Chapter Two

The subsequent morning, I tossed my tote and handbag in my Jeep. I paused for a moment to admire my surroundings—a glorious autumn day rose over Sommerville. Crisp, clean mid-sixties were ideal weather conditions. An embracing briskness encompassed the air, but the sun promised warmth. No clouds. No rain.

I slid on my sunglasses, ready to conquer unemployment, and scooted inside my car. With a crank of the engine, I shifted in gear and took off.

Because of the accessibility to nearby larger cities, Sommerville became a fashionable place to reside. We enjoyed small-town amenities with big town convenience. Many considered our corner of the world to be exclusive by some, old money by others, and sought after by everyone.

My mom, Elaine, and my dad, Harry, raised my sister, Tracey, and me in Sommerville. We lived in a classic two-story Tudor house, which sat on a half-acre lot with a pool in the back yard and a couple of massive red oak trees in the front.

In grade school days, I became a close friend with Sarah Ann Wellborn, Allan’s younger sister. I still count her as a BFF today. Back then, we—occasionally—pretended to be twins. To help us realize our goal, our mothers stitched us matching sundresses in a cutesy flowery print. Unfortunately, many classmates believed we were beyond silly stupid and laughed. Pointing fingers were involved, too.

We all knew things changed, and even though I lost jobs before, I had to shift forward, not be stuck in the past, and embrace the new life adventures thrown at me with a positive mental attitude. I slapped the steering wheel in affirmation.

According to the Internet article I discovered, apparently, Sommerville embraced a new future, too. A developer bought a dilapidated shopping center near my favorite mall and flattened the buildings overnight. An upscale strip center with limestone facades and dark oak doors rose from the concrete crumbs. The owner found success in enticing new businesses to the area.

I drove to the shopping center. Next door to Stan’s Haberdashery, I located the boutique, Miss Anastasia’s Wedding Wonderland. I berthed my car in a space in front of Wonderland. I smiled as I noted the other stores were putting on the finishing touches for their grand opening as well. Muy exciting! Construction trucks and utility company vehicles filled the alley and street. With brushes in hand, painters perfected doorways and trim. A landscaping company spread mulch and created river-rock borders in flower beds.

Positive note—if the wedding job didn’t pan out, I could hit on the men’s establishment.

Before I exited the car, I checked out Wedding Wonderland's storefront. Temporarily, brown craft paper partially covered the upper part of the display windows. The name of the salon flowed across the bottom of the pane in fancy, black calligraphy, shadowed with old gold. Beautiful wood and beveled glass french doors secured the entryway. Urn-style cement planters stuffed with velvety purple and white pansies and dark green ivy stood adjacent to the portal and evoked a special-things-to-come aura to the customers who entered.

After closing the car door, I paused. With one last glance, I noted how professionally dressed I looked for the prospective interview in my best Chanel-styled knock-off, a navy-blue wool suit with a white tailored shirt. I fastened to my jacket’s left lapel an enameled flower pin once belonging to my grandmother. I’d slipped my feet into dark red kitten heels and slid a matching handbag over my arm. A leather initial “H” dangled from the handbag handles. The fashion mavens declared initials to be the season’s hot stuff.

A sizable silk scarf tossed over my shoulders as a dramatic accessory provided warmth in case of an unpredicted chill. The computer bag I carried contained an updated resume for the interview, references—not many considering some of my former employers were dead or didn’t have ideal things to report—paper, pen, and an electronic tablet loaded with e-books—all the accoutrements of a hopefully soon-to-be-employed girl.

The store owner would see a five-foot, eight-inch, slender gal with lightly layered, shoulder-length brown hair, highlighted with dark blonde, and brown, friendly eyes. When I checked my slim-fitting skirt, the only flaw I discovered—wrinkles from the seatbelt fastened around my hips. I ironed them flat with my hands.

Optimism buoyed my spirits. I searched for other retail jobs while in tempo limbo, but I desired more than a position scanning merchandise gliding past via a conveyor belt. Nor did I want to organize clothing “just so” on the display racks at the local superstore. Who would be excited about the mess the customers left on the floor in the dressing rooms? Not me. A bridal salon required an employee with extensive retail experience and the person—I squared my shoulders in determination—would be me.

I depressed the latch to Wedding Wonderland's door and pushed, but it didn’t budge. Probably locked. So, after I tried a second time with no results, I knocked boldly.

About two minutes later, a woman cracked open the door.

Through the slit, I observed a questioning lift shaping her brow.

“Yes?” she asked.

