The Guncle Abroad

Chapter Fifteen

Palmina was holding hands with Maisie and Grant, a sight that made Patrick shiver as he descended the hotel’s grand staircase into the lobby. He studied his rival as she stared out the windows; she looked much like any number of chic young mothers he’d see in New York waiting to usher their children across the street into a dance class. She wore coveralls like a mechanic might (albeit unbuttoned nearly to her navel), but instead of seeming like she’d put in a hard shift at the auto shop, she looked like she could throw a greasy rag over her shoulder and walk the runways of Paris. Despite being remarkably put together, Palmina also looked naked without both her entourage and enormous earrings. There was a listlessness to her demeanor, but unlike Patrick’s ennui, hers was intimidating rather than pathetic. Patrick approached with caution.

“Where are the rest of the Spice Girls?” he asked. Maisie turned red when she heard her uncle’s voice, like she had been caught cheating with her new launt. She quickly retracted her hand, but Grant kept his hand in Palmina’s, undaunted.

When Palmina turned toward Patrick she gave him the full up and down; to his relief she seemed to approve of the ensemble he was wearing. “Who?”

“You know, Ginger and Scary and Posh.”

A curious flash of recognition. “Oh, yes. Those girls. They do the spice.” Patrick didn’t know if Palmina was being dismissive or if something were lost in translation; either way he was suddenly very aware that there was a gay generation between them. He once took a SoulCycle class in New York and was on a bicycle directly behind Victoria Beckham. Watching her husband one bicycle over motivated him through the workout, specifically during sprints, when David would rise out of his seat and slowly lower himself back down again. If he ever crossed paths with the Beckhams again, Patrick would be tempted to affect his best (or worst) Italian accent to tell Victoria, You do the spice. “Bruna, Carla, and Zita go to the nightclub to dance.” Patrick knew no self-respecting European socialite who went to a nightclub in the late afternoon; she was either lying or her friends were settling in for a long disco nap.

“You’re coming to the bachelorette party, GUP?” Maisie asked, uncertain as to why he was there.

“Livia invited me,” Patrick said, almost like it were a question; even he thought it was not her brightest idea.

“My sister,” Palmina sighed in agreement. “She spends too much time overseas.”

Modern bachelorette parties were more of an American tradition than European, and it was clear that Palmina had a distaste for the very idea. Patrick wasn’t a huge fan, either; such parties had a way of invading gay spaces and wreaking havoc on homosexuals just wanting to dance, but if a male stripper was involved there might be something to make his attending worthwhile. Of course, that would hold zero appeal to Palmina, but since Maisie had been invited he imagined this was to be a more flaccid affair.

“Did you talk to Dad?” Maisie whispered.

He took Maisie’s hand, in part to keep her from reaching for Palmina’s again. “I talked to Cassie,” he offered, as if that might tickle her fancy.

Maisie’s eyes brightened. “Cassie’s here?”

Her reaction made Patrick wonder again about Cassie for Greg. “On the phone. She asked if I wanted to star in Grease on Broadway.”

“Isn’t Grease about children?” Palmina asked skeptically. In his head, They do the spice morphed into They do the grease.

“It’s about teenagers,” he said defensively, lest she think he was doing some tacky children’s revue. But Patrick was almost impressed; if Italian lesbians could discuss American musicals, there just might be a friendship to be had.

“But you are not a teenager. Except, like all men, emotionally.” She then turned to Grant and added, “Not you.” The boy grinned his agreement.

Patrick didn’t have it in him to defend all men. “I was offered the role of Vince Fontaine, an adult who teaches the hand jive at the big high school dance.” Patrick tried to demonstrate, which, to the best of his recollection, began with slapping his knees, then clapping his hands. He fudged a few other moves before bumping his fists together and pointing his thumbs left and then right.

Palmina looked at him like he was having a stroke. “And this is the star?”

Patrick blushed. “Perhaps ‘star’ is too strong a word.”

“My friend went to see that show,” Maisie shared. “She said it was fun and she knew some of the songs.”

“Of course she knew some of the... It’s Grease. Never mind. It’s been running for a while, so I would be a replacement.”

