“No matter whether a city be under siege, a country perplexed with overwhelming questions of national well-being, or a nation plunged in the awful intricacies of war, Fashion still holds her sway, changing with surprising rapidity, in spite of obstacles of never such appalling magnitude!”
—Practical Millinery
Diehl Fine Millinery
Wednesday, December 30, 1908
Yes, Levi, I’m writing it down.” Reba shifted the telephone to her left ear, raising her shoulder to hold it in place. She yawned. Blinked her eyes to chase the blurriness away in order to finish another batch of silk leaves. As she wrote on the notepad, she read aloud her handwriting. “Dinner. Six p.m. I promise I won’t forget this time.”
“I also have tickets for—”
The bell on the door jingled twice.
“Oh,” she gasped, cutting him off. “I have a customer.” Finally. “Good-bye.” She dropped the headset into the base and the pen onto the notepad. After a quick check to ensure her dress was free of loose threads and clingy silk scraps, she hurried into the boutique. “Good morning and welcome to Diehl’s Fine—” Reba stopped abruptly. “Oh, Mrs. Wright, what a lovely surprise.”
“I don’t mind snow, but wind … brrr. It’s near freezing out there.” Mrs. Wright tucked a manila envelope under her arm then removed her gloves. Her cheeks and nose were red. The snowflakes on her woolen coat and fur hat quickly disappeared.
Reba met the older woman at the center display table. “At least it’s not a blizzard. What kind of hat can I interest you in today? I have a new assortment of hat pins from London.”
Mrs. Wright’s gaze shifted about the millinery. She had to notice how thin the displays were. Did she realize the number of potted plants having taken over spaces formerly occupied by hats? While Diehl’s Fine Millinery wasn’t devoid of stock, inventory was a fraction of what she should have available. To have product to sell, Reba needed to hire someone to work the boutique while she focused on hat construction, but she couldn’t afford to hire someone without dipping into the next six months’ budget. She may have to make a compromise. Ladies couldn’t buy a hat if there weren’t any hats available. And with Easter only months away—
“Is something wrong?” asked Mrs. Wright.
“No, no, no. I was—it’s nothing. How are you?”
Mrs. Wright’s face lit up. “I’m doing wonderfully. For Christmas, Mr. Wright took me to see our youngest son in Cedar Rapids. Our daughter-in-law is expecting their first.”
“Congratulations.”
“And congratulations to you. Word is, Diehl’s Fine Millinery makes the most superb hats in all of Sioux Falls. I had to come by and see your boutique.”
“Thank you.” Reba turned to face the shelves filled now with folded yards of fabric instead of hats. “I do have a few hats in stock, but most ladies elect to place orders. The first step is to decide on colors. If you’d like to peruse the silks, I’ll go—”
“I’m not here to buy anything.”
Reba’s smile fell. Why would the dean of Home Economics at Sioux Falls College come to her millinery if she didn’t want a hat? A sinking feeling spread throughout her belly.
The scholarship.
“I meant to respond to your letter,” Reba blurted. “Truly I did, but after the fair, I had to start packing for the move. It slipped from my mind.”
Mrs. Wright motioned to the Queen Anne chairs in the sitting area. “Could we?”
“Oh, of course.” Reba followed Mrs. Wright to the red velvet chairs. “It was wrong of me not to notify you I was turning down the scholarship,” she said as they were seated. “I’m deeply sorry.”
Mrs. Wright laid the envelope on her lap and placed her gloves on top. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t accept it.”
“I appreciate the offer, but”—she shrugged—“college isn’t for me. This millinery is my heart’s desire.”
“I can tell.” Mrs. Wright looked impressed as she again glanced about the room. “It’s exquisite. There’s nothing like it in Sioux Falls. I like how you used the 60-30-10 principle.”
“60-30-10?”
“Sixty percent red, thirty percent white, and ten percent gold.” She laid the manila envelope on the marble-topped coffee table. “You brought in texture with the walnut center table and smell with the orchids and potted plants. You have a natural decorating sense.” She slid the envelope across the table. “I want you to reconsider your decision.”
Reba looked at the envelope but didn’t take it. “I don’t want to go to college.”