Before she could slam the door in my face, I took a quick breath. “Hi…I’m Hattie Cooks…I saw an advertisement on television about how some of the stores…in this shopping center…want to hire employees…and I wanted to speak with you about…a possible position.” I took several deep breaths after spitting out all the information in rapid-fire bursts.

She opened the door wider, clutching a giant screwdriver against her chest.

The woman appeared to be approximately sixty-five. Sturdy navy pumps on her feet lifted her height to nearly mine.

Tilting her gray head, she scanned me from head to toe. “Do you have any retail experience?”

“Plenty,” I affirmed with a nod. I set a palm to my heaving chest and took a calming breath. “I worked as an assistant menswear buyer for Tuckers.”

“Impressive. Tuckers is a very reputable establishment.” She rubbed a finger over her chin. “However, I don’t see how your past employment as a menswear buyer will help me. After all, I am a wedding planner, and the store is a bridal salon. Do you have any bridal experience?”

“No, ma’am.” I shook my head. Her dismissal of my previous employment at Tuckers stung some. Obviously, she forgot retail basics easily transferred from one department to another. “I haven’t been one.”

Her forehead crimped into a V. “Been one?”

The whole conversation perplexed me. “No, ma’am. I haven’t been a bride.”

“Oh my.” She threw back her head and laughed. “I mean, have you worked in a bridal salon before?”

What a silly mistake. Did I feel brainless! I snorted at the faux pas entre nous. “No, I haven’t worked in the wedding industry before now, but I’m a fast learner. Look, I didn’t know anything about insurance either, but I did fine.” Kinda. Sorta. In the “not being killed” way.

Gripping and releasing the screwdriver’s handle, she studied me for a minute longer.

While she considered, multiple please-please-pleases swirled through my head. “Please,” I nearly begged, “let me come inside so we can talk. You can read my resume. I believe I’m the person you want to hire.”

“Then, we should chat.” She opened the door all the way.

I entered quietly, unsure of what to expect.

She closed the door and turned the lock behind me. To my unasked question, she lifted the screwdriver. “Security. I spend most days alone in the store. I lock the door and carry something for protection. The whole stranger-danger thing, you know?”

“I get it.” I took a few steps farther inside. I roved my gaze to the display fixtures, and then, moved to the barely pink walls glazed with a shimmery hint of silver. Shadows and sparkles from the humongous crystal chandelier flitted across the ceiling to the back area where a raised carpeted platform took center stage. Three of the largest floor-to-ceiling mirrors surrounded the platform area. All looked top-notch.

The store owner swept past, deposited the screwdriver on a table, and indicated two ivory-covered armchairs arranged not far from the front door and next to a French Provincial-style desk adapted into a check-out counter. “Won't you have a seat?”

She extended her right hand. “I apologize for omitting to introduce myself. Anastasia Fernholly, owner of Wedding Wonderland. I prefer to be called Miss A.”

Her hand felt plump and warm in my grasp. “Nice to meet you, Miss A.”

Miss Anastasia Fernholly, aka Miss A., stood approximately five feet, six inches tall with overly permed, white pin curls. Her body type leaned to a roly-poly kind, sorta like a grandmother. However, extensive business experience filled her round cobalt eyes.

Over powder blue slacks and a crisp white shirt, she wore a lab coat style of jacket also in white with large patch pockets sewn two inches above the hemline. “Miss A” was inscribed in royal blue script below her left shoulder.

Note to self—blue could be her favorite color. I sat and retrieved a notebook from my tote.

Miss A. selected a pen from a decorative pencil jar on the desk, then rounded the table and took a seat.

I handed her my resumé.

All quieted as she shoved on a pair of blue marbled bifocals studded with rhinestones, which glittered when she turned her head.

I stayed still as she perused my work history, clamping the urge to explain.

She occasionally paused to peek over the top rim of her glasses. She scribbled notations.

Too much time passed, causing my foot to jiggle. I had to say something. I cleared my throat. “As I said, Tuckers employed me as an assistant buyer for men’s sportswear. My responsibilities included inventory control, to track best sellers, spot trends, pricing for sales, and to place orders. I visited stores and, on many occasions, worked the floor, even tagged merchandise in the warehouse. And if need be, hand-delivered the goods to stores.”

I paused to gauge how she received the information—all looked good. Her body slightly tilted forward as she listened. “As a department manager, I stocked merchandise quickly, managed staff, set up displays, and processed the inventory. I dress well, and other employers consider me to be highly organized. Those skills will transfer to most retail jobs. I can do what you need and more.”

“Hmm.” She lowered the paper and shoved her specs to the top of her head, where they nestled in her white cotton curls. “If you were well-suited to the job, why did your employment at Tucker’s end?”

