Designer Knockoff (15 page)
Lacey read the letter twice. It was written in July of 1943, almost a year before Gloria vanished. And if what Gloria wrote was true, then it was she, not Hugh Bentley, who designed Mimi’s gorgeous black suit. And yet Hugh recognized it immediately.
What’s going on here?
What’s going on here?
She put the note aside and drew a deep breath. Mimi had a fiancé who died in the war and Lacey never knew it.
Maybe that’s why she never got married.
If Lacey had a fifth of whiskey, she’d have poured herself a double. She went to the fridge. All she found was an open bottle of champagne leftover from an afternoon with Brooke on the balcony last weekend. Its bubbles were long gone, but it would do.
Maybe that’s why she never got married.
If Lacey had a fifth of whiskey, she’d have poured herself a double. She went to the fridge. All she found was an open bottle of champagne leftover from an afternoon with Brooke on the balcony last weekend. Its bubbles were long gone, but it would do.
Her glass of flat champagne in hand, she lifted a second puffy envelope. A brief note, also from Gloria, was attached.
Mims,April 20, 1944Don’t show it to anyone. It’s my newest design, all the pattern pieces. I won’t let Hugh have it and I know he can’t copy the details. He wants to ruin it in rayon crepe in a grayish lilac because he says it looks good on Marilyn. It doesn‘t! I can’t believe that’s what he wants to do to it. This dress is too important to me. I don’t care if I have to wait till the war is over to see it made. And I want my name on this dress, not Hugh Bentley’s! I will not let him make it for her!It simply must be made in silk, morning-glory blue, to be exact. My color, as you know. Besides, Hugh could have it made right. He knows how to get silk even now. He has his ways. And his customers are buying silk dresses on the QT. It didn’t all go for the war effort. If anyone asks, he says it’s prewar stock and when it runs out, there will be no more, so he can charge an arm and a leg for it, but Hugh’s private stocks never seem to run out. I’ve learned a lot, Mims, and I’ve learned there are some people who get everything they want, even in a war, and I’m going to get my hands on some of it. I’ll write when I have more time. Hide this envelope! Oh, and don’t turn me in!Love, Gloria
Morning-glory blue
sent chills down Lacey’s spine. She wished that Marie’s wayward psychic messages would come with a little bit more detail. Turning the envelope over, Lacey noted that Mimi had scrawled a few words—
Last letter from Gloria.
sent chills down Lacey’s spine. She wished that Marie’s wayward psychic messages would come with a little bit more detail. Turning the envelope over, Lacey noted that Mimi had scrawled a few words—
Last letter from Gloria.
Lacey opened the envelope. Several sketches of Gloria’s dream dress tumbled out, again including drawings of details, the bodice, the midriff, and patterns of beadwork. There was a somewhat idealized drawing of Gloria herself in the dress as well, making her far more glamorous. In it her hair was more controlled, the nose a touch smaller, the eyes the exact color of the dress.
Morning-glory blue,
it said in Gloria’s hand. The pictures were colored in pencil, and just to be sure Mimi would know what it should look like, Gloria included a small piece of the blue silk and a sample of embroidering with crystal beads and faux pearls. The rest of the contents appeared to be all the pattern pieces, each hand-initialed and numbered with the notation,
Blue evening
gown—
G.A
.
Morning-glory blue,
it said in Gloria’s hand. The pictures were colored in pencil, and just to be sure Mimi would know what it should look like, Gloria included a small piece of the blue silk and a sample of embroidering with crystal beads and faux pearls. The rest of the contents appeared to be all the pattern pieces, each hand-initialed and numbered with the notation,
Blue evening
gown—
G.A
.
But Gloria disappeared—and she never wore her fantasy dress.
The dress featured an intricate beaded midriff and a long skirt that flirted with the limits of L-85, the notorious clothing regulation. The bodice was low, but not scandalous. Lacey examined the sketches and the pattern pieces. The dress was beautifully designed and the pattern was expertly cut. It bore the telltale lines of the early Bentley designs, but Lacey had never seen this one. Whether Hugh had ever designed a similar one, Lacey had no clue. Maybe for one of those clients who could buy whatever they wanted during the war, whether it was red meat, gasoline—or silk.
Lacey arranged the stiff pattern pieces on Aunt Mimi’s cherry dining room table to make sure they were all there. They would have to be pressed flat. She knew that the fabric and the color, stipulated by Gloria Adams and reinforced by Marie the psychic, would enhance her eyes. The dress was an impossible fantasy, like the Scarpabella heels that mocked her, but she fell in love with the dress, just as Gloria had. In fact, the shoes were just right for the dress; they would pick up the color of the silk. They would be amazing together. She gazed at the dress, lying in pattern pieces on the table, and then at the shoes. And then at the sketch. Lacey poured herself more flat champagne. Champagne was always dangerous for her. Flat or not, she could have sworn she felt the tickle of the bubbles. She told herself it was an utterly mad idea even to contemplate finishing the dress—it couldn’t possibly really work—it wasn’t tailored for her—where would she find the silk?—and the pattern was sixty years old! It would be like rebuilding a vintage Rolls-Royce from a paint chip and a box of plans found in a barn.
