only human being, actually, that she named. Everything else is either going to the arts trust she set up or to various charities.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. Not about the charities part, I mean. The part about me.”

The man picked up his briefcase again and clicked it open. “Here’s my card, and a copy of the will, so you can see for yourself. Betsy directed that I deliver the news to you in person, rather than calling or e-mailing.”

Violet extended a shaking hand and took the papers from him.

“I should let you know that we have to set up the trust first, the Barrett Center for the Arts. And we need to pay off her medical bills with funds from the estate,” he said. “Those are our priorities at the moment. As soon as we’ve done that, we’ll contact you to make arrangements to give you the personal items she wanted you to have, probably within a month or so.”

“Okay,” Violet said, dumbfounded.

“We also need to have the items appraised for estate-tax purposes, so when that’s done, we’ll give you an itemized list of all the values for your own records.” The man smiled. “I don’t know much about fashion, but even so, I suspect several of the clothing items are of significant value.”

Violet thought of her friend’s lovely suits and dresses, her dozens of pairs of designer sunglasses and shoes. She was sad to think she’d never again see Betsy wearing any of them.

After the lawyer had left, Violet flipped open the document he’d given her and turned to the signature page with hands still trembling with shock. She saw that the will had been signed and dated over a year ago—before Violet’s problems with the eviction and before she even knew about Betsy’s illness. For some reason, this made Violet happy. Betsy had known about her troubles with her landlord, and Violet hoped her friend hadn’t left her money just because of that. Like Betsy, Violet didn’t like to be pitied. Knowing that Betsy had put her in the will out of pure affection, rather than charity, made the gift more meaningful.

Behind the last page of the will was a document that read “Memorandum Disposing of Personal Property” across the top. Betsy’s lawyer had explained that this was the part of the estate plan that indicated where Betsy’s specific possessions were supposed to go and told Violet where she should look for her own name. The memorandum was several pages long, with lists of Betsy’s treasures and their intended recipients. Her silver collection was to go to the state historical society. Her artwork was itemized, with some pieces going to the trust that would run the Barrett Center for the Arts and some going to the contemporary art museum. Some of the items had instructions scribbled next to them, like “for the permanent collection” or “to be used in whatever manner most needed.”

The last page listed Betsy’s fur coats, handbag collection, and “the entire contents of the bedroom closet.” Next to those items, Violet read the following phrase: “to Violet Turner, for her own personal enjoyment, or to use, donate, or sell as she sees fit.”

Violet realized with a heavy heart that she would finally get to see all the contents of Betsy’s closet—something she’d always been curious about—but regretted that her friend wouldn’t be there to tell her the stories behind all of her beautiful clothes.

A
pril came into the store that afternoon, toting a sleeping Kate in a car seat carrier. She set the carrier on the counter where she and Violet could both admire her.

“Welcome, Mama,” Violet said. She surveyed April’s ikat-print skirt and layers of beaded wooden necklaces she’d purchased from the shop. “You look way too good to have just had a baby. But why are you here? I told you I’ve got things under control. I thought you were going to take some time off.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I didn’t come in to work,” April said. “I just needed to get out of the house. Sitting around all day reminds me of being on bed rest. So what did I miss around here?”

Violet slid the copy of the will across the counter.

“What’s this?” April picked it up. “Something about ‘estate of Barrett’?”

Violet grinned. “I just found out Betsy left me everything in her closet, that sneaky darling.”

“Seriously? That’s incredible,” April said, letting out a squeal.

Little Kate opened her eyes at the sound of her mother’s voice, then yawned and closed them again.

“So,” Violet said, “since I’m no longer on the brink of being evicted, and since I apparently will have some valuable items coming my way soon, it looks like I won’t be quite so tight on funds as I have been in the past. It got me thinking about how I want to run things around here in the future.”

“Oh, yeah? Have you reconsidered my idea about selling costumes?”

“Yeah, and I think we should do it, but I’m talking more about big-picture things.”

“Like what?”

“Well, when you were gone, both before you had Kate and in the last few days, I realized how much value you bring to the store.”

“Thanks,” April said. “That means a lot to me.”

