Chapter 17 #2
“They’re Louboutins,” Frankie said. “And, yes, they’re still processing the trauma your mudpuddles continually threaten them with. Group therapy starts Monday.”
“That’s nice, dear. Now, the reason I asked. My niece is getting married, and I need shoes that whisper elegance but scream, ‘I dare you to let your toddler loose during the vows.’”
“Wedge heel. Ankle strap. No rhinestones. Nude if you want versatility. Navy if you want to be the aunt they gossip about for years.”
The woman’s lips curved. “Excellent. I knew you weren’t as unapproachable as everyone was saying. I’m glad I got up the nerve to come inside.”
Unapproachable? So that was the rumor keeping her store empty. Terrific. She’d smiled and said hi this morning. What more did these people want? Jazz hands?
“Suggestions on where I can buy some wedges?” the woman asked.
“Try Rack Room,” Frankie said. “Tell them Francesca B sent you. They’ll have no idea who I am, but you’ll feel important saying it.”
The bell jingled again. A man in his thirties stepped in, flannel shirt buttoned wrong, clearly a proud volunteer from the fashion-impaired sector.
“My sister says I dress like a gas station cashier who also sells bait,” he said, holding the door for the woman as she swept out.
“She’s not wrong,” Frankie said, giving him a slow, appraising glance. “But with minor adjustments, I could upgrade you to quaint roadside diner in under an hour.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I only have three minutes.”
“Lose the flannel. Get a Henley that fits. Slim jeans. Clean boots. And for the love of Gucci, stop letting anyone without a license near your hair.”
He gave a stunned laugh. “They’re right. You’re mean.”
“Efficient,” she corrected. “Goodbye.”
The bell chimed again. Two twenty-something girls burst in like they’d nailed a Broadway entrance.
“Okay,” said the blonde, all gloss and confidence, “so, if I’m going to a party and my ex will be there, and I want to look like I’ve moved on, but also make him regret recent life choices, what do I wear?”
Frankie blinked. “Fire pits involved?”
“Yes!”
“Then no wigs unless they’re heat safe, and no heels that sink into gravel. Go with black. Structured, sleek, a little mysterious. Add a red lip. Minimal jewelry. Let him sweat wondering if you’re there with someone.”
The second girl gasped. “You’re incredible.”
“I know.” Frankie turned toward the door. “Now leave.”
They left in a flurry of high-pitched gratitude.
When the door stayed shut, Frankie exhaled, stripped off her bracelets, and muttered, “One offhand comment at a council meeting and suddenly I’m the town’s unapproachable fashion priestess.”
From the back of the shop, a sneeze.
Frankie didn’t look up. “You can come out now,” she called. “Unless you’re waiting to weigh in on emotionally vengeful jeans.”
A cough. Young, tentative. Maybe the Rae she’d been warned about.
Then the girl emerged, arms folded, gaze flicking between Frankie and the exit like she was bracing for a lecture or an ambush.
Frankie didn’t give her either. She leaned against the counter. “You could’ve joined the fashion parade, you know.”
“I wasn’t hiding.”
Frankie raised an eyebrow and waited.
The girl sighed. “I was…gathering intel.”
That earned a half-smile. “And?”
“You know your stuff,” she mumbled. “You make people feel like…maybe they could actually look good.”
Frankie blinked. She’d expected snark. Not…that.
“Could you teach me?”
Frankie’s heart pinched. She remembered being that age…secondhand clothes that never quite fit, wishing someone would offer more than judgment.
She kept her tone even. “Yes. But at a price.”
The girl’s expression shuttered. “You didn’t charge them. Why me?”
“Relax, discount Wednesday Addams. I need cheap labor. These shelves are a crime scene. You show up after school, not instead of it, and I’ll teach you how to turn the local thrift store scraps into personal style.”
“Threads.” Her arms tightened like she was bracing for kindness to turn into a punchline.
“That’s your name?” Frankie asked.
“I’m Rae. Threads is the name of the thrift store. And it sucks.”
“Lucky for you, I’m fluent in sucks.”
Rae studied her for a long beat. “I have a rule. Never accept kindness at face value.”
That hit harder than it should’ve. “You’re smart to have rules,” Frankie said. “But make sure they’re current. Sometimes we carry around stuff that expired years ago.”
Rae’s eyes narrowed, like she couldn’t decide if it was wisdom or another adult dodge.
“I’m offering help because you asked for it. Not because I pity you. And yeah, I’m a little mean and a whole lot unapproachable. But everyone deserves to feel like the best version of themselves. Even when the world insists they shouldn’t.”
“Do I have to tell anyone at school?”
“We’ll keep it under wraps. Secret fashion tutoring.”
“I heard you made an Uber driver cry.”
“He called Chanel overrated,” Frankie snapped. “Frankly, I showed restraint.”
That got the smallest of smiles. “Fine. I’ll come by at four. But I’m not committing long-term until I see if you’re any good.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Frankie slung her bag over her shoulder. “I’m not just good. I’m spectacular. And if you can keep up, we might just rewrite a few of your rules along the way.”
“Where are you going?”
“To pretend I’m the reluctant star of some small-town Hallmark movie,” Frankie said, heading for the door. “And you’re going to pretend you’re returning to school.”