"If that ain't the other side of stupid, I don't know what is."
Reagan
Eckhart, all platinum-blonde ninety-eight pounds of her, shoved a
newspaper in my face. I winced, barely avoiding a massive paper cut to
the nose.
"Those idiots put you in Arts and Leisure.
You should have been on the front page of the Birmingham News." She
tapped the newspaper with a single red fingernail. "With as much
business as you do, Dylan Apel, you should have been the main story of
the day."
"Don't you think technically they should have put me in the business section?" I said.
Reagan
fluffed the foot of hair teased up at her crown. At least it looked
like a foot. Okay, it wasn't a foot—only six inches. But those were a
tall six inches. Big enough to practically be their own person.
"Whatever," she mumbled.
The debutante was in rare form
today. Reagan was dressed to the nines in a black halter top and pants
that resembled Spandex. Personally, I was waiting for her to break out
into the chorus of “You're the One That I Want,” à la Olivia
Newton-John. Harry Shaw, her fiancé—a smallish, bald financial
advisor—definitely wouldn't join her if she did. His idea of playing
John Travolta probably resembled hot-and-heavy talk about how gross
grease and lightning were and why would you want to put the two
together?
I grabbed the paper and scrutinized the
picture of me and my sisters, Seraphina and Reid. Bright, beaming smiles
on our faces, we stood in front of our side-by-side stores—Perfect Fit
and Sinless Confections. Seraphina, tall and slender, her hair
shimmering like glass in the sunlight, looked absolutely perfect. Even
Reid, my eighteen-year-old baby sis, looked cherubic and innocent, her
doe eyes and cheeky smile radiating youthful exuberance.
Then
there was me. I sighed. It had taken two hours to smooth my hair, and
it had still frizzed on the edges. I wasn't as tall or slender as
Seraphina. But what I lacked in athletic build, I made up for in curves.
Good for me. I might not look statuesque and perfect, but I could put
on a slutty dress and have enough T and A to get noticed.
Was that a zit on my cheek?
"When
I realized you had this store, Dylan," Reagan said, "and I saw how
beautiful the dresses were, I told Harry—I said, 'Harry, that's who's
going to design my wedding dress.' Didn't I, hon?"
Harry, nose-deep in the business section, remained silent.
Reagan kicked him.
"Ow!" Harry rubbed his ankle. "What'd you do that for?"
"Didn't I, Harry? Didn't I say that?"
Harry shrank a little, his bald pate looking even balder under the fluorescents. "Yes, of course you did, dear."
Poor guy. He probably wouldn't last a year in the marriage. He'd be whipped, beaten down and likely castrated after two months.
Did I say that out loud?
"Anyway," Reagan continued, flitting about the room. "I told Harry, Dylan Apel and I were best friends in high school—"
"Mortal enemies," I corrected.
"—and
of course she's going to be the one to design my dress." Girlfriend
didn't miss one beat. I don't think Reagan listened to what people said.
Did she even hear them when they talked?
From the
corner my assistant, Carrie Dogwood, snickered. I shot her a look of
warning. She turned a deep shade of red and pretended to straighten a
rack of sequined gowns.
"Reagan, do you want to see your dress again?" I asked.
"Of course," she squealed. "I can't get enough of it."
Carrie crossed to me. She leaned over, kept her voice low. "Wonder what she'll complain about this time."
I turned away from Reagan. "Hopefully nothing," I whispered. "Can you grab the dress?"
"Sure thing."
An
unfinished blue gown caught my attention. The color of a robin's egg,
the dress would be the envy of the Silver Springs solstice banquet, what
with its deep vee neckline and overlay of chiffon. I needed to finish
it before the dance, which was barely two weeks away.
I
sighed. I'd been working a lot lately, thanks to Reagan's never-ending
changes to her gown. There was less than a week until the wedding, and
after that I'd have plenty of time to work on my own dress. That is, if I
survived Reagan for a few more days.
I stared vacantly
at the gown until a bodiless hand thrust the newspaper into my face
once more. Reagan popped up in front of me and wiggled the now crumpled
article. "But this reporter nails it. She absolutely gets it right. I
could have gone anywhere for my dress, but there's just something about
your gowns and your sister's food. It's like I'm transported to another
place. I don't know how to describe it."
I had heard
the same mantra over and over from clients. There's something about your
clothes that I can't put my finger on. It's almost like they're
magical.
Yeah. Right. Not that I didn't appreciate the
compliment. Believe me, I did. So did Sera. If it weren't for the folks
in our lakeside community of Silver Springs, Alabama, we'd be beggars.
Hoboes maybe. Vagabonds most likely. And not the good kind. Not the sexy
kind you see on the covers of romance novels.
