The Dress Shop of Dreams (8 page)

Cora can’t remember the house she lived in as a girl, so she couldn’t purposely avoid it, but she stayed clear of New College, where her parents worked. She has no memories of being there either yet isn’t ready to confront any memories that might return to her, now that she knows things weren’t as she’d always thought.

“Are you all right?”

Cora blinks and brings herself back. She’s standing on the steps—on the 7th of 17—of a police station. A tall young man is standing beside her with a slight look of concern.

“Are you all right?” he asks again.

Cora nods.

“Can I help you with anything?”

She frowns at him. “Are you a police officer?”

He nods. “I’m a detective.”

It seems to Cora that he wants to touch her arm, to reassure her of something though he doesn’t know exactly what. Over the last few days she’s been getting these senses of strangers, little snapshots into their hearts, and wonders if it’s normal. She’s spent so much of her life disconnected, wrapped up in her head, that she doesn’t know what it’s like to connect, to see and know other people.

“I want,” Cora begins, “I’m here to talk to someone about … my parents.”

The police detective nods and waits.

“They died twenty years ago,” Cora says. “Here in Oxford, in a fire. It was ruled an accidental death but … I’m not entirely sure it was.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says. “Please, then, follow me.”

Twenty minutes later Cora is at the police officer’s desk, holding a plastic cup of tepid tea between her palms, sitting forward in her chair. She watches Detective Henry Dixon’s fingers as he types and stares at his computer screen. When it seems as if he’s completely forgotten she’s sitting there at all, he looks up.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “it takes a while to access some cases and—”

“I should really be going through all sorts of procedures and paperwork before anyone does anything,” Cora interjects. “So please don’t apologize. I’m very grateful. Really.”

She’d overheard Henry quietly arguing with another police officer while she sat in the waiting room, so she knows he shouldn’t really be doing this.

Henry gives a quick smile. “I’ll be as fast as I can.”

Etta sits at her sewing machine, stitching the hem of a bright blue silk dress, her foot tapping restlessly against the leg of her chair. She’s trying not to worry about Cora but can’t help it, her thoughts keep pulling back to her granddaughter no matter how hard she tries to wrench them away. Etta wishes a customer would come into the shop and distract her but the bell above her door hasn’t rung in hours. When Etta finishes the hem she threads shimmering beads onto a needle, two at a time. Then, as she pulls the needle through the silk, she suddenly hears the blessed bell. Etta jumps up from her table, nearly knocking over the sewing machine, and hurries into the shop.

A very beautiful redhead steps onto the carpet and “Let’s Twist Again” starts to play. Etta smiles. It’s one of her favorite songs and she knows this customer is going to be fun. The
woman walks slowly around the shop, lingering over each dress as though she wants to buy them all and can’t bear to choose just one.

“Which one would you like to try on?” Etta asks, not needing to be tentative.

The woman turns with a brilliant smile, still holding the hem of a bright yellow minidress, and fixes her bright green eyes on Etta.

“I want to wear them all,” she exclaims. “I want to take them all home.”

Etta laughs. “That’s exactly why I live above the shop.”

“Well, I’m not surprised. So would I. It’s quite the loveliest dress shop I’ve ever stepped into, and I’ve stepped into a lot.”

“Compulsive shopper?” Etta asks.

The woman shakes her head. “Costume designer.”

“Oh.” Etta brightens. She knew this was going to be fun. “For films?”

“Not yet, but I’d love to.” The woman holds out her hand. “Greer Ashby. It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Etta Sparks. My pleasure.” Etta gives Greer a quick glance, assessing her situation with an expert eye, but can’t see anything in particular, no missing pieces, that her customer needs. “So tell me—since, embarrassingly enough, I can’t seem to figure it out—what can I do for you?”

Greer smiles. “I’m up for an award, for a play.”

“How exciting. What’s it called?”

“
Ninety-nine Nights,”
Greer says. “My sister-in-law wrote it and asked me to do the costumes. It’s a gorgeous play. You should see it.”

“Oh, I will,” Etta says, “I will.”

“Anyway, I need a very special dress. And I can see I’ve come to the right place.”

“Indeed you have,” Etta says, thinking that she might just stitch a little red star inside the lining of the dress Greer chooses, an extra shot of confidence to spur her in the direction of those films. “Indeed you have.”

