One Day Like This: A feel-good summer romance Read online

  “Natalie! Fresh cranberry bread!”

  “No thanks, Ma,” called Natalie. Her mother loved to feed her, although Natalie did her best to resist some of the tempting treats that came her way at the family bakery.

  She snapped closed her metal sewing case, and checked her watch again. If she didn’t run, she was definitely going to be late.

  “Bye, Ma!” she called again on her way downstairs. “I’m leaving for class now—don’t forget that we’re out of dried coconut.” She let the bakery door swing closed behind her, its little bell jingling. Tossing aside her long mane of auburn hair, she shouldered her bag and crossed the street before the light at the end of the block changed.

  Icing Italia disappeared behind her, along with the smell of fresh-baked biscotti and the beep of a delivery truck backing up to the bakery’s side door. Natalie’s fingers flew over the keys of her smartphone, checking to make sure that her professor had received her latest business proposal.

  Working at the bakery was a family affair for most of the Grenaldis, but not for Natalie. Her dreams lay elsewhere—cakes and cannoli were less important to her than the current trends in the fashion world. Which was why, despite helping out from time to time, she had traded her bakery apron for textbooks and design classes at the local university, and worked at the boutique designer Kandace’s Kreations. She didn’t keep Italian cookbooks lying around her apartment—just books on Parisian designers, Italian fashion houses, and fine textiles and sewing techniques. A sewing mannequin was the centerpiece of her two-bedroom place, where the floor tended to be covered with little scraps of colored fabric.

  She had thought about trying to sell some of her finished dresses to local boutiques, but had found this was the one sticking point in her courage. After all, she hadn’t even sold a design of her own through Kandace’s yet. Maybe that was why she hesitated to try it anywhere else, even if Kandace wouldn’t see it as a total affront to her label.

  * * *

  Kandace’s Kreations was squeezed unmercifully between an empty warehouse space and a used record store frequented by the young hipster wannabes in the neighborhood. It advertised itself by a sign that suggested it sold garments more sophisticated than the designer herself—who considered her work “cutting edge” and “off the path of conventional chic”—had ever managed to create, on paper or with fabric.

  “It’s just… not acceptable.” Kandace sounded dismissive. “Look. I know you’re trying. I get that—but it just doesn’t speak to the artistic soul. The bustline, the cut of the skirt. It totally doesn’t fit with the presentation of our line. It’s not the message, Nat. You understand?”

  She held Natalie’s latest creation at arm’s length from her body, as if afraid of being tainted by association with the draped green satin dress supported by the garment hanger. “Our message is one of defining the human body by defying expectations about lines and symmetry. Look at this thing—it’s loose, it’s soft. It’s totally the opposite of everything we’re creating for the collection.”

  “I thought maybe you’d like it,” said Natalie. “It’s fluid, and not the conventional fitted style for a dress like this, but it creates definition and contours, no matter what body type a woman has. A woman looking to stand out in a crowd—”

  “She could stand in a bed sheet, then, because that’s all this is, Nat,” said Kandace. “A rumpled sheet gathered a little here, a little there.” Her lip curled in disgust. “No—get it away from me. Just take it away, please.” She released the hanger into Natalie’s possession with a shudder. “Design is not your talent, kid. I’ve told you before.”

  “So I remember,” replied Natalie. She was trying not to be sarcastic, or upset. “Thanks for the advice, anyway.”

  “Forget it—we have customers. Coming, coming.” Kandace turned her attention to a couple of women entering the boutique, ready to slather on some persuasive charm as they paused to browse the rack of discounted designs. “You would look incredible in that blouse, if you don’t mind my saying so…”

  It was amazing, in Natalie’s opinion, that anybody ever visited this place. Not just because of the obscure business sign advertising its presence, but also because of the atmosphere within: prison-gray walls with stark fluorescent lighting tubes that buzzed and hummed in a mind-numbing drone as they shone upon the interior’s mostly empty space.