“What happened to the Vance Coltrane they had?” Palmina asked with as little interest as she could muster.

“Vince Fontaine. He lost both his thumbs in a lawn mowing accident and can’t do the— Who cares? Ticket sales were sluggish, so they’re offering the part to a bigger name, specifically me.”

Grant interrupted by tugging on Palmina’s sleeve. “Palmina, what’s your love language?”

“U-Haul,” Patrick blurted before he could stop himself. All three of them stared at him, stumped. “What do lesbians bring on a second date? A U-Haul.” More stares. “Oh, come on. It’s meant to be funny!” Love languages were his lessons to teach, he didn’t see the need for a guest lecturer.

“What is this language you speak of?” Palmina asked Grant.

“The language you use to tell people you love them,” Grant replied. “GUP’s been teaching us.”

Palmina locked eyes with Patrick. “What do gay men bring on a second date?”

“Yes, I know,” Patrick dismissed, having heard all the old jokes. “What second date?”

Palmina crouched between both kids and pulled them in close to her side. “Thievery is my love language,” she said. “I take what I love and I love what I take. And sometimes I take hearts.” Patrick swallowed the lump in his throat; he hated that she was so cool.

As if to rescue him, Clara and Livia descended the staircase as a tight twosome, Clara looking particularly resplendent in a dress that definitely was not hers. Livia clocked their stares, then took Clara’s hand and raised it in the air so that Clara could do a little ballerina twirl on the bottom step. Patrick thought the move was very unlike his sister, but she did it with startling conviction as the dress fanned out over her knees. “It’s a loaner from Livia,” she confessed. “I had nothing to wear to Milan.”

“You look beautiful, Aunt Clara,” Maisie stated.

“Doesn’t she?” Livia agreed with great pride, as if she and Clara had been best friends for years. “It’s nice to finally have a sister to share clothes.” Palmina grunted and Clara turned red, not wanting to come between actual sisters.

“Please,” Palmina said. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in my sister’s bedraggled old rags.”

I’m sorry, Clara mouthed to no one in particular, but Patrick took pleasure in his rival’s annoyance and he made note to exploit that later.

Livia ran her fingers through Grant’s hair. “Your father is waiting for you in our room. He has a bachelor’s evening planned.” Grant pumped his fist and tore up the stairs with excitement. Some bachelor party, Patrick thought. One sober guest, one underage.

“Come on, girls,” Clara encouraged. “Let’s get drunk.”

Patrick hung his head in defeat as they exited the lobby. Grant asking Palmina about love languages? Maisie thinking someone beautiful in a dress? Clara wanting to get drunk? This was going to be a long night, indeed.

Livia, Clara, Palmina, Maisie, and Patrick piled into the back of the hotel’s stretch limousine, which Livia had commandeered for the forty-minute drive to Milan, where they had appointments with personal shoppers at Prada. Patrick had been told to make himself useful by popping the first bottle of prosecco, and he suddenly feared he was not so much a guest at this party as working it. Was he expected to be the stripper, too? He took several deep breaths and popped the cork while swallowing his complaints and poured each of the women a glass. Palmina glanced in Maisie’s direction; Maisie looked to Patrick expectantly.

“She’s underage,” Patrick said firmly.

Palmina threw her head back, and then forward again in disgust until the hair piled on her head flopped elegantly over her forehead. “Once again, you Americans are uptight about age.”

Patrick shoved the open bottle in an ice bucket. “I’m not uptight. It’s the United States Congress, the Institute of Health, and a little something called the National Minimum Drinking Age Act of 1984 that are uptight about these things.”

Palmina gestured at the Italian countryside as it whizzed by. “None of which has jurisdiction here.”

Patrick turned to Clara for backup, but half her glass was already missing and she was on the verge of a giggling fit. As a guardian she was apparently useless. “Livia?” he asked, deferring to her new role as his niece’s stepmother, even if that risked incurring Maisie’s wrath.

Livia punted. “I think it’s up to Maisie with her beautiful new highlights.”

Maisie betrayed her own feelings for Livia and beamed as all three women fussed over her hair. And in the low sun that shone sideways through the limo’s windows, her hair did look lighter, but the attention was all a bit too much.