Milly stops walking outside A Stitch in Time. She’s on her way to see Walt, but the window glittering with dresses brings her to a halt. It’s filled with dozens of dresses draped over each other in every shade of blue. They sparkle and shimmer, every inch of fabric scattered with sequins, glitter and beads giving the effect of ocean meeting sky on a bright summer day.

Milly is not a fan of dresses. She can never find a flattering one and now just usually buys garments without first trying them on, because it’s easier and less painful that way. But there is something about this shop. It almost seems to be an art gallery rather than a dress shop, a place that will make you feel serene just by stepping inside and breathing in all the beauty.

“Bye Bye Love” fills the shop as Milly opens the door. Etta looks up from behind the counter to see her new customer: wearing a baggy dress two sizes too big, a heavy woolen coat and clumpy shoes, her mousy brown hair cut in an unflattering bob around her round face. She wears no makeup but her skin is clear and her eyes are bright. These eyes widen as she glances about the shop, mesmerized and slightly scared. Slowly Milly approaches the closest rack of clothes and reaches out to touch a dress. Etta watches her. This customer is exactly the opposite of her last one; this one she’ll have to treat with kid gloves.

When Milly’s fingers touch the lapis blue silk she pulls back, as if having just received a slight electric shock. For a long moment she stares at the dresses until a slow smile creeps onto her lips. Milly reaches out again, this time letting the silk slip over her fingers like water. Then she turns to go. But Etta is beside her before she finds the door.

“You haven’t tried anything on.”

Milly stares at Etta as if she’s seen a ghost.

“None of them would fit me,” Milly mumbles. “I’m far too old and fat for pretty dresses.” She hates clothes shopping. The hours of despair searching for something remotely suitable, the few seconds of hope, the bitter disappointment when the mirror reveals every dimple of cellulite, saggy skin and rolls of belly fat. In fact, she can’t now imagine why on earth she stepped into the dress shop in the first place. What was she thinking?

“Don’t be silly.” Etta laughs. “You’ll look beautiful. I promise.”

“No.” Milly shakes her head. “They’re far too glamorous. They’d look ridiculous on me.”

“These aren’t ordinary dresses,” Etta assures her. “No one looks ridiculous in them, only completely and utterly fabulous.”

Milly laughs then, a full deep laugh, and Etta knows she’s in.

Etta sticks a small hand into a rack of crimson ball gowns and plucks out one of her loveliest creations. The bodice is made of spiderweb lace, thousands of roses embroidered over herringbone, ending at the waist with waterfalls of dark red silk cascading to the floor.

“Oh my goodness,” Milly gasps. She takes a tiny step backward. “Oh, no. No, I couldn’t. I couldn’t possibly—”

“Just try it. For me,” Etta says with a smile, ushering her toward the changing room. “Make this old woman happy, then I’ll let you go. Please.”

Milly gives a sigh, relenting, as Etta knew she would. Her
current customer is a chronic people pleaser, absolutely incapable of refusing a direct request.

“Wonderful, thank you.” Etta grins. She waits outside the changing room, standing guard to be sure Milly doesn’t discard the dress too quickly after putting it on. She needs to coax her out into the open, to help her have a closer look; she needs to make a few adjustments and add a secret red star into the lining with her little needle and thread.

Chapter Eight

A
fter half an hour, Henry sits back from his screen and rubs his eyes. “I’ve found your parents’ file,” he says. “They died in a fire, on March fourteenth, 1993, right?”

“Yes.” Cora nods.

“Okay,” Henry says. “So, the inquest gave a ruling of accidental death. The fire wasn’t arson. It wasn’t set on purpose. The police investigators didn’t find any accelerant, anything of the sort to suggest that someone intentionally started it.” He glances back at the screen, then gives Cora an almost apologetic look, his dark brow furrowed. She notices that his eyes are a bright, bright blue. “The police report concluded the fire was caused by an unattended candle falling onto a pile of papers and books.”

“Oh,” Cora says, not sure whether she’s disappointed. “Okay.”

“Was that not what you wanted to hear?”

Cora shakes her head. “No, it’s not that. It’s just, my
grandmother … she thinks it wasn’t simply an accident. She thinks that perhaps someone else was involved.”

“She thinks they were murdered?”

Cora shifts in her plastic seat. “No, not exactly. Well, I’m not sure. She’s not sure. I just wanted to see what I could find out.”