  Kandace called it “industrial modern” and reveled in its blandness, right down to the naked wires from which the light tubes dangled, perhaps because the designer herself screamed with color by contrast with her surroundings. Her short hair was dyed a purplish maroon, and today’s outfit comprised a blouse which resembled mismatched scraps sewn together, torn leggings patched by old crocheted doilies, and kitten-heeled lime green sneakers. Completing the look was a nose ring, which appeared to be a small silver corkscrew, through one nostril.

  “You would look fetching in that one. It’s from my spring line, called ‘Nature Web,’” said Kandace, as she lifted down a poncho, seemingly crocheted from strips of garbage bags, hung from a height impossible to reach without a short ladder. Kandace believed garments should be displayed haphazardly on the walls to give them the effect of “works of art”… although more than half of them eventually ended up on the sole metal garment rack in the boutique for “discontinued creations.”

  Natalie climbed the metal steps to the studio: the loft room where Kandace’s creations were cut and sewn by Natalie and her coworker Cal. Pinned on various dressmaker’s mannequins were the prototypes of the designer’s latest sketches, which Natalie was supposed to finish pinning today—part of the “Twisted Symmetry” collection to be debuted at an upcoming runway show. Or, as Cal referred to it, the “Circus Clown” line of garments; the Cirque du Soleil meets casualwear.

  Natalie tossed the dress into an empty gift sack in the corner, and slipped a pincushion onto her wrist as she began working on Kandace’s “Harlequin by Fire” gown. It involved pleated strips of red, black, and white fabric, with the skirt’s panels ending in points and a series of red diamonds randomly appliquéd on its half-red, half-white bodice. Hence the twisted symmetry of the jarring geometric lines, Natalie supposed.

  “I heard what Kandace said,” Cal remarked, a note of disdain in his Southern drawl as he worked on cutting the last piece for the dress’s sleeve. “She’s wrong, though, Nat. Your dress was amazing.”

  “Thanks,” said Natalie with a wry smile. “But Kandace didn’t think so, and that’s all that matters around here.” She pinned a white diamond to one of the red panels after consulting the designer’s sketch. “She’s the boss. She always says my work is ‘too pedestrian’ or ‘too simple’ for the discerning customer.”

  “Are you kidding? It was sophisticated, not simple,” said Cal. “Way better than this nightmare we’re sewing today. This thing is, like, the garment version of dogs playing poker. It’s not decent, Nat. It doesn’t deserve to be seen on the streets.”

  “It’s not that bad,” said Natalie, although her lips repressed a smile at this description of the demented harlequin dress, as she privately thought of it. “If you want to look like a mishmash of a pack of cards when you’re out on the town.”

  “We could both design circles around Kandace, given the chance,” said Cal, as he cut a length of black trim for the sleeve and began running a needle through all three colored pieces to form a ruffled flounce. “And I don’t even have an eye for design. I can’t believe anybody buys her fashions… then again, we are the worst boutique in town.”

  Kandace’s place was located in the seediest part of the town, and the customers who visited it formed a small but elite crowd mostly attracted by the supposed prestige of a Kandace “original.” But it had been the only fashion house in Bellegrove hiring when Natalie had been determined to get a job in garment design, and even if she thought the average Asian knockoff dress was a better deal—and a better fashion statement—she couldn’t afford to lose the opportunity to work f
or a designer. Albeit the city’s worst designer, with an overinflated ego to boot.

  “You know, at the last fashion show, I overheard two people complimenting the blouse you wore,” said Cal. “I know they would’ve been interested in buying one, if Kandace would only let you have a rack downstairs.”

  “That would take away from her creations,” Natalie reminded him. “She’s not going to change her mind, Cal. That’s why Tracey and Sam both quit, and I ended up here in their place.”

  “Her line for last winter’s fashion show got terrible reviews, though,” said Cal. “Honestly, a whole collection of garments inspired by restaurant linens? That napkin bandana bracelet was just bizarre. And who wears a dress with pointed shoulders like a starched tablecloth? You would poke out the eye of anybody short who stood next to you.”