“Half a glass to toast with,” Patrick relented, reaching for the bottle. “But don’t tell your father.”

“Isn’t that the point of a hen party?” Livia asked. “There will be lots of things tonight we won’t tell your father.” The four of them cackled, including Maisie, and Patrick was shocked to see her not only cutting Livia slack, but so completely aligning herself with this cadre of women.

Patrick poured a glass for himself last and raised it. “To Livia and Greg on the most romantic of occasions. Cheers.” Maisie eyed him suspiciously; she may be allowed to enjoy herself in Livia’s presence apart from her father, but Patrick was not granted permission to bless any union with her father.

“Hear hear,” Clara said, and everyone enjoyed a sip. Maisie tasted her drink cautiously with good reason, the disappointed look on her face said it all; she didn’t see the appeal.

“You and champagne are friends all of a sudden?” Patrick asked Clara. He had never known her to be one much to drink.

“It’s prosecco, first of all. And ever since menopause I don’t get migraines!”

The women cheered so loudly Patrick flinched, and they toasted his sister as if she were a soldier returning from war. Clara had faced menopause with a grim and unspoken resolve; he hoped not to be drawn into an evening of conversation about it now that it was behind her.

When their celebration died down, Palmina raised her glass a third time. “And to Patrick, who is going to Broadway.”

Clara brushed the hair from her face and her eyes sparkled with genuine excitement. “Is that true, Patrick?”

Now Patrick was blushing, uncomfortable for once as the center of attention, but touched that Palmina made such an overture. “It’s true. I’ve been asked to join the cast of Grease,” he said sheepishly. “It’s a glorified cameo, you know, for fun. And to help with ticket sales.”

Palmina tapped him condescendingly on his knee. “Now is not the time for modest. He’s going to give the teenagers hand jobs!”

Clara, mid-sip of prosecco, executed a classic spit take; fortunately most of the fine mist went in the direction of the open window, only some of it blowing back on Patrick. Horrified, she found a napkin to wipe down the front of her borrowed dress as she apologized profusely to Livia.

“Hand jive,” Patrick clarified. Jesus Christ. “I’m going to give them, teach them, the hand jive. It’s a dance from the nineteen fif— You know what? It’s Livia’s night. We can talk about this another time.” He glared at Palmina as the women broke down in laughter, making crude gestures he hoped went over Maisie’s head.

“Mi scusi,” Palmina said, begging his pardon. “I speak five languages, but my English? Not so good.” She then held her prosecco up to the window to admire the bubbles.

“Your English is fine,” Patrick replied sourly. Not five minutes earlier she’d said jurisdiction. There was nothing wrong with her ability to speak.

“I need another drink!” Clara roared.

“I need a general anesthetic,” Patrick replied. He took a sip of his drink and then turned to Maisie and repeated, “Her English is fine,” before refilling everyone’s glass.

As they approached the city, Livia explained that Milan was the fashion capital of Italy, if not the world, and had been since the 1960s when Vogue Italia chose it as the location for their headquarters. The region already had a rich history of producing its own textiles, but after Vogue landed, brands such as Dolce Gabbana, Armani, Moschino, Valentino, and Versace all coalesced to make Milan their home, too. The city was an amalgamation of past and present, set against the breathtaking natural backdrop of the Italian Alps. The third largest church in the world, the stunning Duomo di Milano, shared the skyline with modern skyscrapers making the whole city a contrast, and yet seamlessly, perfectly, stylishly itself. Much like fashion. Hard lines and thick textiles merged to create the most feminine beauty, while soft fabrics draped in goddess-like ways could make a woman feel like the most powerful warrior.

After entering the city, their limo headed to the Quadrilatero d’Oro, the Golden Quad, four streets that housed the highest-end boutiques, including the original Prada store, which was opened in 1913 by Mario Prada.

Clara rolled down her window and stuck her head through the opening like a dog. “Is this it? Are we here?” Patrick pulled her back inside the car before she could smack her head on a lamppost. Maisie absorbed their surroundings with nervous apprehension. Patrick understood immediately. It was one thing to enjoy being part of the girls; it would be quite another if she were expected to be girly—try on dresses and model them for two aunts and a stepmother, who would most certainly fuss. He took Maisie’s hand and squeezed it. Everything would be okay.

