Keepsakes of Serendipity

1. Peyton

Peyton

Starting a line is my painfully niche talent. Although, is it technically a line if there’s only one person standing in it? I take a swig of water and decide to give it some serious thought.

Just as I’m about to enter minute thirty-three of character building in the sun, a passerby pauses next to me. “Excuse me, can I ask what you’re waiting for?”

It’s a valid question. Why am I waiting in this maybe-line, on a seemingly uneventful Saturday morning, in the middle of the hottest September Ohio’s seen in the last five years?

The woman holds a small shopping bag from the candle company down the street and her wallet in the other hand. I draw in a steadying breath. Nothing says “I have disposable income and am not afraid to use it” like artisanal candles.

Trying to pretend I’m having the time of my life and not sweating my ass off, I give her a broad smile.

“Oh! I’m waiting for the grand opening of this boutique.

I’ve loved their online shop for years and can’t believe they finally have a storefront.

In Waterton, of all places!” My tone is rehearsed perfection—genuine enthusiasm without suspicious levels of excitement.

Leaning closer, like I’m about to share the coordinates of Bigfoot’s lair, I add, “I heard there are freebies for the first fifteen people in the shop.” I look down at my watch as if I don’t know there are exactly twenty-five minutes left before I have access to air conditioning.

“They open in a half hour, and I just know the line’s about to get long. There’s been so much buzz about it.”

Inner thoughts play out on her face, and I watch her expression shift from curiosity to resolve in under five seconds. Then, she steps behind me to form what I can now confidently call “a line.” God, I love when the first person joins me—it’s such a rush.

“I should call my sister to get over here.” She pulls a phone out of her purse and lowers her voice to a whisper. “Jenna’s a self-proclaimed slut for giveaways.”

I stifle a shocked laugh and nod encouragingly, reassuring her that she’s making the right choice. A great choice. A choice heavily influenced by me, a professional. Forming a line where one didn’t exist before is a specialized skill. And, as the owner of Good Taste, I’m excellent at it.

Over the next twenty minutes, several people join us—including Jenna, who, as it turns out, will break traffic laws for doorbusters. I glance at my watch again. Less than three minutes until 10:00 a.m. Go time in t-minus ten, nine, eight…

Jenna gives a small squeal. “Someone’s opening the door!”

I pat myself on the back for another flawless execution of what I call “The 120-Second Rule.” Every shopper is unique, but one thing remains universal: they fucking love when the doors open two minutes early.

Internally, I preen for immaculately orchestrating sweet, tote bag-clutching Jenna’s excitement.

Externally, I join her squeals of happiness, bouncing on my toes so the people behind us can sense our enthusiasm.

My client, Caitlyn Langston, cracks open the door and grins when she spots me.

She flips her long, copper waves over one shoulder, and the dainty diamond stud on the side of her nose glints in the light as she steps out of the doorframe.

When she spies the line of intrigued customers wrapping around the corner, her jaw drops.

“Oh my God,” she mouths. She stares, eyes bright, for a few moments before clearing her throat.

“Well, hello, everyone! I’m thrilled to see your smiling faces this morning.

Welcome to Waterton Threads! My team’s ready to help you with whatever you need.

Don’t forget to snag a complimentary charm bracelet while supplies last! ”

At the mention of freebies, the crowd cheers.

There’s even a wolf whistle from—if I had to guess—Jenna’s direction.

I walk in first, but pretend to be distracted by something in the front display so real customers can go ahead of me.

Caitlyn closes the door once the last person enters, presumably to keep the heat out, and makes her way toward the cash wrap.

She motions for me to join her beside the counter, and I casually saunter over, snagging a set of gold bangles on my way.

Caitlyn nudges my shoulder and speaks at a low volume. “You’re a miracle worker. How did this even happen?”

Oh, you know. Good old-fashioned flyers around town, aggressive hashtagging on social media, and a willingness to risk sun poisoning.

“A little bit of this and that.” I set down my water bottle and scan the merchandise, appreciating the timeless pieces she’s curated.

Tailored dresses, neutral slacks, and functional blouses line the walls.

“You did all the heavy lifting, with your incredible taste. Everything is so chic, yet functional. The dresses could be inspired by Dior’s A-Line collection. ”

Caitlyn glows under my praise, and a gentle flush paints her pale skin pink. “That’s quite the compliment. It sounds like you know a lot about fashion.”

“Um, I used to work in haute couture, back in New York, up until two years ago.” I pretend to inspect the bracelet, hoping to avoid any follow-up questions.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Wow. Were you a model?”

I place the bangles on the counter, giving up on my pathetic attempt at diversion. “My last job was a junior designer for Haus of Lamont.”

“A designer? I thought for sure you were going to casually mention your multiple Vogue spreads. Not to make this weird, but you’re like, one of the prettiest people I’ve ever seen up close.