  Natalie stuck her tongue out as she remembered this fashion item. “At least the boutique scored a couple of sales afterward,” she said. “Two fewer garments destined for the half-price rack downstairs, anyway.” Someone out there was now wearing the hideous starched tablecloth as eveningwear. And Kandace seriously thought her dress was too much like a bed sheet?

  “You could probably use some cheering up after Kandace’s latest rejection,” said Cal. “You know, my roommate bought the complete box set of That’s Entertainment. And I have chocolate s’more truffles too. You’re welcome to stop by tonight and share.”

  “Thanks, but I’m having dinner at my friend Tess’s tonight,” she answered. “Not that s’more truffles don’t sound fantastic.” She shoved another pin into the bodice. “Isn’t there another sleeve?” she asked, as Cal handed her the fluffy, tri-striped ruffle, which she pinned to the right side of the dress.

  “Only one,” he answered. “She changed her mind this morning and altered the design. Just sew a ribbon strap on the other side.”

  “Actually, I think it’s an improvement,” said Natalie sarcastically, tucking it in place. “That’s a first.”

  “And that weird little button thing with the clown face in the middle is supposed to be sewn to the top of the strap,” said Cal, who shrugged his shoulders at the look on Natalie’s face. “She’s the boss.”

  “There goes the improvement.” Natalie sighed as she pinned the button in place, noting that the sad clown in the middle resembled a weepy version of a fast food mascot.

  “I still can’t believe she didn’t pay your dress at least one compliment,” said Cal. “It is pretty great, Nat. She’s totally jealous of your talent.”

  “Whatever,” said Natalie, rolling her eyes. “It’s no big deal, Cal. I’m tougher than that, I swear.” She tried not to glance at the dress’s paper sack as she swiveled her rolling chair to face her workstation.

  No sigh, no tears, no regrets. It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen this coming, the rejection of her work yet again. But she wasn’t a quitter, no matter how many rude remarks came her way… or how many rejected designs were squeezed into her closet, probably never to emerge again, unless Carrie was serious about buying one. In general, however, Natalie hung onto her rejected creations, as if sheltering them from a second failure. Not stabbing Kandace in the back, she always claimed… but was that the real reason? If the closet burst open with fifty dresses, blouses, coats, and other garments she had painstakingly designed, would she keep piling them in boxes in the attic without so much as asking another boutique to consider one?

  Above her drawing board were pinned mostly Kreations sketches—including the tasteless line that Natalie was being forced to help assemble. “Sad clowns in drag” was Cal’s nickname for its latest additions: a trio of baggy, spotted, tent-like dresses paired with patterned tights. But a few of Natalie’s own designs were mixed in with these; lightly penciled color drawings of a gray dress with touches of scarlet embroidery, and a blue suit with harem trousers and a fitted half-jacket.

  Cal had dubbed them “timeless” and “chic”—but that was Cal, of course, and he was her friend, after all. That wasn’t proof of anything except that she had a winning personality, maybe. Not that it wasn’t nice to imagine it was more.

  Natalie reached for a chartreuse pencil and gave it a twist or two in her sharpener before she began working on her latest sketch. The tip flew over the paper, the light, feathering strokes framing a drawing of a wedding dress—a ballet-style white one with off-the-shoulder sleeves and a graceful V neckline.

  Four

  “So your job sucks,” said Natalie. “Join the club.” She took a sip from the glass of wine Tessa handed her as she curled up on Tessa’s apartment sofa. “I don’t love mine, either. Kandace turned me down again today, you know.”

  She reached for one of the pizza slices on the tray—not one of the gluey, cheesy ones like Tessa had cleaned off the plastic party tablecloths, but a crisp sweet tomato one from Natalie’s cousin’s restaurant, which made authentic Italian pizzas as well as gourmet American ones. Natalie knew all the best little bistros and restaurants in the city that no one had ever heard of—the perk of being Italian, she claimed. Everybody you know is in the restaurant business, or was at one time, or is thinking about trying it before they reach their golden years.