“Welcome to Milano,” Livia said.

“Ooh,” Clara exclaimed, her head light from champagne. “Like the cookie!” Patrick slumped in his seat; tonight’s experience was nothing like Pepperidge Farm. Clara straightened her dress, sat up, and announced to the group, “I would like to meet a man.”

“You what?” Patrick asked, as if everyone hadn’t heard perfectly well what she’d said. Were they talking about this openly now?

“A man,” Clara repeated, drawing out man like it had seven a’s. “You know, an adult male human? Perhaps you’re familiar.” She turned to Livia and Palmina. “Do you know any men you could introduce me to? Men like you?”

“Like us?” Livia protested; Palmina simply snickered.

“She means rich,” Patrick explained, and Clara swatted him on the knee.

“I mean Italian. Someone like what’s-his-name.”

Patrick scoffed. They were in Italy. “That narrows it down.”

“He was in La Dolce Vita.”

“Marcello Mastroianni,” Palmina said, although she looked too bored to have been listening.

“Marcello Mastro— What she said.”

“Marcello Mastroianni is dead,” Palmina said coolly.

Clara remained undeterred. “Someone alive, then. Someone like Marcello.” She turned to Livia and beamed hopefully.

“We’ll see what we can do,” Livia said accommodatingly. “But first we introduce you to Mr. Prada.”

Prada was housed inside the prestigious glass-covered Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, the whole experience was like being inside a dream. The buildings were gold, as was the inlay tile that comprised the streets; above them large glass panes arched to form incredible domes. There was a smell in the air Patrick couldn’t quite place, but he wouldn’t be surprised if it was money. Old money. And lots and lots of it.

Maisie clung to Patrick’s side as they made their way through the arcade, looking at building facades that reminded them both of Paris. She tugged on his arm to pull him down to eye level. “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.” Patrick didn’t want to break it to her, but they hadn’t been in Kansas for some time.

“America has places like this,” he said confidently to bolster his niece. But he couldn’t think of a one that was this ostentatious.

Patrick knew rich people did this, shop after hours; Mohamed Al-Fayed gave Princess Diana the run of Harrods at night and Barbra Streisand had a shopping mall built in her basement. Patrick himself sometimes wore clothes that were sent to him through a stylist, allowing him to bypass stores altogether. But something about this experience impressed even him. The power to open the flagship Prada store in Milan after hours? Greg was way out of his league.

Clara, Livia, and Palmina strode toward the entrance, shoulders back, looking not unlike the women of Sex and the City after Samantha left and Miranda became a lesbian. The doors were flung open for them by two saleswomen, who themselves could have been models. They kissed Livia and Palmina on each cheek in a perfectly European display, even though those weren’t exactly the cheeks they were kissing. They spoke Italian to the sisters with a lusty fluency and quick introductions were made in English to Clara, Patrick, and Maisie. Before he knew it, the store had swallowed them whole and Patrick felt like Charlie stepping into Wonka’s factory.

The saleswomen explained in near-perfect English how the store had prioritized its ancient flavor, leaving things largely untouched. The custom-built mahogany shelves, for instance, were the very same commissioned by Mario Prada himself.

“Ancient? Did she say ancient?” Patrick asked. Palmina turned to him with pity.

“Yes. Are you hard with the hearing? That happens with men who are old.”

“My hearing is fine.” Patrick just happened to think ancient was a funny word choice; how can a country that included the city of Rome, which was founded well before Christ, call something a hundred years old “ancient”? He struggled to imagine what they might call him at half that age. Archaic? Antiquated? Timeworn?

Mario’s little shop quickly became a favorite of the Italian aristocracy, and the more-refined members of Europe’s upper crust. In fact, Prada became an official supplier to the Italian royal household and in turn it made the House of Savoy’s coat of arms a featured part of its logo. Patrick and his kin kept their hands to their sides; this wasn’t exactly J.Crew. But Livia and Palmina touched everything, giving enthusiastic blessings or strained dismissals, as if they were walking through a relative’s house.

“Shall we have some fun?” the saleswoman asked.