“Why not?” Mrs. Wright said, her tone gentle.
“I don’t enjoy cooking or canning or cleaning house. I don’t want to take classes in household management.” She leaned forward to nudge the envelope back to Mrs. Wright. “Making hats brings me joy. This is what I want to do.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, it is.”
Mrs. Wright nodded her head slowly, like Father did when he was thinking of a response.
Reba shifted in her chair.
“I was here opening day,” said Mrs. Wright.
“I didn’t see you.”
“You were too busy taking money.”
Reba glanced at her watch. Eleven fifteen. She needed to get back to work.
Mrs. Wright continued with: “You aren’t as busy taking money anymore, are you?”
Reba managed not to choke. How did she know? She couldn’t know. But the question was too pointed for her not to reply, “Customers prefer customizing.”
“Do they prefer it”—Mrs. Wright paused—“or is it a matter of they have no choice?”
A heavy sigh was all Reba had in response.
Mrs. Wright eyed her measuringly. “There’s not enough time to make the hats needed to keep up with demand without skimping on quality, and that’s something you can’t do. You had to decrease your business hours from six days a week, nine to five, to Wednesday through Saturday, noon to five, to have time to work on orders. Yet even with more time to focus on hat making, you keep having to lengthen the amount of time to fill an order. Inventory is low. Customers are becoming more dissatisfied. Word is spreading. Consequently, fewer customers stop in, and custom orders continue to decrease. By the look on your face, I can tell you are wondering how I know this.”
Of course she wanted to know! But admitting it was another thing.
Mrs. Wright leaned forward and slid the envelope back to Reba. “After my mother’s death, I helped my father manage his bakery. Once he passed away, I sold it, because I knew I didn’t have the skills, talents, or abilities a successful business owner needs. I hated the long work hours and little sleep. It’s not joyful living, is it?”
Reba swallowed an indignant humph.
“Bring the enrollment papers to my office next week. Classes start February 1.”
“I have a business to manage.”
“Take two credit hours a week, and open your shop only on Fridays and Saturdays.”
“This is a business, not a hobby.”
“How long can you keep it afloat?”
“All new businesses struggle the first year,” Reba said in her defense. “Come spring, I’ll be able to hire help. Winter is always a slow period for sales.”
Mrs. Wright stared at Reba for a long moment. “Well, then …” She stood, pulling on her gloves, and walked to the door. “You have time to change your mind.”
Reba followed her. “I’m flattered by the offer.”
Mrs. Wright reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Reba’s ear. “I know making hats brings you joy. Take a look in the mirror and ask yourself if running a business does. Does paying bills and ordering supplies fit your talents and abilities?”
Reba said nothing at all.
As Mrs. Wright left the shop, a burst of wintery air bit at Reba’s face. She quickly closed the door. Crossing her arms and rubbing them, she hurried to the potbellied stove at the back of the boutique. She added a scoop of coal then sat on a nearby footstool to enjoy the warmth. She didn’t have to look in a mirror to know she looked ragged. She felt it. Her parents had never seemed the worse for wear on only six hours of sleep a night. Right now she would give anything for six hours of slumber.
What a fool she’d been to think she understood what it took to manage a business! She should have listened to Father and to Mr. Smyth. Maybe they were right. Maybe she should have opened a smaller shop in a less expensive part of town. Maybe she should have asked Levi for business advice. Or hired him to manage the accounting.
Reba’s eyes burned with unshed tears. Her chin trembled, yet she fought the urge to break down. “I don’t understand, God. You promised whatever I asked for in Your name would be given to me. I took the time to figure out Your will. I know You opened this door. It’s not supposed to be like this. It’s supposed to be abundant.” Her voice choked. “You promised abundance.”
That doesn’t mean immediately, she reminded herself.
Right. Hard work and patience. And if push came to shove, she could dip into her savings and hire a shopgirl. Maybe an accountant.
Reba took a deep breath. “It’ll work out,” she said in a firm voice. “I’ll find a way to make it work.” She pushed off the footstool and headed straight to the workroom.
The time for crying and moping had passed. She had hats to make.