  “I’m tired of it, though,” said Tessa. “I have to drive the truck now. You have no idea what it’s like being stuck in rush hour traffic with that thing. Did I tell you about the time the dog’s big plastic nose fell off?” She cringed at the memory of the dent in the truck’s hood as it bounced to freedom, and the heckling teenage drivers in the lane next to her. No wonder Justin left to work for a coffee house this afternoon.

  “It’s just temporary, right?” Natalie asked. “Your boss will find someone else, eventually.”

  “But it doesn’t matter,” said Tessa. “My job will still be a dead end in my future career. Half the time, Bill asks June to help him select stuff for the party, and she doesn’t even bother to shop around for something interesting that the client might enjoy. She just picks the first convenient name off a review website and orders supplies from them. Cheap plastic trinkets, dry cupcakes—I’ve seen the lack of quality, Nat. It’s depressing.”

  “Maybe because she doesn’t think a nine-year-old’s birthday party is a do-or-die event?” suggested Natalie. “For my ninth birthday, I ate cake with a scoop of chocolate gelato and unwrapped a Barbie in between helping my family fill cannoli for my grandmother’s Sunday dinner.”

  “I would do a better job,” insisted Tessa. “It’s not June’s dream to make events special, but it is mine. I watch tiny little opportunities pass me by while I’m dressing up in a dinosaur costume, and I wonder… I wonder if I let bigger opportunities slip away without knowing it.”

  This was the truth coming home to her. It was the failures of the past talking, and not the glass of wine she was sipping. It was the realization that her future was nothing but a dancing T-Rex and a hotdog truck unless something changed it, both quickly and completely.

  “Tell me about it,” groaned Natalie. She leaned her head back against the sofa cushion, gazing at the ceiling. It was the perfect sentiment for Tessa’s mindset, even though it was also an admission of her friend’s agreement about her worry over missed opportunities.

  “You really think the same thing, don’t you?” said Tessa.

  “Of course I do. We all do. It’s part of life,” said Natalie. “Look at me. I’m stuck being Kandace’s chew toy. At least Bill respects your opinion… whenever the rare occasion calls for you to give him one.”

  Tessa tapped her fingers against the side of her wine glass softly. “But what if,” she began, “there was a chance to break free of that vicious cycle? I think I would leap at it at this point,” she continued. “You’d take it, right?”

  “What? Why?” Natalie lifted her head. “Did you get a job offer?”

  “Not exactly. But I’ve been thinking of doing something different.” Tessa stopped toying with her glass and set it aside. She felt a little tingle in her fingers at the thought of what she was a
bout to say. “Maybe opening my own firm. It’s a big leap, but I’m beginning to think it might be worth it.”

  “Your own event planning firm?” repeated Natalie. “This, from a career dressing up as a birthday party dinosaur? Tess, I always said you were crazy, but that might be too much, even for you.”

  “I have a great portfolio,” protested Tessa. “So many firms have told me as much; just that pesky ‘no real experience’ is hanging over my head. Well, I’m never going to get the right experience working for Bill, so I think it’s time I do what I was meant to do. And if I have to, I’m going to do it on my own.”

  Natalie laughed. “Are you being serious right now?” she said.

  “You think I’m kidding?”

  “It’s a big risk,” said Natalie, shaking her head. “I’ve had a few people admire my designs, but I work for an industry professional who treats them like trash. People buy her stuff—at least, she owns her own boutique, and has a reputation in the fashion community. How do I know who’s telling the truth? And if I leave—there goes my one connection to the fashion world. Pitiful though it may be.” She sipped her wine reflectively.

  “The people who admired your work in the past will still notice you,” answered Tessa with enthusiasm. “Your dresses are really beautiful, Nat, no matter what your boss tells you. I love the one you sewed for me.” For their senior formal in college, Natalie had designed a gorgeous evening gown for Tessa, in a shade of blue that set off her red hair perfectly. Dozens of compliments had come her way that evening, and she felt they were entirely owed to Natalie’s magic sewing needle. Even girls like Penny Newcastle, with their designer labels, hadn’t been wearing anything near as stunning a statement as Natalie’s creation.