“Sì. How do you say ‘fun’ in Italian?” Clara inquired of Livia, wanting very much to be a part of it.

“Il divertimento. Fun. Amusement. Enjoyment. Pleasure.”

“Sì. Sì. Sì. Sì,” Clara replied to every one of her translations, as each was more enticing than the last.

Patrick jumped, startled at the popping of a cork, and was quickly relieved he was no longer the designated bartender; in the blink of an eye they were each holding fresh flutes of prosecco, except for Maisie, who waved hers away. “I had some in the car,” she declined politely.

They gathered and sat in the center of the showroom and soon two racks of clothes appeared, pushed by three shorter women, who were overly tanned and clad in all black with cloth measuring tapes draped around their necks like scarves.

“Oh my god, they have Prada Loompas,” Patrick gasped before Clara hit him on his arm with her borrowed clutch.

As the bride-to-be, not to mention the woman with the pull to arrange such an affair, Livia had her pick of the racks. She selected a printed minidress in green, its fabric crinkled and looking like papyrus, as well as something sleeveless and draped that flounced at the hem and a double-breasted chevron coat cut and tailored like menswear with two poofs of Muppet fur sprouting from the elbows.

“I love the shearling detail,” Livia raved, and the two saleswomen made soft murmuring sounds like pigeons. Clara exchanged glances with Patrick; she clearly did not hold the shearling in the same high esteem, but wasn’t about to out herself as a devotee of T.J. Maxx.

“What’s shearling?” Maisie whispered.

“I thought it meant sheep,” Clara whispered back.

Patrick for his part held his index finger in front of his lips and gave a consternated look like Tim Gunn about to tell a Parsons student to “edit themselves thoughtfully.”

“Palmina,” the saleswoman urged, once Livia had made her choices. Palmina begged Clara to go next, but Clara wouldn’t hear of it, so Palmina stepped up to the rack and frowned at item after item before pulling a single selection, a quilted nylon ski suit in black. “How did that get there?” the saleswoman asked, befuddled. She looked desperately for a Prada Loompa, but none was to be found. She stepped forward to relieve Palmina of the piece, as if some grave mistake had been made, but Palmina countered by clutching it close to her chest.

“It’s chic,” she exclaimed, and Maisie stood up to admire its careful quilting and seams. Patrick could see a world opening for her, not all fashion had to be feminine, dresses and florals and the like; here was Palmina proudly plucking the black pantsuit off the rack, something the others would overlook as too manly or too impractical or impossible to pair with an occasion or shoe, other than a day at a chalet with Swiss boots. Patrick already resented Palmina for being such a perfect example for Maisie in a way he never could be himself and because he knew she would look so damn cool wearing this garment, like she was on her way to knock over a high-end casino in Monaco.

Clara went next and made careful study of everything on both racks, like a contestant on Let’s Make a Deal, frightened a trapdoor might open in the floor if she picked the wrong thing. (Patrick gleefully imagined what Prada dungeon might be hiding under the glorious black-and-white checkerboard floors.) She settled on a dress in printed poplin with ties at the waist and a strap around the neck like an apron. Patrick knew she wanted to be bolder but didn’t dare, fearing she’d make a fool of herself due to age or income bracket or gauche New England–ness in old Europe. Patrick grew frustrated with her timidity and pulled a second garment from the rack. Clara clearly admired it, but needed encouragement. “I don’t know. Are you sure?”

“You’re trying it on, not marrying it. Go!” he encouraged, and she scurried off after the sisters. Patrick had worn plenty of things in his life that elicited comments like “I wish I could wear such a thing.” He never understood that reaction; you simply put your legs in a pair of pants one fabric tube at a time. Most everyone had the same ability. It wasn’t until after hearing a comment like that the ninth or tenth time that he began to doubt it was a compliment.

“Signorina?” one of the saleswomen asked.

Patrick nudged Maisie. “That’s you.”

“I’d just like to watch,” Maisie said. “For now.” She hadn’t quite worked up the nerve to get up close and personal with any of the clothes, but thought enough of the opportunity to leave her options open. A burst of chatter from the dressing rooms sent the saleswomen scurrying in that direction.

