It all came down to the clothes.
Don’t get me wrong, there was never a girl so courteous, so clever, so kind as Nancy Drew. And while other heroines could dodge bullets and fly, they each had their bad days, cases of raw nerves, bouts of self-doubt, and minor breakdowns. But Nancy, sweet Nancy, was always upbeat.
Nancy lacked a mother, but had no gaping wounds (or at least had grace enough to dress them). There were no prolonged periods of sorrow, no sugared-up memories of a soft face and lilac scent to pinch at the heart.
And while she did not want for resources, she hardly seemed spoiled; any attempt at payment for her services was refused. Nancy was gracious. “You’re kind, but no,” she’d say, and settle instead on a token of thanks; a well-weathered bracelet, a grandmother’s ring.
It was all so simple. So honest. So nice.
But if you took away whispering statues, secret staircases, snake charmers, and the intrigue of words like “incognito”—it always came back to the clothes.
The texture and color. The variety and splendor. The flair and utter packability of Nancy’s nonstop wardrobe got me every time. It was the changing of dresses before dinner, the wearing of pearls and lace, all the talk of full skirts, capped sleeves, and cinched waists. A million and one silks: charmeuse and chiffon, georgette and grosgrain, organza, crepe de chine, and taffeta. It was the swirl and rush of soft fabric brushing against the hard edges of my life as I took in page after page of gossamer and gauze.
And had I been offered her independence, her confidence, her bravery and wit, I would not have turned them down. How could I? The blue convertible, the square-jawed father, the nurturing Hannah, always ready with lemon cake and iced tea.
I could not have said no.
But had I to choose just one thing—select between Nancy’s sleuthing skill or her endless supply of evening wear—I’d have pursed my lips and acted out an internal weighing of thoughts. But in truth, I’d already be imagining myself draped in silk voile.
Because with just the right dress, I might ignore the scene outside my window. With glitter-tipped shoes, I might walk around like Nancy, cool and bright, well-appointed, and just right.
So given the choice between a father and fringe, I would have had to admit that Victorian gowns folded out from steamship trunks would win every time.
Hands down.