I knew Common Grounds well, since I made it my daily mission to consume as much of their iced hazelnut coffee as possible.
I was just about to push the door shut when he twisted back to look at me. “Do you, uh . . . want something?”
My jaw dropped open. First, because this was the most he’d spoken to me in like ever. Usually we just ignored each other. And second, because he was actually being considerate. “No, I’m good.”
Once he was gone, I worked faster on the vintage tees table so that I could leave more quickly. The less time I had to spend with Blake, the better.
Smoothing out a Beatles T-shirt, I folded back both sleeves before creasing the sides in the exact way my grandmother had taught me years ago. I was raised in her home after my mother had become pregnant with me and left her fashion career behind.
I’d practically memorized all of my mother’s portfolios, and the looks she’d created for the models in those shoots had been timeless. When the craze was low-riding pants, she’d put them in men’s high-waist trousers—and pulled it off. I planned on following in her footsteps. It was what was expected of me.
Luckily we shared the same passion for style. If we didn’t, I’d feel way more pressure from her than I already did to pick up where she’d left off.
I loved working at Threads and was thrilled that my professor approved it as internship credit. I needed the cash; plus it helped me keep my finger on the pulse of the industry. And Threads offered a little of everything I loved—new styles mixed with trends that stood the test of time.
Those freshmen who’d blown through here earlier didn’t appreciate vintage for what it was—they thought it was just a fad. But sporting a sixties Chanel skirt and handbag was like creating fresh art in my book. Thankfully my mother and I wore the same size. She had retained her closet full of originals from back in her heyday as a wardrobe stylist in New York.
I’d never met my father, but given the hushed conversations over the past several years between the strong and independent women in my life, I thought that he was a deadbeat. My mother didn’t feel men were a necessity, and I couldn’t agree more. They were fun to make out with and hook up with. Come to think of it, I hadn’t even experienced that hookup part in more than a year, but I could live with that. I was way too busy anyway.
Plus my mother would’ve gotten on my case about having a boyfriend before I finished my degree. She liked to stick her nose in every facet of my life in order to keep me on the right path. Which was sometimes her path. But I only had to suffer through it for another year of school before I moved to New York City to stretch my own wings.
I couldn’t stand to leave the front tables disheveled. So I finished that task before I sorted through cash register receipts one last time. Soon I’d be walking back to the campus housing I shared with my three roommates to study for a merchandising test. One of the girls would have a boyfriend over—they usually did—even though the same time last year, we all had been unattached. Now I was like the third wheel, depending on who was home. But I was cool with that. Between classes and work I didn’t have time for extracurricular activities.
I heard a key turn in the lock and Jaclyn breezed through the door. “Hi, hon. Did Blake show up yet?”
“He’s around the corner getting coffee,” I said, heading toward the fitting room. “I didn’t realize you were coming back tonight.”
“Last-minute idea,” she said.
I began picking up discarded pieces of clothing off the floor and placing them on hangers.
“Chloe, I e-mailed Professor Jenkins with an idea for your final project today,” Jaclyn said, handing me the last two hangers off the rack. “She was completely on board.”
“What is it?” I gulped.
Jaclyn was the coolest boss, but she was also very demanding.
I hung the dresses on a nearby display and then we both headed toward the counter.
From beneath the register, I pulled out the fresh pack of Post-its with a stilettos watermark that I’d just purchased, so I could be ready for her. I was a meticulous list maker; it was the only way I knew how to keep organized.
“You know how we have that Made in the Arbor street sale coming up next month?” she said.
The event happened every spring and drew in huge crowds not only from this part of town but also from the surrounding counties. I rummaged around for my new packet of red ballpoint pens. I could tell this was going to be important.
“Of course. I just printed off more fliers.” Which reminded me. I pulled out another list and crossed off print fliers with a black Sharpie. So satisfying.
“I have an idea I’ve been considering for a long time,” Jaclyn said, tapping her finger to her chin. “I own a space around the corner on Liberty Street.”
“You do?”
She nodded. “I haven’t done anything with it yet and I’ve decided this event is the perfect opportunity.”
Pen poised on my new sticky pad, I said, “I’m listening.”
“I want to create a pop-up shop.”
My lips parted and my heart rate accelerated. Music to my anal-retentive ears.
Before I could form coherent words, Jaclyn continued. “I want you to build the set for the sale and open the shop as if it were your own that day.”
I felt a cross between excitement and utter fear of failure. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously,” she said, looking me in the eye. “I trust you, Chloe. You’re independent, hardworking, and in a short year you’ll be knee deep in your own career somewhere. I have complete faith in you.”
“I appreciate that.” My head felt all spinny from the compliments. My mother would love hearing about this bit of news as well. Maybe it’d keep her lip zipped for a while. She was constantly asking if I’d gotten in touch with her old contacts from the business.
“So . . . what did you mean by building the set?” I asked Jaclyn. “Like go buy shelves and set them up?”
“Not exactly,” she said, looking over the receipts I’d bundled together. “That’s why I invited Blake here.”
My stomach clenched. It was so infuriating that I could never think straight whenever I heard that name. I tried not to sound too panicked. “Because . . . Blake . . . ?”
“Opening a new space costs money and I’m still deciding if Liberty Street would be a good location for a store. So I’ve asked Blake to help you out.” She paused to look at me. I kept my expression neutral. “He used to be a theater and design major here at the university. Now he works construction during the day. He’ll be able to get wood at cost from the lumberyard and then he’ll consult with you on how to build it. Sound reasonable to you?”
“Yes,” I said, swallowing back my disdain. “Of course.”
I didn’t mention that I’d heard the rumors about Blake—that he couldn’t hack his classes, so he dropped out of college. The girls in the Art and Design Building had certainly talked about it enough, with the way they had been constantly drooling over him when he was around.
After Blake fell off the radar, a part of me wanted to ask Jaclyn what had happened to him, why he quit school, but I knew it wasn’t my place. She’d be hard-pressed to tell me anything about her nephew, I was sure.
“I expect you to be very involved in the building side of the project, as well as the design. You’re very creative and I know the space will look amazing,” she said, and then her eyes scaled down to my black pumps. “But you’ll probably also have to stain and sand wood.”
“Got it.” I followed her gaze as she took in my outfit. I had on my favorite pair of Manolos that I scored for a sweet price off eBay.
“Do you own a pair of sneakers, Miss Fashionista?” Jaclyn appreciated my fashion sense and wore some expensive pieces of her own.
I shook my head as she reached behind the counter and pulled out a box. “Size eight, right?”