Patrick whispered to Maisie. “This is fun and all, but don’t become like this. A fashionista. You could still do great things.”

“Like what?” Maisie asked, halfway between curious and horrified.

“I don’t know. Be one of those Swedish teens who solves global warming.”

“I’m not Swedish,” Maisie admitted as if fessing up, almost disappointed to find such a stumbling block to greatness.

“Doesn’t matter. There are no limits to what you can do.” Patrick raised his champagne flute, finally a sentiment worth celebrating. But even he had to admit the evening was impressive. Livia’s life was much to his liking.

The women emerged to put on a show. Livia looked, well, like Livia—perfectly at home in everything she wore. But that didn’t mean that she didn’t love the attention, and she happily strutted and twirled with each supportive ooh. Clara stood an inch or two taller in her poplin dress, the difference in her demeanor remarkable; Patrick had to glance to see if she wasn’t wearing different shoes. Whether it was the champagne or the garment that lowered Clara’s guard, or the way the color of the fabric accentuated her skin tone, Patrick wished his sister could see how beautiful she was when she let all her tensions go. And finally, Palmina in her nylon ski suit, shirtless underneath, the straps and buckles perfectly covering the most objectionable part of her breasts (but not much else), looking every bit the ringleader of a coterie of high-fashion thieves. Maisie brightened and clapped. Even though Patrick had just told her she could do and be anything, true possibility was unlocked only once she recognized that it was possible for a woman to be that goddamn hot while wearing ridiculous ski pants.

Patrick summoned his inner Julia Roberts and addressed the saleswomen. “Remember me? Big mistake. Big. Huge.”

The saleswomen glanced at each other puzzled. One of them addressed Patrick. “Of course we remember you. You have been sitting right there the entire time. What is the mistake? These women look fabulous.”

The other sullenly approached Clara. “Oh, I see.” She then fussed with the ties around Clara’s waist and tugged on the dress until she was satisfied that it draped on her just right. Clara’s relaxed face pinched back to its natural state.

“No, no,” Patrick interceded. “I was doing Pretty Woman. It’s a line from the movie. When no one would help her in Beverly Hills.”

“But we are not in Beverly Hills,” one of the saleswomen protested. “This is Milano.”

“And we are helping you,” the other said, just as Clara put her hands defensively on her hips.

“Are you saying we look like hookers?”

“No! Of course not,” he reassured his sister, before catching a glimpse of Palmina. “Maybe the very high-class kind, but— NO. No, I absolutely am not.”

“Then what are you saying?” his sister demanded. Livia and Palmina looked down their noses at Patrick, who couldn’t believe the reaction he was getting.

“It’s just a funny line!” Patrick couldn’t recall the number of times he’d repeated it in his gay life. When he saw a bad movie with Emory. When a friend dated someone who turned out to be a mess. When someone ordered whatever Patrick deemed to be the wrong thing at brunch. Big mistake. Big. Huge. It was Julia Roberts at her most iconic.

“What is funny about it?” Palmina asked innocently, like she was game to laugh if only she could understand.

Patrick should have seen she was laying bait for a trap, but he was desperate to climb out of this hole and didn’t yet realize he was digging it deeper. “She says it to the snooty saleswomen on Rodeo Drive who refused to help her at the top of the film. And here we are in an even fancier boutique. It just, seemed like the perf—”

“But these women are not snooty,” Palmina interrupted. “They welcomed us into their store.”

“They gave us sparkling wine,” Livia added.

Patrick turned to Maisie for backup. He had shown her Pretty Woman just last year when they stumbled upon it on Hulu. “Not me,” Maisie clarified in regards to the champagne. “But again, I had some in the car.” She was still so desperate to come off as not-a-kid.

“I think something’s getting lost in translation,” Patrick said. “I will sit here and keep my mouth shut.”

“Now there’s an ideal man,” Clara said to everyone’s delight. “Introduce me to one like that.”

“Perhaps I’m marrying the wrong brother,” Livia crowed, and everyone laughed, and Patrick had to accept that he was going to spend the rest of this hen party as the one getting pecked. Maisie put her hand on her uncle’s leg and patted it gently.

