Teddy
“My God! What is this place?”
Ava takes a selfie in front of Dorian Gay and then strides into the shop, arms open, eyes wide, taking in the over-the-top
mannequins, the mid-century décor and the vintage fashion.
“We call this Palm Springs, honey!” Patty O’Furniture says, emerging from the back in a giant wig, cowboy hat and rhinestone
pantsuit that Dolly Parton would applaud. “Mere mortals call it heaven!”
“This is Patty,” I say. “Patty, this is Ava.”
Patty extends her hand.
“Enchantée,” she says. “You may kiss my ring.”
Ava looks back at me, bewildered.
“Kiss the ring,” I say. “It’s better than kissing her ass.”
“Which you will do the rest of your life now that we’ve met,” Patty says, her lips shimmering in a glittery gloss.
Ava obliges, kissing a giant costume ring with a megawatt faux ruby.
“You took that ring from the counter,” I say. “Put it back.”
“It seems as if someone put a cob back up your ass again,” Patty says. “This one’s been perimenopausal since JLo and Ben Affleck
broke up . . . the first time.”
“Put it back.”
Patty pouts, removes the ring and places it back in the jewelry case.
“You’re a drag, and not in the fun way at all,” she says. Patty eyes me suspiciously. “Why are hanging around with a girl
this young and pretty?” She gasps. “Oh, my God! Did you watch The Substance? I knew it was real.” Patty walks over to Ava. “Kill her now while you have the chance!”
The bell jingles, and a man and woman enter.
“Get to work while you still have a job,” I say.
Patty sashays away.
Ava moves toward the counter and eyes the jewelry.
“When did you open this place?”
“Years ago,” I say, “with John. Long before mid-century fashion and design blew up, long before Coachella, when tumbleweed
still blew across the streets downtown.” I look around the store. “I always loved fashion. And I especially loved taking something
beautiful that everyone believed was dead and gone and bringing it back to life again.”
“You should take your own advice,” Ava says, brow raised.
“Enough about me,” I say. “Let’s talk about me!”
Ava laughs.
“So,” I continue. “Your grandmother tells me you are interested in design. What kind?”
“I’m not sure,” Ava says. “I’m just fascinated by bringing some beauty to this world.”
“Well, you’re in the right place,” I say. “Design is personal. It’s like home: It should reflect who you are and what you
want to say to the world. The one thing you must do is listen to your voice.” I walk over to Ava and touch her heart and her
temple. “It’s the only thing we have as artists and souls. It’s the only thing we can trust in this world.”
I continue.
“Everything comes back into style again. For instance, take a look at the man who just entered the store.” I nod his direction. “See
his knit shirt?”
She turns to look, and I point up at a mannequin.
“Today, we call it ‘eclectic grandpa’ or ‘grandpa core,’ but you can see his outfit draws inspiration from the casual fashion
of the late ’40s to early ’60s.”
I nod at the well-dressed woman shopping who has now made her way over to the jewelry counter.
“And just look at her: Chunky jewelry is having a major moment right now,” I say. “Large, bold metal necklaces, oversized
statement and cocktail rings, bold bracelets are all back in style. That’s all mid-century fashion, my dear.” I smile. “Everything
old is new again. Even me!”
The woman eyes a brutalist bark-textured bracelet, and then I see her eyes drift toward the Bakelite bracelet on the wall.
“How much?” she asks.
“Sorry, not for sale,” I say. “It’s a family heirloom.” I smile at the woman and nod at Ava. “Perhaps it will be a gift for
someone special one day.”
“Well, you’re a very lucky girl if it’s you,” she says to Ava.
“Thank you!” Patty calls over. “I am!”
When the couple leaves, I walk behind the counter and lift the shadow box off the wall. I remove the envelope—still addressed
to Trudy—that is hidden beneath the backing. I hand the letter to Ava.
“I think it’s time you read this,” I say. “Another family heirloom.”
Ava takes the envelope and plops down in a chair on the far side of the shop. She slides the letter free. Ava trains a curious
look at me and then the letter. I shut my eyes, and I can still picture myself writing it seated next to my dead mother, I
can still feel my fingers penning the opening words:
Dear Trudy,
What is the definition of a friend?
When Ava finishes reading, she just stares at the Polaroid of me and Trudy from the 1970s that I put with the letter, dressed up in our store-bought Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote Halloween costumes and hard masks.
Ava stands, eyes shining with tears, walks over and wraps her arms around me.
And she refuses to let go.