No way,
Lacey thought.
But... what if there were a way?
No way,
Lacey thought.
But... what if there were a way?
The phone rang. Stella and Miguel were in the lobby of her building, waiting for her to buzz them up. Lacey had completely forgotten they were supposed to come over and discuss their big plan to remake her for the gala.
Forgotten on purpose.
It rubbed her the wrong way, as if she had some giant flaw they wanted to take care of. She also worried that whatever they decided would be weird and extreme—an avenging Goth warrior via Versace.
Never!
Forgotten on purpose.
It rubbed her the wrong way, as if she had some giant flaw they wanted to take care of. She also worried that whatever they decided would be weird and extreme—an avenging Goth warrior via Versace.
Never!
Lacey opened the door to a heavenly aroma spiced with oregano, and her defenses melted temporarily. Miguel carried a pizza and Stella carried beer and a bundle of magazines, including a vintage 1941
Vogue
for inspiration. Miguel glided past Lacey, deftly handing her the pizza and heading unerringly for the pattern and fabric spread out on the table. She quickly set the tantalizing box down on a trivet in the kitchen, then rushed over as he picked up Gloria’s sketches with Stella crowding his elbow.
Vogue
for inspiration. Miguel glided past Lacey, deftly handing her the pizza and heading unerringly for the pattern and fabric spread out on the table. She quickly set the tantalizing box down on a trivet in the kitchen, then rushed over as he picked up Gloria’s sketches with Stella crowding his elbow.
“Careful, Miguel. Those are old—and priceless.”
“You started without us?” Stella demanded. “And you’re already into the champagne? Before the pizza?”
“Trust me, Lacey,” Miguel said. “I have the hands of an artist.” He handled the sketches. “And this has possibilities. Definite possibilities. I presume you have all the pieces? And how old is this?”
“Who’s Mims?” Stella wanted to know. “The chick in the dress?”
“Yes, I think all the pieces are here, but the dress was never made, and Mims was my great-aunt Mimi, and no, it’s not my aunt; it’s a woman named Gloria Adams in the dress, and it’s from nineteen-forty—”
“Well, then!” Miguel gazed at Lacey, then the sketches, several times, until he was satisfied. He picked up the sample of blue silk and held it against her skin, nodding. He also spied Lacey’s new shoes and tested them against the silk. “Yes, see how they pick up the blue? This is the dress. This is the fabric. This is amazing. Lacey, the dress gods—or goddesses—have smiled on you. Stella, can you work with this?”
Stella was nodding in sync with her new Svengali. “I’m thinking a French twist, doing something high with her hair. It’ll make that bodice look even lower.”
“But it’s impossible,” Lacey protested. They merely stared at her. “I mean, it’s only a pattern, and the tailoring, the silk, the beading, the details—”
“Nothing is impossible,” Miguel declared. “How much time do we have?”
“A week and a half.”
“You must work on your abs every day. This dress is all about the midriff.”
“Hey! My abs are just ... But how on earth ...”
Maybe I should skip the pizza.
It was crazy, it was impossible, but she wanted the dress.
Maybe I should skip the pizza.
It was crazy, it was impossible, but she wanted the dress.
“He’s a genius, Lacey.” Stella was merely nodding at Miguel’s every suggestion. Lacey was no match for this dynamic duo.
“And the cost,” Lacey said. She glared at the shoes.
“Don’t be ridiculous; you have to have something fabulous to go with those shoes.”
“And Stella, about the shoes—”
“This is so much better than going
prêt-à-porter
, which I was simply dreading,” Miguel said. “You’re so goosey about money. I’m the one who’s unemployed here, remember?”
prêt-à-porter
, which I was simply dreading,” Miguel said. “You’re so goosey about money. I’m the one who’s unemployed here, remember?”
“It’s only because I don’t have any money.”
“Nonsense. Stella tells me you have a little credit-union account that you raid all the time to treat yourself. What better treat than the fabulous Dress That Never Was?”
“Stella!”
The stylist shrugged and her dangling earrings brushed a bare shoulder. Stella was wearing some sort of jungle-princess one-strap leather dress in gold with a stripe of leopard down the sides. “It musta come up in conversation or something.”
Miguel flipped open his cell phone. “I have some calls to make if we’re going to beat your deadline. Can you slice me some pizza, darling? And bring a fork if you have one.”
“I have a phone too, you know,” Lacey said. “A real one.”
He smiled and winked. “It has my speed dial.” He stalked around her apartment while he punched buttons and stepped out on her balcony to admire the view of the Potomac as the sun descended. By the time Lacey and Stella had heated up the pizza, set the plates on the table, and opened the beer, Miguel had made a half dozen calls, some in English, some in Spanish, some in a little of both. He knew someone who could bead anything, someone who was a wizard with pearls, and a tailor who could put it all together and make it snuggle her curves. “My little dream team. They’re trying to get green cards, so they really need the work, and overtime is no
problemo
.”
problemo
.”
“I will not be responsible for running a private little sweat-shop.”