Livia extended her hand for Maisie’s and Maisie accepted it with obvious trepidation. “Come. I have something special waiting for you.” Maisie’s knees nearly buckled as she stood, but she followed Livia toward the dressing rooms, having just enough time to look back at her uncle for help. Patrick gave her an encouraging nod, as if to say, Play along. He knew no good could come from his interceding, at this point it would only make things harder on her.

“Wait until you see this,” Clara said once she and Patrick were out of Maisie’s earshot. She peeked at the dressing rooms, pleased to be part of some grand plan. But Patrick was still stewing and refused to follow her gaze.

“You took me to see Pretty Woman. I was like fourteen. You took me to see it three times. We told Mom we were seeing Driving Miss Daisy.”

“Now there’s a good movie,” Clara said. “Drive me to the Piggly Wiggly!”

“You used to be cool,” Patrick pouted.

Clara spun around, looked down at her dress, delighted anew to find herself in it, and announced, “And now I am again.”

From down the hall, a gasp from Livia, to which Maisie could be heard mounting her usual protest, but she was no match for a determined stepmother-to-be. After a beat or two they both emerged from the dressing room.

Patrick saw two Maisies. One, an awkward girl, one arm over the other, her hands clasped down near her knees as if she were trying to collapse in on herself with a gravitational field so intense that no light or matter could escape, hoping to completely disappear. The other a shining young woman, intrigued by possibility and reinvention. She longed for confidence, yet stood like Bambi, unsure of how to plant her feet squarely, or take her very first steps.

“Take your hands away.” Clara swatted at Maisie’s arms so they could see the garment they were hiding. Slowly, Maisie released her white-knuckle grip and emerged from the cocoon she had spun with her posture.

“Satisfied?” she asked of the others, as if this were torture for her, but then she caught a glimpse of herself in a full-length mirror and Patrick witnessed happiness creep across her face. It was beautiful to see.

Livia had selected for her a gingham-checked culotte in gray and white and a long-sleeve shirt in matching fabric with a small ruffle that snaked up the front. The shirt was buttoned tightly at her neck, and across her chest was a thin black leather strap that held a small bag by her hip. It was all age appropriate and cutting edge, soft with hard edges, feminine but not girly. In short, Livia had clearly paid attention to exactly who Maisie was, even when Maisie had gone out of her way to hide it.

“I don’t know what to do with my hands,” Maisie confessed under the heat of everyone’s glare.

“That’s what pockets are for.” Livia motioned for Maisie to find the pockets in her culottes. Maisie did, and stood up even straighter. “Now take a few steps like a model.”

Maisie stood her ground. “I don’t want to be a model. I want to be one of those Swedish teenagers who solve global warming.” She smiled at Patrick and he twinkled in spite of himself.

Palmina stepped forward. “Then do what I do.” She grabbed the straps of her ski pants, making two fists. Maisie copied her by wrapping her fingers around the strap of her bag. Palmina placed her hands on Maisie’s shoulders in approval. “That way you lead with two fists, ready to fight the...” She turned to Livia and Clara for just the right word.

“Patriarchy,” Clara said.

“Patriarchy,” Palmina agreed.

“But the patriarchy doesn’t cause global warming, does it?”

Clara dipped her head. “Doesn’t it? All those men and their hot air.”

The women laughed again, but this time Patrick didn’t hear them. He was laser-focused on Palmina, who had kneeled in front of Maisie, buttoning one of her sleeves and popping her collar just so. He saw total trust in Maisie’s eyes, happy to be clay in Palmina’s hands if Palmina could sculpt her into a miniature version of herself. Patrick grew hot with jealousy, and he fanned his shirt away from his chest. Maisie feared losing her dad; it was the first time Patrick feared losing Maisie.

“What’s the matter?” Maisie asked when she saw her uncle fidgeting. “You don’t like it?” She turned back to the mirror disappointed. She had just come to appreciate this new version of herself. “You don’t like it.”

It broke Patrick’s heart, her thinking that he didn’t. He immediately dropped his jealousy; there were more important feelings at play. “Of course I like it. It’s you.” He crossed his arms and looked at her with great pride. He just wished her mother were alive to see her.