Died with a Bow (3 page)

A customer came in, and Vienna positively leaped to attention. My own way of interacting with customers was more subtle, which I thought had worked pretty well, but maybe it was too subtle. Vienna’s eager approach was possibly the wave of the future and I was hopelessly out of date. I sighed and went back to the office, my shoulders drooping. After a dozen or more calls asking if we had a certain Kate Spade bag or a pair of Nina animal-print wedge heels or a Vera Wang beaded necklace or a pair of Ferragamo bow flats, all of which kept me running out to check and hurrying back before the customer hung up, I was exhausted.

I was just about to take my lunch break when Dolce came to ask if I’d mind staying in while she took Vienna to lunch at Gioccamo’s where they had homemade potato chips to die for and delicious pastries.

What could I say besides, “Of course. I’ll be glad to.” At least I’d get a chance to get out of the office and into the showroom. For an hour it was almost like old times. The good old days before Vienna. I felt liberated, lighthearted and full of energy. Customers like Patti French, whose sister-in-law—whom Patti never really liked—had been murdered some months ago, came in to look for a little black dress. I refrained from saying, “Another black dress?” because really, who can have too many? I helped her find a gorgeous Versace full-length dress she said would be perfect for the Bachelor Auction, for which, as cochair, she was selling tickets.

“I’m glad to hear you and Dolce will be there.”

“And our new employee. Have you met Vienna?”

“No, but I know her stepmother, Bobbi.”

I studied Patti’s face and I thought I detected a whiff of disapproval. I waited, hoping she’d spill some dirt, but she didn’t.

I said I hadn’t met Bobbi, although she was a good customer.

“There are going to be some real prizes on the auction block, Rita,” Patti said. “Some fit-looking dudes, and not just ordinary run-of-the-mill single bachelors. These guys are big-time eligible, if you know what I mean.”

I thought I knew what she meant: she was talking about men with money.

“There’s Steve Gray, the founder of Internet Solutions; that police detective, Jack Wall; Rick Fellows, venture capitalist; and a professional athlete or two. Oh, even an ER
doctor from SF General. I’ve seen his picture, and he is to die for, if you’ll excuse the expression.”

I gulped. I thought I knew who that doctor was and agreed he was to die for. I was just glad I hadn’t died before I had a chance to date him, if only once or twice.

“Each one of these men comes with a fabulous prize package like cocktails, dinner, dancing, a tour, a ball game, a show, whatever. You can’t miss this.” She paused as she fingered a wool cape we’d just gotten in. “So bid early and often. It’s for a good cause.”

I smiled, though I didn’t see how I could bid on anyone, no matter how fit, on my salary. Did Patti think I was independently wealthy and just worked here for fun? She didn’t say, and I took her credit card and carefully wrapped up her gorgeous dress for her in a long plastic bag.

Next I convinced Miranda McClone, one of Dolce’s oldest customers, and by oldest I mean the woman was at least eighty-something, to buy several casual pieces to layer. I hoped when I was her age I’d still be in the market for the latest, trendiest styles as she was. Her dapper husband, who was wearing a classic, two-button navy blazer, a maroon bow tie and Ralph Lauren tasseled loafers, sat in one of Dolce’s upholstered chairs and smiled benevolently while Miranda tried on a superb outfit: a sweater, a scarf, a faux fur vest and a pair of cropped pants, ankle socks and Marc Jacobs shoes. Worn one on top of the other as I’d suggested.

“So this is what the style is?” Miranda asked, staring at herself in Dolce’s full-length mirror. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” I said, stepping back to take in the whole picture. “What do you think, Mr. McClone?”

“Cute as a bug,” he said. And he was right. Some might
say the outfit was totally inappropriate for someone her age, but she pulled it off. I knew she would.

She bought every single thing I’d shown her. I was feeling like my old, successful salesgirl self until Dolce and Vienna came back from lunch. They barely said hello, though I was dying to tell them what I’d done. They just kept talking about who they’d seen at lunch. About who was married to whom and who wasn’t. Without missing a beat or a nugget of juicy gossip, Dolce handed me a take-out box of food. I guess I should have been grateful they hadn’t forgotten completely about me. I went back to the office to eat without having a chance to tell them about my big sale. And it was big.