“And I decided that, with your internship wrapping up, I’d like to offer you a position as a paid employee, if you think you’ll have enough time to work a few hours a week once you get settled into your routine with classes and Kate and everything.” Violet smiled. “Only if you want to. No pressure.”

“Of course I want to,” April said. “I honestly didn’t think it was a possibility, though.”

“You know, as much as I love the store, I love other things, too,” Violet said. “And as long as I’m the only one running this place, I rarely have time for anything else. Seeing you with Kate, I’ve realized that someday, not now of course—I’m still busy settling into my new space—but hopefully in the not-too-far-off future, I’d love to have a family of my own.” Violet leaned over and touched the baby’s pink cheek.

“Really? Like you’re going to adopt or do in vitro or something?” April put a hand over her mouth. “Sorry, was that too personal?”

Violet shrugged. “Maybe fostering. I don’t know. I haven’t gotten that far into the details yet. But I’m just saying it’s something I want. And when it happens, I have no idea how I’d have enough time to both be a mother and run this place seven days a week. So, if you’re still interested in working here . . .”

“I’m definitely interested,” April said. “I’ll probably have to work a pretty light schedule during the school year, though. I think my classes are gonna be pretty tough. I tested into some math classes that are usually reserved for juniors and seniors.”

“That’s fine. We can work around your schedule.”

April grinned. “What made you change your mind?” she asked. “You have to admit you were pretty resistant to the idea of working with anyone at first. I’m pretty sure Betsy had to force us together.”

“Yeah,” said Violet. “But she knew what she was doing.”

INVENTORY ITEM
: costume

APPROXIMATE DATE
: 1995

CONDITION
: excellent

ITEM DESCRIPTION
: Circus tightrope-walker costume. Satin leotard with red and gold sequins.

SOURCE
: Lane Lawton. Worn for an off-Broadway production in New York.

April

APRIL WAS ARRANGING COCKTAIL
dresses on hangers on a Tuesday in October, hoping to attract students shopping for homecoming, when the phone rang at the shop. She walked over to the sales counter and picked it up.

“It’s me, Violet,” said the breathless voice on the other end. “Are there any customers in the store?”

“No. We had a rush over the lunch hour, but things have calmed down,” April said. “Amithi’s upstairs working on some alterations.”

“Okay, well can you close the store down for an hour or so? I need you to come meet me at 215 South Hamilton right away. I found something amazing, and I’m afraid if I don’t act on it now, someone else will snatch it up.”

April jotted down the address. “Sure, I’ll come, but I don’t think we need to close the shop. I can ask Amithi to watch the store while I’m gone.”

“No, bring her along. I could use her help, too.”

“What if we get busy again, though?” April asked. “With Halloween coming up, we might get some people in here looking for costumes. I have to say I told you so about the costumes thing. Ever since we put them out on the sales floor, they’ve been flying off the racks. Oh, remember that awesome circus costume of Lane’s? Someone put it on hold yesterday and said they’d be back in to buy it this afternoon.”

“Okay, well, just put a sign on the door that says you’ll be back soon and close up the store. This won’t take long, I promise.”

April went upstairs to the sunroom, where Amithi sat bent over a sewing machine, working with a swath of shimmery black fabric.

“Violet just called,” April shouted over the hum of the sewing machine. “She wants us to come meet her.”

Amithi stopped the machine. “Right now? I have to finish taking in this dress before I leave for India tomorrow. I promised the customer I would get it done.”

“Violet said to come right away.”

“Why?” asked Amithi.

“I’ve learned that with Violet, sometimes it’s best not to question.”

April locked the shop doors. She and Amithi caught the bus and got off at South Hamilton Street near the capitol. April looked at the address she’d written down and tried to match it with one of the nearby buildings. All she could see was the courthouse, a bank, a parking garage, and some dilapidated rental houses with political yard signs for the upcoming election cycle cluttering their front lawns. Where could Violet possibly have found some sort of vintage treasure
here
? Maybe she found something on Craigslist—a priceless piece of couture stashed in the basement of one of these old houses.

She and Amithi walked up and down the block, looking at the address numbers: 210, 212 . . . but no 215. April stopped a man coming out of the courthouse with a briefcase.

“Excuse me, sir, do you know where I can find 215 South Hamilton?” she asked.