Page 39 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
The marchesa stands at her bedroom window, gazing down at me with an expression of intense concentration. When she sees me looking, she turns and disappears, the drapes swinging closed behind her like the folds of a shroud.
TWELVE
Though Dominic keeps trying to engage me in conversation on the drive to Papa’s shop after I collect my luggage from the hotel, I’m silent. Seething. My hands balled into fists on my legs, I can’t stop thinking about Brad and his visit to Jenner, no matter how hard I try.
By the time we pull up in front of the shop, I’ve got a headache from gritting my teeth so hard.
“You’re quiet today,” says Dominic gently, unlocking the door.
It’s an invitation to talk, but talking is the last thing I want to do. Right now, I need to work.
Dominic hits the switch on the wall beside the door, flooding the room with light. The front of the shop is a small retail space, with racks of elegant dresses in all colors of the rainbow, two small fitting rooms behind hanging curtains, and a counter with an old-fashioned cash register. Lead-paned windows overlook the cobblestone street outside. It smells of new fabric and old wood. The spicy aftershave Papa always wore lingers faintly in the air, like a ghost.
“It’s exactly the same as I remember,” I say, looking around. How did he manage to do all this alone?
As if he can read my thoughts, Dominic says, “Your father recently hired helpers, three ladies he trained to take orders and measurements, cut the cloth. The sewing he always did himself, of course.” He crosses to the counter with the register, jingling the keys in his hand. “Still no answering machine, though.” He catches my eye and smiles. “Or computer.”
“Or website. It’s like he didn’t believe the twenty-first century was a thing.”
Dominic chuckles. “He only got an email address so he could communicate with you. If they didn’t have computers for public use at the library, he would’ve kept sending letters.”
I drift over to a headless mannequin situated on a dais between the two single dressing rooms. She wears a gown of palest pink, cinched at the waist and cut generously through the hips, with a plunging neckline and cap sleeves. It’s feminine to the extreme, exquisitely chic. When I look at the tag, I sigh in exasperation.
“No wonder he was broke.”
An examination of several more dresses reveals a truth I’ve known all my life: My father should’ve had a business partner. Some artists can successfully create and deal with money, but he wasn’t one of them.
“I offered many times to assist, but you know how stubborn he was.” Dominic shakes his head at the price of a gorgeous silk scarf draped on a stand next to the counter. It’s probably missing a few digits, like everything else.
I look around for a moment, taking stock of the situation. “Okay. First I’ve got to go through the inventory and reprice everything. Then we need to look at the advertising budget—”
“Advertising?” Dominic snorts.
“Don’t tell me he was still relying only on word of mouth?”
Dominic lifts a shoulder. “Old dog. No new tricks.”
I drag my hands through my hair, knowing it’s gonna be a long night. “Can you drop my luggage off at the house for me? I’m not sure how late I’ll get back, and it’ll be easier for me to come in without all my stuff.”
Dominic hesitates, looking confused. “You’re not moving to another hotel?”
“Nope. I’m moving in with the marchesa.” His expression is so horrified I have to laugh. “It’s a long story. The bottom line is that I’ve decided I’m not selling Papa’s business. I’m going to stay here and run it.”
Dominic blinks slowly, standing stock-still behind the counter. “Is your husband moving here, too?”
God. How many times am I going to have to tell this story? “We broke up.”
He’s stunned. Apparently he also feels the need to ward away any evil I might be carrying because he makes the sign of the cross over his chest.
Annoyed, I walk past him and through the door leading to the production area in the back of the shop. It’s much messier back here, with bolts of cloth and color sketches strewn across work tables, dozens of mannequins in various stages of undress standing around like headless party guests, and sewing stations, file cabinets, and boxes waiting to be unpacked.
Pinned to a corkboard on the wall above a workstation hang photographs of me at various stages of my life. The latest one is a Polaroid from the last time I visited, five years ago. Papa had me laughing at some terrible joke he’d made and took the picture before I could stop him. My head is thrown back. My eyes are closed. My mouth is wide open. I look happy.
I’m seized by a terrible feeling of guilt. Five years. I spent that time trying to buil
d my business and going gaga over Brad, and what was my father doing?
Slowly going broke and falling in love with a vulture.