” Caitlyn leans back to study me before smiling and snapping her fingers.

“You look like that filter I use on my selfies when I want to feel bad about myself. Your cheekbones are so high they’re at risk of altitude sickness, girl. ”

I breathe out a laugh, and my curtain bangs fall to the center of my forehead, sticking to the light sheen of residual sweat from the heat outside. While I enjoyed modeling to an extent, it’s not something I like to bring up. Remaining neutral about my looks is best for my mental health.

“So, Peyton. Tell me: what brought you to boring ol’ Ohio then?”

Exhaustion from the crushing, constant rejection of my designs. The boss from Hell. The ex-boyfriend from Hell’s unfinished basement.

Shockingly, none of those feel appropriate to share with a new client.

Nothing says “give me referrals” like hashing out my demons during small talk, so I push them down and smile politely.

“I don’t think Ohio’s boring at all. I grew up in New York but spent summers here as a child with my grandparents.

They had a small lake house near Put-In-Bay.

When I decided the fashion industry wasn’t for me, I moved here to open my own business. ”

The genuine smile Caitlyn’s had on her face since the store opened stays put. “Well, I’m lucky you chose to set up shop here. Today’s turnout is larger than I ever expected, all thanks to you.”

A mixture of pride and relief buzzes through me. “We aim to please.”

She readjusts the small sunglasses display on the counter. “I don’t know if it’s in your wheelhouse, but I’m throwing a party in about six weeks and need more people to fill the room. Is that something you do?”

“Absolutely. In fact, I was hired for a wedding last weekend. They wanted someone to be the first one on the dance floor to break the awkwardness.”

Caitlyn’s lips part in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. It’s one of my most requested services.”

“You don’t mind just dancing by yourself, in front of a bunch of strangers?”

I shrug. “Not really. Although, I didn’t care for the song this time. It’s one thing to dance to a classic by yourself, but setting the tone with ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’? If they would’ve chosen literally anything else, they wouldn’t have needed to hire a tastemaker.”

Caitlyn makes an audible “yeesh” sound. “Did you…?”

“Do all the parts?” I wince. “Yeah. No one joined me until the third ‘mamma mia.’”

“Oof. The universe must’ve forgotten to bestow me with that level of confidence.”

I gently shake my head. “Trust me. From one small business owner to another, it takes plenty of confidence to do what you’re doing.”

“True. But picking out jewelry that someone else made is one thing. Putting yourself out there like that is another.”

“Honestly, after years on the pageant circuit, showing up with self-assurance is basically a survival instinct.” I try on a pair of pale gold aviators to justify my extended presence at the counter.

“Plus, not all of my gigs are like that. I’ve also worked as a wave starter at a Mud Hens game and a seat filler at a teen poetry slam.

Took ages to get the stench of mango vapes and hormones out of my favorite sweater.

Pretty sure I sprained a thumb from all the snapping. ”

Caitlyn blinks. “I didn’t even know those were jobs you could have.”

“Yep. This past Tuesday, I attended an amateur comic’s performance as a planted laugher, and he was actually pretty good. Only one misogynistic joke, if you can believe it.”

Her responding laughter lights up her whole face. “Only one? Is he single? I could use a date, and the pickings are slim around here.”

I retrieve my cell phone and pull up a photo of the comic. “If you’re into guys who still wear Livestrong wristbands unironically, he’s your man.”

Caitlyn’s eyes suddenly spark with anticipation, and I follow her gaze to Jenna, who has a basket full of clothes and looks almost ready to check out.

I slip my phone back into my bag. “Looks like you’re about to be too busy to chat! I should get going. The air conditioning has done its job, but my sweat is now a layer of salt, and I’m in dire need of a deep cleanse.”

Caitlyn moves to stand directly behind the register. “Before you go, do you want to come to our post-opening party tomorrow night? We’re celebrating with family and close friends next door at Solid Grounds cafe.”

On the surface, I give her a soft smile. But an unexpected pang of sadness echoes in my chest, and I find myself missing my girls back in New York. The fashion industry was ruthless, but it also formed bonds between coworkers that turned into forever friendships.

For a moment, I wonder what it’d be like to have a core friend group here. But I quickly shake those thoughts off. No mixing business with pleasure—especially in a town this small.

“I appreciate the invitation, but I have some prep work to do for a few events.”

“No worries.” She places the bangles I’d been using as a prop in a small giftbox and hands it to me. “This is for you.”

I hold the box close to my chest. “That’s really kind of you. I love it.”

Caitlyn waves goodbye just as Jenna approaches, her basket now close to overflowing, and I spend a minute browsing some clothes before I slip out the back. I don’t want anyone to see me dip out early.

That would ruin the charade.