But now, forty-two years old, divorced and dumpy—because even if she didn’t look totally dumpy, she certainly had been dumped—right now it often took courage for her to leave the house. During their last few meetings to discuss the divorce, Erich had told her he had come to realize she could never be glamorous. That she had fooled him in college, being pretty enough to seem like she could become beautiful and sophisticated. Instead, she became dowdy and provincial. Those words did not vanish from her mind or her heart. They were there when she looked in the mirror. They were there when she dried herself after a bath. They were there when she walked down Main Street, hiding her eyes behind sunglasses. She was terrified that she’d see pity in the eyes of the people she’d known as a child. A glance from a man made her heart flap with fright.
It took all of her courage to apply for a job. One evening in Lisa’s living room, when Rachel had dropped by for a drink and the children were bonded to their one hour of watching TV, Rachel told her that Vestments, the year-round women’s clothing store owned by Vesta Mahone, needed a new sales clerk.
“You’d love working there,” Rachel insisted. “Playing with all those gorgeous clothes.”
“They are gorgeous clothes,” Lisa agreed. “I’m not sure I have the right…qualities…to work there.”
“What are you talking about?” Rachel put her glass down on the table so hard it almost shattered. “Honest to God, Lisa, sometimes I get so angry with you! And you know what else, you make me tired. You are so feeble, so pathetic, and you were never that way before your divorce. Did Erich abuse you? Did he hit you?”
“Of course not.” Lisa tried to laugh. “I’m sorry if I seem—”
“STOP IT!” Rachel yelled. “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry. Stop whining. Lisa, you know what? You aren’t the person you used to be. I miss you, the real you.”
Lisa nodded. “I get that. I think the divorce pulled the rug out from under me, Rachel. It was the last thing I was expecting. It made me feel…inferior.”
“Fine, but that divorce was two years ago. Look. I think you should see someone.”
Lisa laughed, almost hysterically. “I am so not ready to date.”
“I meant a therapist.” Rachel was adamant. “I think you should take that job at Vestments and start seeing a therapist.”
Lisa shook her head. “If I see a therapist, everyone on the island will know I’ve got emotional problems.”
Rachel snapped, “For God’s sake, Lisa, everyone on this island has emotional problems!”
“But I will apply for the Vestments job. I like Vesta, and I could use the extra money.”
“Yeah, to get yourself a decent haircut,” Rachel said.
* * *
—
Vesta Mahone was young and ambitious. With her great explosion of curly red hair and her tiny little body, she was unmistakable in any group. She’d grown up chic and savvy in Montclair, New Jersey, gone to the New York School of Design, and was intuitive and clever.
Vesta was frank when she hired Lisa. “You’re perfect. You’ll pull in the older shopper.”
“I’m forty-two, Vesta,” Lisa said.
“I know. That’s what I meant. The older shopper.”
Lisa privately doubted that anyone over thirty would want the clothes with fringes, sequins, ruffles, and chains that Vesta sold, and they probably wouldn’t wear the skirts and dresses that stopped five inches above the knee and plunged deeply in the neckline. But Vesta sold a range of clothing, including silk dresses and cashmere sweaters that Lisa wished she could afford, and all ages of women flocked to her store. Vestments was a success.
Slowly, Lisa came back to life. The sensuous pleasure of fabrics reawakened her. Cashmere as light as a snowflake. Silk, cool and liquid. She’d forgotten how a color, say fuchsia, could make one woman look sallow but make another woman blaze.
Lisa watched. She learned. At night, instead of weeping at a romantic movie on TV while her children slept, she pored over fashion magazines. She studied pictures of the women at the Nantucket galas. She bought a small notebook and began making lists of who wore what and how old they were and how wealthy. Before long, she’d made a collection of information, this time about fashion and fabrics. In the evenings, after dinner, she sat at the dining room table with her children. They did their homework; she did hers. She liked making one-of-a-kind books by taking a thick loose-leaf notebook and covering it with fabric, then making a matching bookmark. She made an album of cuttings from magazines and newspapers, glue-sticking in photos of celebrities and writing her thoughts about their clothes in the margins. Juliet and Theo loved having her there at the table with them, all three of them with their heads bent over their work, murmuring to themselves about square roots or Revolutionary soldiers or sarongs.
Maybe those were her best years, when everyone in her house was busy and happy.
* * *
—
One November morning, a quiet time at Vestments, Lisa was straightening the clothing in the racks. Vesta was doing the window. Her mannequin wore low-slung camo pants, a cashmere sweater that stopped at the midriff, and cargo boots.
“That’s insane,” Lisa said.
“That’s the look these days,” Vesta told her.
“Women want to have their torsos exposed to the cold air?”
“Lisa, my target clientele aren’t exactly hiking through the Arctic.”
“Well, they aren’t shopping here, either,” Lisa countered. Vesta was ten years younger than Lisa and hooking up with an ever-changing cast of almost-perfect men. When Lisa had started working at Vestments, she’d been impressed by the younger woman’s confidence. Now, two years later, Lisa was confident herself. “Listen to me,” she said to Vesta’s firmly straightened back, “I’ve been doing the research. I know the people on the island and what they wear. I know the parties they’ll have over the holidays. Women want to be sexy and gorgeous, but not…slutty. Slutty works fine for some of the summer people but winter is different.”
“My clothes are not slutty.” Vesta turned away from the front window and faced Lisa.
“Look.” Lisa went behind the counter, picked up her large bag, and pulled one of her notebooks out. “Here’s what I think you should sell.”
Vesta looked. She made a humming noise. “Interesting, but, Lisa, we should have ordered them months ago. You know that.”
“I do. And I did. Before you blow a gasket, I want you to know I used my own charge card. I have them at home. That’s how certain I am. What can you lose by trying?”