Authors: Nina Howard
She tried to walk down side streets, to avoid Mike or any other random encounter. Her circuitous route did take her past a wayward dog that didn’t try to attack her as she feared, rather followed for her blocks and blocks, happily keeping pace with her the entire time. Victoria was sure it was a male dog.
She walked past the playground in town, where it seemed every child was yelling as loudly as they could. Victoria was surprised to see what looked like actual mothers handing out in the park with their kids. Victoria could tell that they were mothers, not nannies, from the vast amount of workout gear in the park. Nannies didn’t dress in Lululemon and country club logo’d baseball caps.
She walked up to the station and looked for her bike next to the chain link fence where she had left it yesterday morning. Come on! Victoria thought. All this and a stolen bike too? She tried not to think of the sleek black cars that used to effortlessly transport her though Manhattan traffic. She used to think it was a pain in the ass if the ice in her water glass had melted before she arrived at her destination.
She spied a flicker of silver (or rust, ) in the bushes behind the station. Some jerk kid had probably tried to steal her bike and then determined that it was too old, too heavy and too damn ugly to be worth stealing and ditched it. Lucky me, she thought as she put her purse in the battered front basket.
It felt good to get to work. She asked Elise if she could work in the storeroom today. Usually she loved helping people find the perfect sweater, or a turntable that worked, or her favorite - putting together an outfit from the various corners of the shop. People loved her style and often came back to her with items that they had purchased at full-on retail stores that they wanted her to finish with the perfect vintage accessory or shoes. Today she wasn’t up for idle chit chat with old ladies and bargain hunters.
She busied herself sorting through what was mostly other people’s trash. The baby stroller with three wheels, moth-eaten sweaters, 8-track tapes, and mountains of VCRs. Since the advent of the DVD, thrift shops across the country could build walls from all the old VCRs. Problem was, everyone threw away the tapes. For some reason, they kept those 8-tracks.
Elise poked her head in with a twinkle in her eye. “There’s someone here to see you,” she said in a sing-song voice of a twelve-year old.
Shit. She didn’t want to talk to strangers, and she certainly didn’t want to talk to anyone she knew. Which, in this town, amounted to about six people. She put down the tangled necklace she was working on and wiped her hands on her pants and headed out to the front counter. She knew it was going to be Mike, and she wasn’t ready to face him just yet.
Instead, there was a scenester high school girl that came into the shop on a regular basis. The way she shopped made Victoria’s skin crawl - it was as if she was looking for the most revolting, outdated and basically queer outfit she could put together. She started asking Victoria’s advice on her last couple of trips into the store, and Victoria liked to think she was being a good influence on her.
When she saw the girl, Brooke, she knew that all her hard work was for naught. Brooke was wearing striped tights, a pair of high-waisted shorts with suspenders in which both Mork and Mindy would be embarrassed to be seen in public, a Ronald McDonald t-shirt, all topped with a red crocheted beret. The beret was the cutest part of her outfit.
“Hi Brooke!” Victoria said with an enthusiasm that she didn’t feel. “What can we do for you today?”
“I’m looking for a pair of overalls,” the otherwise darling 17-year old answered.
Overalls? Unless she was trying out for the part of the Scarecrow in Parker and Posey’s play, overalls shouldn’t be allowed on the street. “We just sold our last pair!” she lied.
“I bet it was Mary Campbell!” Brooke said. She had a gang of scenester friends who loved to comb the racks at the store.
Victoria thought of something. “I do, however, have something that may tempt you,” she said. She felt it was her karmic duty to educate these girls in the way of fashion.
She ran to the back and grabbed a Michael Kors blouse that had just come in. It was wrinkled and dirty (didn’t anyone wash their donations before they dropped them off?), yet it was cut beautifully. Plain white - with a good washing - it nipped in the waist and had lovely French cuffs.
“This is really beautiful,” she said, holding out the blouse as if it was worth a fortune. “See the cuffs?”
She could tell Brooke had never seen a French cuff in her life. “They’re missing buttons,” she said with a teenager’s distinctive whine.
“That’s the fun of it!” Victoria walked over to the glass counter at the front of the store. “Men for the most part have stopped wearing cufflinks, and there are some amazing vintage ones that could be yours for the taking.” She plucked a pair of cufflinks that were a King and Queen of Hearts. They jangled a little bit, and Victoria inserted them into the cuff of the Michael Kors shirt.
Brooke looked at her like she had just done a magic trick. “Cool! What other ones do you have?”
The two of them spent the next ten minutes sorting through a box that held an array of costume jewelry. Brooke came away with three pairs of cufflinks: The cards, somebody else’s monogram and little Eiffel Towers.
As she was paying for her purchases - a grand total of $22.37 for the shirt and all the cufflinks - Brooke looked up at Victoria. “Man, I hope I’m as cool as you when I’m your age.”
Ouch! “I hope so too,” was all she could answer.