Just as I was digging into my Caesar salad topped with grilled shrimp, the phone rang. I was chewing on a spear of romaine lettuce, but I was glad I’d picked up instead of letting the machine answer because it was Dr. Jonathan Rhodes, ER doctor.

“Rita, it’s been a long time,” he said.

“How are you?” I said as if I hadn’t noticed he’d been AWOL from my life.

“Tired,” he said. “I’ve been covering for another doctor as well as taking my usual shift in the ER. I haven’t been home for days. But you don’t want to hear about all the gunshot wounds, emergency appendectomies, cardiac arrests, broken arms, irritable bowel syndrome…”

What could I say? “I’d love to hear all about your cases, perhaps over dinner sometime? And by the way, are you really being sold off on Saturday night?” Fortunately I didn’t have to say much of anything. I just murmured something sympathetic and he continued.

“I’m calling to see if you’re coming to the Bachelor Auction Saturday night.”

Ah-hah, so it
was
him. “As a matter of fact, Dolce bought tickets for us. I understand it’s for a worthy cause.”

“I hope so because I’m going to feel like a fool up there on the stage like a prize heifer. Especially when no one bids on me.”

That’s what I liked about Jonathan: he was drop-dead gorgeous, but he didn’t seem to have a clue.

“Oh, I’m sure someone—”

“That’s why I’m calling. I was hoping you’d be that someone who will bid on me. Can you imagine how deadly it’d be to be stuck going out with a stranger for dinner and dancing at the Starlight Room on my one night off?”

I could almost hear him shudder at the thought.

“I’ll be glad to bid on you,” I said, though considering my modest means and his outstanding looks, I wouldn’t have a chance.

“Thanks, Rita. I knew I could count on you. Uh-oh, they’re paging me. See you Saturday.”

I hung up and finished my salad feeling better about my dismal social situation. Unless Jonathan was on the phone again calling every woman he knew to get a bidding war going. But now that I knew he’d been working overtime, maybe that’s why he hadn’t called me for weeks. Maybe he wasn’t dating a nurse or two or three. If he was, he would have asked them to bid on him. But he’d asked me. As long as I didn’t win, I’d do what I could to help him out. That’s the way I am.

The next few days went just as I expected. Dolce raved about Vienna’s sales ability but said nothing about how beautifully I unpacked and pressed the new clothes. I felt like Cinderella sweeping up the ashes in the back room, while Vienna was my stepsister who got to go to the ball.

Actually we all got to go to the ball, so Dolce offered to let us wear anything we wanted from the shop. I waited until we closed to try on dresses for the auction, but Vienna said she had an outfit already and dashed out at five o’clock. I glanced out the window to see if she was driving a new car or meeting her motorcycle-riding boyfriend. Neither turned out to be the case. She got into a yellow Lotus, a low-slung British racing car, driven by someone else.

I was just about to ask if Dolce knew who the owner of the sports car was, but she locked the front door and seemed to have forgotten all about her new favorite salesgirl. Instead,
she’d gone into her fairy-godmother mode, which was fine with me. It was worth being Cinderella if I got transformed and my story had a happy ending. But I didn’t see it happening. For now it was good to be on the receiving end of my boss’s attention. It reminded me of the good old days, before Vienna.

“I say we pull out all the stops,” Dolce said as she rolled out a rack of dresses into the high-ceilinged great room, which once had been some rich Victorian family’s salon.

“You mean strapless?” I said, thinking of the gorgeous dresses worn to the opera by Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman
and Cher in
Moonstruck
. But I’m not a movie star and I pictured myself tugging on my gown all evening to keep it from falling down.

“I mean elegant,” she said, taking a long, sleek black dress by Elie Tahari off the rack and removing it from its flexible hanger. “It may be a bit wintry for April, but I truly think you’d look terrific in it.”

