8. Maureen
Chapter eight
Maureen
“ O scar, watch Bambi do it, okay? C’mon, Bambi. Shake.”
James’s labradoodle obediently lifted his paw and let me tug it up and down a few times. I rewarded him with a candy cane–shaped treat from the side table.
“Okay, Oscar. Now you. Shake.” Marley’s Labrador looked at me curiously and angled his head to the side, tongue lolling out lazily. “Shake,” I implored. He tilted his head in the other direction and used his hind leg to itch the back of his neck. I sighed. “I think your dog is broken,” I called to my sister in the kitchen.
One of the best parts about staying with Marley and James was their two dogs, both of whom fell into the “loveable but dopey” category, although James’s had a few more tricks.
I stretched lazily on the green tufted couch. I’d been here for over a month with no imminent plans to depart. Crashing with my big-hearted sister had done a lot to soothe the restlessness I hadn’t realized I’d been feeling.
Kolya’s had shuttered at the end of summer, and I became unemployed. Although I’d felt like a failure at first, that sensation quickly evolved into relief. I’d known for a while I was unhappy. Managing and buying for a high-end boutique—working in elite fashion—didn’t spark my passion. I’d learned a ton and would always be grateful for the opportunity, but I didn’t want to build an unsatisfying career in fashion merchandising just because those were the words on my college diploma. I was only thirty-one years old, too young to give up on the idea of being genuinely fulfilled by my work.
Regrouping in Coleman Creek had proved to be a wise decision. Especially this time of year. My hometown always showed well during the holidays. The corny displays in business windows and over-the-top lawn decorations lifted my spirits in the way only familiar things could.
The season had also exploded inside the house. Marley and James had three enormous trees—two upstairs, one downstairs—covered in ornaments, and photographs from Christmases past lined every spare inch of the bookshelves. My eyes caught on one picture, probably twenty years old, of my sisters and me in matching reindeer pajamas. I hadn’t taken any of our older family photos when I moved to Seattle, so I loved unlocking these memories.
“Do you want sour cream on top or on the side?” Marley appeared in the kitchen archway.
“On top is fine.”
I stretched out my fingers and closed one tab on my laptop. No more work today.
I’d taken a flexible remote position handling insurance claims. I’d been working since age sixteen, had done everything from cashier to landscaper to cater waiter to process server, and I’d accepted this job more to feel like a productive member of society than to pay the bills. Thanks to my mom’s inheritance and Marley buying Miranda and me out of our childhood home, my finances were stable. While I figured out my next career step, claims processing kept me busy and put a little extra money in my pocket.
Of course, Marley and James wouldn’t let me use that money to pay rent, so I compromised by keeping their fridge fully stocked. I’d also bought new linens and end tables for the guest room and paid a company to clean up the backyard for their engagement party. They’d been particularly grateful for that last one—school activities kept them extremely busy this time of year, sending hedge trimming and leaf blowing to the bottom of their priority list.
I knew they were glad to have me, but it hadn’t all been smooth sailing.
I’d messed up last week when I came home with a Christmas tree bought fresh from the Coleman Creek High School lot.
Seeing the noble fir propped up against the garage door, Marley lamented, “But I wanted to go tree shopping with James.”
Whoops. I’d unknowingly thrown a wrench into my sister’s plans to couple-bond with her fiancé. In my defense, it hadn’t occurred to me that getting a Christmas tree could be some big, romantic production. It was simply one of those necessary holiday chores—they didn’t have a tree yet, so I bought a tree. Done and done. I hadn’t realized something so perfunctory could be an experience .
Except the moment that thought crossed my mind, it hadn’t rung true. Our mother had raised us on these types of rituals. There had been plenty of Christmases during my childhood where Marley, Miranda, and I darted around the lot, playing hide-and-seek while our mom wandered around, trying to find the perfect tree. I’d just forgotten.
“But didn’t you say you and James wanted two trees?” I’d asked, her sad face making me feel like crap.
“Yes.” She sniffed.
“Well, I only got one, so you two can still go pick out the other one together.”
Some of the tension left her features as she walked closer to the tree I’d purchased. “Hmm. That makes sense. It would be easier if we only had to tie one to the car.” She lifted a branch. “And this one is very pretty, nice and full.”
“Seriously, Marls. I’m sorry I didn’t ask first, but I appreciate you letting me buy one. Bren and I used to just put up a little fake tree. Lugging this monster to my car and getting needles in my hair trying to strap it down really made me feel like I’m home for the holidays.”