“Then feel free to right the wrongs of mankind, darling, and even better, you can pay the going wage.” Miguel also had a friend in New York’s Garment District who dealt in silks. “I’ll need this sample to match the dye lot.” He snatched up Lacey’s solitary scrap of morning-glory blue silk, folded it carefully, and slipped it into his wallet before Lacey could protest. In a daze she removed the patterns and made everyone sit to eat their pizza.
“So who is Gloria Adams?” Stella was gazing at the sketch: Gloria triumphant, wearing the blue dress.
Lacey retrieved the photo of Mimi and her friends, including the woman she assumed was Gloria Adams, “Morning Glory.” She dished out the short version, that Gloria was a friend of her aunt’s who wanted to be a designer and walked off the face of the earth one day in 1944.
Like Esme Fairchild did the other day.
Lacey left out Gloria’s connection to Hugh Bentley, basically because she didn’t know exactly what the connection was. Hugh claimed Gloria was a mentally unbalanced stalker and he knew nothing about her ambition, but he could be lying. No doubt there were little lies on both sides.
Like Esme Fairchild did the other day.
Lacey left out Gloria’s connection to Hugh Bentley, basically because she didn’t know exactly what the connection was. Hugh claimed Gloria was a mentally unbalanced stalker and he knew nothing about her ambition, but he could be lying. No doubt there were little lies on both sides.
“This looks like an early Bentley to me,” Miguel said. Lacey felt a little dizzy.
So Miguel sees it too.
So Miguel sees it too.
“You’ve been holding out on me.” Stella pouted and grabbed another slice of pepperoni-laden pizza. “Is all this stuff out of that magic trunk of yours?”
“Why, Stella, you mean there might be a few tiny pockets of my life you don’t know about? I’m shocked.”
“So, if this dress was Gloria Adams’s design, what happened?”
“She never got to wear it. She vanished a month after she sent this letter to my aunt.”
“Someone has to bring her dream to life then,” Miguel ordained. “It might as well be us.”
“But would she want me to wear it instead of her?”
Pay no attention to things that don’t matter, Lacey. Follow your instincts. That’s what Mimi would say.
“Maybe she would. She’d want the world to see it.”
Pay no attention to things that don’t matter, Lacey. Follow your instincts. That’s what Mimi would say.
“Maybe she would. She’d want the world to see it.”
Or at least, Hugh Bentley. Wait till he sees me wearing Gloria’s gown!
chapter 10
“In the Mood” had been playing in Lacey’s head. It was one of her favorite Glenn Miller tunes, and she had been in a Forties frame of mind all week. She was wearing a navy crepe dress with three-quarter-length sleeves and a pocket and collar embroidered with gold thread and beads. The slim silhouette suited her, but as usual she felt more dressed up than necessary. Most of the crew at
The Eye Street Observer
demonstrated their fervent belief that casual Friday was in effect every day of the week.
And casual Friday here means Freaky Friday.
The Eye Street Observer
demonstrated their fervent belief that casual Friday was in effect every day of the week.
And casual Friday here means Freaky Friday.
Lacey was grateful that summer was over and hairy-legged men had stopped wearing shorts to the office with tank tops and open-toed sandals. With September she was also spared the tattoo parade on display during the humidity-whipped months, the flaming hearts not quite tucked into revealing décolletage, the sunbursts framing pierced navels, the surprise of an Art Deco flourish in a saucy “butt banner” on the lower back, kissing the thong as the waistband dipped low.
Would it be such an affront to civil rights to institute a dress code?
she often wondered, but wouldn’t dare suggest it. She was content to see the cover-up of sloppy khakis and T-shirts. She was also grateful for handsome Tony Trujillo, who always dressed well and enjoyed strutting around in his collection of cowboy boots and tight jeans.
Would it be such an affront to civil rights to institute a dress code?
she often wondered, but wouldn’t dare suggest it. She was content to see the cover-up of sloppy khakis and T-shirts. She was also grateful for handsome Tony Trujillo, who always dressed well and enjoyed strutting around in his collection of cowboy boots and tight jeans.
As if she expected something wonderful to happen to sweep her off into the weekend, Lacey always seemed to dress up on Friday. She thought she looked eminently sweepable in the navy crepe.
Now all I need is a devastatingly handsome guy who’s in the mood to sweep with
me, she thought.
Oops, that didn’t come out right.
Now all I need is a devastatingly handsome guy who’s in the mood to sweep with
me, she thought.
Oops, that didn’t come out right.
Other books
Skyfaring: A Journey With a Pilot by Mark Vanhoenacker
Sweet Surrender with the Millionaire by Helen Brooks
Sometimes By Moonlight by Heather Davis
2SpiceRack_bundle by Karen Stivali and Karen Booth and Lily Harlem
The Legend Trilogy Collection by Lu, Marie
Secondhand Time: The Last of the Soviets by Svetlana Alexievich
Never Have I Ever by Sara Shepard
Jackie and Campy by William C. Kashatus
Baby in His Arms by Linda Goodnight
Too Many Crooks by Richard S. Prather