“Does your grandmother have any evidence?”

Cora shakes her head. She grips the side of his desk, suddenly feeling like a three-year-old telling a grown-up that fairies are real. What evidence does she have, what proof? Cora wants to jump up from her chair and run away. What is she doing? What is she doing asking to see the details of a case about which she knows nothing? Now she looks like an idiot. Or a lunatic.

“Family members often can’t bring themselves to believe that the death of their loved ones was a tragic accident,” Henry says softly. He reaches across the desk, resting his heavy solid fingers on her light, jittery hands, grounding her, bringing her back to reality. “It’s not unusual to want someone else to be responsible. So they have a person to blame, to hate. Cruel twists of fate can be harder to—”

“Yes, of course,” Cora says, about to stand up and excuse herself, when all of a sudden, a memory rises up within her: she’s sitting at one end of a small oak dinner table, kneeling on a chair to read a book. Her father sits at the other end of the table and, in the middle, her mother. Both smile, completely absorbed in their own books, stacks of papers piled up around them. The room is dark except for candlelight flickering from five candlesticks dotted about the table.

Cora pulls her hands away from the desk and the warmth of his fingers. She jumps up, knocking the plastic chair back so it hits the floor. She turns to pick it up.

“Sorry,” Cora says, “sorry, I’ve wasted your time. I didn’t
mean, I thought perhaps …” And, in a puff of embarrassment, she hurries out of the room, leaving Henry staring after her, before she can finish the sentence.

Milly’s smile is radiant, gazing at herself, a beautiful figure resplendent in the crimson gown of lace and silk. Etta grins, compliments swallowed when she sees they’re clearly not required.

Only silence is needed now, to let Milly’s shock and delight sweep away sorrow and self-doubt. “I can’t, I don’t …”

“Believe it, my dear.” Etta leans forward. “Sometimes a painting just needs the right frame to reveal its true beauty.”

Milly takes another slow turn in front of the mirror, unable to pull her eyes away, unable to stop smiling. “I feel like I’m falling in love.”

It’s then that Milly’s greatest wish shimmers onto the mirror. And, when Etta meets her sweet customer’s eyes again, her smile is tainted with sadness so subtle and soft that Milly couldn’t possibly see it. Etta doesn’t want to say what she’s about to say, but knows she must.

“Love is a glorious thing, my dear. And you have two loves in your life now, do you not?”

“Yes.” Milly nods, shocked. “But how did you know?”

Etta smiles again. “I know something else too, from personal experience: don’t give your heart to someone who can’t return it with their own.”

Milly’s smile drops. “Why would you say that?”

“So you can have your greatest chance at happiness,” Etta says. “Because it hurts less if you walk away now.”

“You don’t know,” Milly protests, “you don’t understand.”

“Oh, my dear.” Etta places a soft feathery hand lightly on
Milly’s arm. “I know about love, especially the unrequited kind. And I really don’t recommend it as a subject of study.”

Milly glances down at the hem of her dress and squeezes her eyes tight shut. When she opens them again she won’t look in the mirror or at Etta.

“This dress doesn’t really suit me, and I’d never have a chance to wear it. I don’t go to parties,” she mumbles, hurrying back into the changing room, pulling the curtain closed behind her. A few minutes later she runs out of the dress shop, clutching her bag to her chest, leaving the crimson ball gown in a puffed-up heap of silk and lace on the dressing room floor.

Etta gazes after her as the door falls shut. This is the first time a customer has rejected her magic, has discarded a dress that was meant for her. It’s a troubling turn of events. Could it be that she’s losing her touch?

“Wait!”

Cora turns at the bottom step to see Henry running down toward her.

He stops on the step above her, not out of breath, but still confused by what he’s doing and why. Cora can’t look him in the eye.

“I’ve got something for you, just in case.” Henry hands Cora a single sheet of white paper folded in half. She takes it and unfolds the page, expecting the telephone number of a good psychiatrist.

“A coroner?” Cora frowns. “Why are you giving me this?”

“I’m not sure,” Henry admits. “But if you’re suspicious about your parents’ deaths then you need to see the coroner’s report. It can give you more answers than I can. And, if you find something
particularly revelatory, conflicting evidence or something that was overlooked before then you petition to reopen the case.”