She’d cracked a smile, unable to stay grumpy for long. “I guess I can’t argue with that.” Her face lit with mischief. “Maybe I can talk James into getting a third tree—you know, since we’re having the party?”
“Why not?”
The next day, she and James had gone together to pick out the second tree. And the third.
Teasing my sister reminded me how much lighter I was in Coleman Creek. Bren had moved in with Chase at the same time I’d lost my job, keeping me from renewing the lease on our apartment. Coming home to figure out my next move had felt like surrendering at first, but now I was grateful.
I’d been reconnecting with my past in more ways than one.
Hovering my finger over the touchpad, I hesitated a fraction before opening another tab on my screen.
My earnest face from four years ago stared back at me. Sitting on a park bench as people strolled by in the background, I spoke directly to the camera. At the time, I hadn’t learned about angles or lighting. A severe shadow cut across my cheek, and the microphone picked up tons of ambient noise, muffling my voice. My hair, which I’d been dying auburn the past few years, shone in its natural honey-brown shade.
A sense of surrealness surrounded me as I contemplated my YouTube channel, a pet project I’d started a few months after I began at Kolya’s but had neglected recently.
I browsed through the oldest clips, mentally reminiscing.
The videos could not be described as cohesive. The only thing unifying them was that I wanted all my content to be positive. Plenty of fashion channels critiqued looks and trends. Many of my Kolya’s colleagues had been dedicated to those. Watching them stress about the dos and don’ts of fashion culture inspired me to make my channel a respite from all that pressure. I’d shown my face and identified myself vaguely as someone who worked in fashion merchandising but had used my middle name to separate YouTube me from Kolya’s me. At its peak, Fashion Vibes with Francesca only had around three thousand subscribers, but it made me happy.
In the first months, I’d mostly commented on fashion I saw in the real world. The video of me in the park was an example—I’d aimed my camera at folks walking along the nearby trail, captured a variety of outfits, and later edited it together, narrating on the general theme of all the fun, unique athletic wear looks I saw at Green Lake . It was juvenile, and honestly a little boring, but its sincerity counterbalanced the artifice of Kolya’s.
At the store, I’d been very careful to toe the line and not rock the boat—to agree with the owner, the designers, and my peers when it came to choices about what to stock and how to present merchandise. For the store to remain viable, it had to stay ahead of the curve. I understood and supported that concept because I truly wanted its success. Kolya’s’ commitment to supporting new, upcoming designers also provided motivation. But the relentless dogma around being on trend had been a prison for my creative soul.
I’d always used fashion as a way of communicating with others. Maureen—Francesca—on the park bench smiled widely in a casual, colorful outfit. Accessible. In my work life, I’d veered dramatic and sleek. But both were still me.
Dress-up had been my favorite activity as a child. I’d enthusiastically investigated the contents of my mom’s closet, trying on jewelry and tottering around in her one pair of high heels as she looked on indulgently. And while I didn’t have many memories of my dad, I recalled putting on a fashion show in our living room as he cheered and clapped around a newborn Miranda.
In my teenage years, I’d leaned into an angstier, rocker style, and my go-to as an adult was usually a softened-up version of that. But some mornings, I woke up feeling country, or I’d dress formally for no reason. I’d mix interesting jewelry and vintage pieces in my wardrobe with thrift store finds and treasures from the bargain bin at Walmart. I rarely dressed “down” in the traditional sense, and I wore light makeup to the gym, but I had a healthy respect for those who kept their wardrobe entirely casual. The full spectrum of style preferences had always intrigued me, even as my own evolved.
What I liked best about clothing was how it could make the wearer feel a certain way. I was much less concerned with what fashion said about wealth, status, or how adept one was at dressing for body type .
But those things had been important to Kolya’s customers. And if dressing to signify a healthy bank account made someone feel confident, who was I to yuck their yum?
So, I’d played along. But, ultimately, helping rich people dress like rich people kind of sucked.
Enter my YouTube channel.