Mentally, I paged to my go-to answer. “Reduction of staff due to an economic downturn.”

“Hmm.” She tapped her cheek. “Tucker’s let you go because of cash flow?”

I pressed together my lips. To this day, my heart still ached because I loved the lost job. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Such things do happen.” She bobbed her head. “Our economy ebbs and flows.”

“Yes, it does. If you want, my boss at Tucker's would be happy to give you a reference.” Because he owes me big time.

After a while, she pushed her bifocals on her nose and resumed reading. “You’ve worked several temporary jobs. Nor were you employed with them for very long.”

“True.” Honesty—the best policy. Explaining my weird work history felt strange, even to me. “In a town the size of Sommerville, finding the perfect retail job has been…a challenge. In the interim, I asked a friend to place me in temporary jobs. She deemed the additional experience would be beneficial. More opportunities would open up, and I might acquire more skills.”

Boy, I sounded super good. However, the need for mucho dinero drove my mouth.

“I like what I see here,” Miss A. mused, quirking one side of her cheek while she scratched notations on the paper. “You have good experience, great deportment, and a nice disposition. You sound intelligent. You’re—”

I gripped my pencil tighter. Come on. Come on.

“—hired.”

Yippee!! Immense relief swept through my body. The heavy “unemployed with serious deficit load” I carried vanished in the wind. “Really?”

With a broad smile, she nodded.

My entire being grew lighter than a feather. “Thank you, Miss A. You won’t have any regrets.”

“You’re welcome. I believe in you.”

Her genial smile caused me to feel accepted, too.

“However, I cannot pay a lot. Not until we reach specific significant sales—which we will. I’m determined to be a success—at all costs. You see, I’m old-fashioned about marriage, and I believe in true happy ever after.”

The hourly wage Miss A. mentioned sounded standard for the times and desirable over nothing. I could cinch my budget tighter and make do for a while.

We chatted a little longer to get to know one another better. Miss A. explained she lived elsewhere, until recently, when she decided to relocate to Sommerville, a familiar stomping ground from younger days. She revealed her prior retail experience in women’s clothing, and after working in a wedding salon in the Northwest, she desired to open a store of her own.

“Good news,” I said. “I have a potential customer.”

Miss A raised her brow. “You're a fast worker.”

“My sister.” I nodded, happy to share. “Her ‘I Do’ day is months away. And she needs major help.”

“Excellent. I look forward to meeting her. An influential couple has an appointment in the store in a few days to plan their wedding, too.”

“Influential couple” caused an image of Jonson Leggett the Third and Barbie Fenster to pop in my head. Silently, I prayed “anyone but him.”

Miss A. shifted forward to set aside my paperwork on an adjacent table. With a tug, she adjusted her jacket placket into place. “Now, if you don’t mind, I suggest—for the store’s purposes—we call you Miss Hattie.”

Weird. Me being called Miss Hattie sounded weird, like what-I-called-my-Sunday-School-teachers weird. I twerked my mouth sideways. Didn’t matter. If “Miss Hattie” was my store name, “Miss Hattie” it would be. My main goal, other than pleasing her, was to keep the job; so, naturally, I would agree to most anything—within reason. Like knifing and maiming wouldn’t be a part of the job, except in self-defense, which shouldn't be a problem in a wedding salon. “Of course.”

“Excellent. You have plenty of expertise which will easily transfer to my line of business,” Miss A. said. “I can teach you about the wedding industry. You appear eager to learn.”

Confidence swelled in my chest, nearly busting my shirt’s buttons. “I am.”

“So, how about starting tomorrow? The store opens at ten in the morning and closes at six in the evening, except for Thursday and Friday when we close at nine. We aren’t open on Mondays either, except for now while we stock the store. If you could arrive a bit before ten tomorrow—perfect.”

“I’d be happy to.”

“Wonderful.” Miss A. stood and, with a wave of her hand, indicated the way to the front door.

When I arrived at the door, I set my hand on the handle and paused. One question plagued me about the opportunity. “By the way, Miss A—”

“Yes, dearie?”

“Does Wedding Wonderland sell invitations?”

“But of course.” She patted my shoulder in a grandmotherly fashion. “I have contracted a specific printing company to work with.”

An “uh-oh” sensation sank to my feet.

“Everything is done on-line. You’ll learn the ins and outs.”

Based on my not-so-good past job at Button and Bows Stationery Company, I felt duty-bound to bone up on my proofreading skills. I couldn’t lose another job because of misspelled names similar to female body parts.