I went into the tiny dressing room and slipped into the high-necked dress with sheer long sleeves. When I came out, Dolce didn’t say a word, she just fluttered her eyelashes and sat down in her favorite chair as if her legs wouldn’t hold her upright another moment.

“I love it, but what do you think?” she asked me.

I looked in the three-way mirror and realized that the back was open to the waist with a low-cut V-shaped embellishment. It was chaste in the front and daring in back. And quite elegant. It made me feel glamorous.

“It’s a beautiful dress,” I said. For some reason, I’d never seen it on the rack, never showed it to any customer.

“It fits you perfectly. I wouldn’t be surprised if the men started bidding on
you
,” she said with a chuckle. I smiled,
but I was reminded it didn’t matter how glamorous I looked, I would not be leaving with a date because I couldn’t afford one.

“It will be fun to go and see who’s who and what they’re wearing,” I said. Dolce had provided my dress and the ticket to the event. Just because I’d be forced to watch two men I was interested in being auctioned off to rich society women was no reason to act ungrateful. I would smile my way through this evening, confident I looked my best. So I hung the dress I’d wear on Saturday back on the rack, and after thanking her again, I said good night to Dolce.

Making my way down the street, I thought of poor Nick the gymnast, who’d not only picked me up from the hospital when I’d had my concussion but who’d also supplied me with Romanian food he’d made himself. Now he was lying helpless in his apartment on Green Street, and where was I? On my way home alone, and of course I was hungry.

I decided to pick up some food at one of the restaurants in his neighborhood and take it to his house. After all he’d done for me, it was the least I could do. I pictured Nick’s face when I knocked on his door, his mouth falling open when he saw me, then a huge warm, welcoming smile when he noticed the boxes of food in my hand. It wouldn’t be Romanian food, but I’d find something reasonable and tasty in the trendy Cow Hollow neighborhood where he lived. If I was totally honest, I’d admit I hated to eat alone. I never used to mind so much before Vienna. Now when I saw her being whisked off on a motorcycle or in a sports car, I felt a pang of jealousy and curiosity. Who was she going out with? Where were they going? Not that it was any of my business. Still…

When I got off the bus on Union Street and walked to
Green Street, I remembered hearing that Cow Hollow was named for the cows who’d lived on the dairy farms here in the mid-1800s. Not a cow or a farm to be seen these days. Just ornate three-story Victorian houses with turrets and gingerbread trim built after the gold rush in 1849 when the neighborhood became fashionable. Fortunately the area hadn’t been heavily damaged by the 1906 earthquake and fire that leveled so much of this city, so these converted barns, carriage houses and mansions were still standing, still looking good as I walked down the street, wondering how Nick could afford to live here on the salary of a gymnastics teacher. Maybe the same way I managed to live on upscale Telegraph Hill: by taking the smallest apartment on the top floor with no elevator and scarcely room to turn around inside.

I was tempted to stop several times at restaurants filled with yuppies wearing what I call boho chic, both men and women in tight denims, boots and—what else—layers of shirts, sweaters and jackets. What would happen if I stopped in for a drink with all these other professional, well-heeled men and women in my age bracket? Would I find the love of my life at the bar? Would we look across the packed room and make an instant connection? Or would I stand there by myself, surrounded by throngs of the beautiful people, alone in a crowd, while all around me the young and the restless flirted and fawned. The worst kind of alone possible.

So I hurried on by, until I saw what I was looking for, only I didn’t know I was looking for it until I saw it: Ye Olde Bonne Creperie Bretonne, where in the window a guy was flipping paper-thin crepes in the air. The menu was written on a blackboard in chalk and it made my mouth water. One side listed the savory crepes—Mediterranean, New Orleans,
Miami Heat and so many more I just stood there and stared at the dizzying number of choices. Finally I decided to get an eggplant crepe with jack cheese, tomatoes, onion, roasted red pepper and, of course, eggplant, and one called The Sopranos, with Italian sausage, mozzarella, black olives, mushrooms, spinach and pesto sauce. Then, after a quick perusal of the dessert options on the other side of the board, I ordered a bananas Foster crepe, with bananas, brown sugar, walnuts and cinnamon.