I laughed out loud as I pulled up another of my earliest pieces, done after I started offering styling advice in some of the videos. In it, I’d captured different folks on the street wearing overalls. I’d spliced those images with me speaking over visuals of an online article declaring no one over the age of five should wear overalls. I listened to four-years-ago me:
“Overalls as fashion suicide? I say nope to that. Look at how happy and comfortable these people are”— cut to an older lady wearing overalls tending to her front lawn, two teenagers wearing overalls with one side undone at the bus stop, a woman walking her dog in enormous pregnancy overalls—“ how could anything be wrong with cozy and comfortable? That being said, if you’re interested in elevating your overalls look, I have a few suggestions—” This was the part where I showed my face, wearing a pair of dark red overalls. By the time I’d made this video, I’d purchased a ring light and a better camera setup for my home, so it was easier to film myself standing and showcasing outfits properly. I modeled the overalls with a blue-striped tee and denim coat with a trucker hat. For the second look, I’d rolled up the bottoms and paired them with chunky bright-white sneakers and a white tank top, floppy hat optional. “These are just suggestions. If neither of these ideas works for you, no problem. Tell me in the comments how you rock your overalls. And remember, when it comes to fashion, you do you!”
I put my fist to my mouth at that last line. Total cringe. For the first year, I’d tried to end every video with that catchphrase, but over time, as the topics became more varied, it stopped making sense.
Oscar put his nose on my knee as Marley came in, brandishing a tray of nachos. “Whatchya looking at?”
“My old YouTube videos.”
“Francesca?” Marley grinned. “I miss her.”
“Yeah? ’Cuz I was thinking I could start working on some new content.”
“Oooh. That’s a great idea.”
Marley sat down, and we watched a few more videos.
I pulled up the clip I’d made of her last Christmas, where she modeled her holiday sweater collection and talked about wearing things that belonged to our mom. That video was part of a series where people told stories about clothes they kept for sentimental reasons. In one, Bren talked about the rose gold bracelet that had belonged to her great-grandmother, who wore it while marching for women’s suffrage. In another, I’d filmed Chase hitting at the batting cages. He spoke about the cleats he’d hung onto from his “ epically awesome ” high school baseball days—even though they “ pretty much smell like butt now .”
Some of those videos were random folks telling me about their outfits. Over time, I’d simply gone out in public to film anyone willing to talk to me.
One playlist had clips of me showing people pictures on my iPad of the latest fashions and getting their thoughts. Would You Try the No-Pants Trend? had the most views. Every euphemism for female private parts could be found in the comments section—unsurprisingly united in favor of wearing bottoms—although I called foul on “lady sandwich.” Sorry @juliasnotyourmom68.
The videos where I offered styling advice, like with the overalls, comprised another playlist. I’d made a point to feature people of all ages, genders, ethnicities, and body types. Marley’s ugly sweater video appeared in both the Sentimental Fashion playlist and the Holiday Fashion playlist, which I pulled up.
“You should add to that one,” Marley suggested. “While you’re in town.” She dipped a chip into the salsa and chewed it before continuing. “There’s no place like Coleman Creek at Christmas. I bet Francesca’s followers would be interested.”
She wasn’t wrong. One of the most charming things about my hometown during the holidays was just how not-charming it was. Nothing curated. Nothing matched. Main Street was a mishmash of different colored lights. Some stores painted their windows, while some hung banners or did picture box displays. From the Hawaiian-shirted Santa outside the bowling alley to the twenty penguin plushies lining the window of a family dentist, local flavor abounded. Everyone knew the stories. The Hawaiian shirt had belonged to the original bowling alley owner, a beloved former mayor who’d started many of the city-sponsored holiday activities before passing away a decade ago. The penguins had been gifts sent to Dr. Mendelsohn’s young daughter the year she had to spend Christmas in the hospital battling cancer. Our town would never look picture-perfect, but no one seemed to mind. There was plenty of interesting content to be found.
“Do you think Mrs. Allen would do a video talking about how she’s kept the same style over all her years of teaching?” It was still odd to me that the teacher my sisters and I all adored in high school was now one of Marley’s colleagues. “I love that she rocks that early ’80s midi skirt and turtleneck combo. Plus, it’d be great to feature more older people.”
Marley chuckled. “I bet she’d be flattered if you asked her. Just leave out the part about her being ‘older.’”
“Will do.” I used a chip to scoop up a stray dollop of sour cream before taking a bite. “Dang, Marley. Why are these so good?”
She grinned. “Mom’s trick, remember? Sprinkle the chips with taco seasoning and lime and pop them in the oven for five minutes before taking them out and piling on the good stuff.”
Oh, right. Our mom had done that. Another thing I’d forgotten.
Oscar came up to me, rubbed against my calves, then rested his chin on my thigh. I gave him a candy cane treat.
Then I clicked open another video as ideas started taking root in my brain.