###
On the way home from the shop, Victoria kept looking for Mike’s truck. He usually either tried to play cat and mouse, sneaking around corners and trying to stay out of her sight, which she thought was a fun game; or he would dive right next to her at 5 mph, talking to her with the window open. He was nowhere to be seen.
Her hangover abated, she still felt like crap, mostly from her own self-recriminations. She rode past the Starbucks and decided that she deserved a treat today. She would never have dreamed of going into a Starbucks in New York. That was for commuters and the homeless. She hadn’t been to a restaurant (except for last night, and she was really trying to block that from her memory) in a really long time. Lord knows that Starbucks doesn’t begin to qualify as a restaurant, but the concept for someone waiting on her for a change sounded good. Even if she had to wait in line to do it.
She ordered a drip coffee because it was the cheapest thing on the menu. It was heaven to sit down in the big plush armchair and just sit. She closed her eyes and imagined herself back at the Carlisle, with Antonio bringing her an icy gin and tonic. Instead, she sipped the bitter coffee, and for the first time in a long time, was happy with what she had. Her calm reverie was interrupted by a shrill voice calling her name.
“Vicky! Why I just run into you everywhere these days!” Victoria didn’t have to open her eyes to know that it was Martha Morrison. With her eyes closed, she tried to imagine the outfit that Martha would be sporting today. Head-to-toe Lycra? A wrap dress that was barely wrapped? Hot pants and platform shoes? When she opened her eyes, she was not disappointed. Martha had on a super-sheer white blouse with a purple zebra bra underneath, all neatly tucked into a very tight white pencil skirt. It was easy to see that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath.
Martha was clinging to a man who by all accounts looked like he could have been in his late 70s. He was tanned, and had a full head of white hair, wearing seersucker pants, a navy polo shirt and white Gucci loafers. Did he just drive up from Palm Beach? Victoria knew, without being told, that Martha’s date was a very, very wealthy man. It wasn’t because of the Rolex on his wrist - drug dealers wore those. No, he had a scent she immediately recognized. Not just well-off with a big home in the suburbs and a membership at the local country club, but serious money. Private jet, multiple homes and a Rolodex filled with secrets. She was sure that if she threw out a few well-chosen names they would be two degrees of separation. And she wasn’t thinking of Martha. Today, sporting her thrift store chic and a hangover the size of Mustique, she didn’t want to go down that road. It was just way too much effort.
Martha showed off her catch as if he she had just won an Oscar.
“Vicky, I’d like to introduce you to my friend, Frederick,” she said, stroking the old man’s arm. “Frederick, this is an old classmate of mine, Vicky Patterson.”
Victoria stood up with the introduction, and Frederick grabbed her hand. He gave her a thorough once-over, and she was afraid he was going to ditch Martha to try to move onto her.
“Victoria?” He said. Oh, no! There was a distinct ring of recognition in his voice. “Victoria Vernon? It is you!” He pumped harder. Victoria thought and couldn’t think of a single Frederick she knew. Not even in Palm Beach. “How are you?” He went on. “How’s Trip?”
Her head was spinning. She had enough people in town recognize Vicky Patterson, this was the first time someone had recognized her as Victoria Vernon. And he knew Trip. Who was this guy?
“-- and almost hooked it in the side of my head! Thank God Trip was there to stop him.” Frederick was explaining their connection to Martha, who looked especially peevish that Victoria was taking the spotlight from her and her many charms.
A light popped on in Victoria’s head. “Brud! Brud Sommerfield!” Trip used to take an annual bone fishing trip with a group of friends of his father’s every year in the Bahamas. The group had come to New York about six years ago when their trip was cancelled due to an out-of-season hurricane. They had all had dinner at The Williams Club, as all the fisherman were Williams alumni.
“Brud?” Martha asked.
“It’s short for brother,” Victoria and Brud answered in unison. It seemed that the richer people were, the kookier their nicknames. Victoria knew three Muffies, two Bitsies, and a host of otherwise respectable people walking around with names like Ibby, Bunny, Cricket, Topper, Gibby and of course, Trip.
“Is Trip here with you?” Brud asked, looking around.
Have you been living under a rock? Trip Vernon’s disappearance had been front page news in New York. Not to mention the Wall Street Journal, and CNBC.
Martha looked confused, and wanted to be brought back into the conversation.
“I thought his name was Mike,” she offered.
Now it was Brud’s turn to be confused. “Mike? Who’s Mike?”
“Vicky’s friend,” Martha was beginning to enjoy this. She could see that Victoria was getting uncomfortable.
“Where’s Trip?” Brud asked.
“Who’s Trip?” Martha asked.
“Trip’s out of town on business,” she gave Brud the standard excuse. “And Mike,” she said, turning to Martha, “is just an acquaintance. Martha must have misunderstood.” She said as sweetly as she could. “Now how do you two know each other?”