Wait.
There weren't hoboes on those. Well, anyway, we'd be dirty, covered in
rags that smelled of oil and sweat, with grit under our fingernails that
not even the best manicure technician could lift.
"Here's the dress," Carrie said.
Reagan's smile vanished. "Oh."
My
dreams, my hopes, my wishes for a beautiful future crashed and exploded
like a car careening off a cliff in a 1970s B movie. What could
possibly be wrong this time—the hundredth time? I swear, every occasion
this girl saw her dress, she found something to criticize. It was a
wonder I hadn't strangled her before now.
I smoothed the lines of frustration that were forming on my forehead. "What's the problem?"
Reagan wrinkled her nose. "It's just…well…that's a lot of sequins."
I
took a deep, cleansing breath and thought happy thoughts. "Last week
you wanted more sequins. You said it didn't have enough bling."
Carrie bit back a giggle.
I
flashed her a seething look. I mean, seriously. I knew it was funny,
but it was only good service not to laugh at the customer while she's
standing right in front of you. At least wait until the door hits her
backside as she's leaving.
"Well," Reagan said, "last week there weren't any sequins. What were there? Like five on the whole thing?"
I steepled my fingers beneath my chin. "There were two hundred."
"Oh. How many are there now?"
"Five hundred."
"It's too many. Listen, Dylan, just because we were best friends in high school—"
"Mortal enemies," I said.
"—doesn't
mean you can take advantage of me. If this dress isn't to perfection by
Saturday, then I'm getting it for free. Right?"
Whoa, Nelly. "I'm sorry?"
Reagan
batted her fake eyelashes. "That's just plain old good business. The
customer is always right. I mean, we go way back. Too far back to let a
little disagreement over some sequins ruin what we had."
I
poked the air with my index finger. "Once again, we were mortal
enemies. Reagan, you have brain damage when it comes to what high school
was like."
A tittering laugh escaped her throat. It
sounded like a thousand butterflies taking flight. That was right before
I lifted my imaginary rocket launcher, aimed high and fired, sending
the beauties crashing to the ground in a blazing explosion.
"You're so melodramatic, Dylan. We had a little disagreement about prom; that was all."
I crossed my arms. "Reagan, let me remind you of exactly what happened in high school."
"Why
don't you do that, since you're so convinced we had nothing to do with
each other." Reagan pulled one of her eyelashes. Ouch. Didn't that hurt?
I
shook my head and said, "You had Colten Blacklock ask me to prom for
the sole purpose of standing me up the night of." I pointed to her and
then to me. "You and I—we were never friends, and I'm not giving you
this dress for free. We've done a dozen fittings, and you've found
something wrong with each and every one. You can either take it or leave
it."
Reagan's mouth fell. She swung to Harry. "Are you going to let her talk to me like that?"
Harry
squashed the grin on his face and cleared his throat. "Ahem. Well. You
have tried the dress on a lot, and Miss Apel has been more than
accommodating."
Reagan stomped her foot. "You," she said, wagging a finger at him. "You wait until we get home."
Oh
no. I didn't want Harry to be in the dog house because of me. I reached
out and rubbed Reagan's arm, trying to soothe the savage bridezilla.
"Reagan, I'll lose some of the sequins. Stop by tomorrow and see what
you think."
She flashed a tight, bitter smile. "What
you have better be good, or I'm taking my business elsewhere. And that
means your sister won't be doing the catering, either." She squared her
shoulders, swiveled on her heel and stormed out of the shop. Harry gave
me an apologetic smile and followed. The little bell above the door
tinkled as they left.
"Do you think she'll back out?" Carrie asked.
I shook my head. "Of course not. Not unless she wants a dress off the rack and a cake from Walmart."
Carrie laughed. "She's something else, isn't she?"
"She's
certainly something.” I rubbed my neck. Tension latched to the cords of
muscle. I'd have a headache pretty soon if I didn't take an ibuprofen.
Extending my palm, I gestured for Carrie to hand me the wedding gown. "I
guess I'll alter her dress."
Carrie stuffed the layers
of silk in my hands and nodded to the blue cross-necked dress. "But
when are you going to finish that one?"
I peeked out from behind the mass. "I don't know. We have, what? Two weeks until the summer solstice? I'll work on it soon."
The
bell above the door tinkled. Seraphina crashed in, a whirlwind of flour
following her. Her blue eyes sparkled with delight. How I envied those
eyes. Mine were poo brown. Some said chocolate, but I knew better. Those
folks were just being Southern polite.
"Oh my God! Did y'all see the article?" She waved the paper like a flag of surrender.
"I did!"
"It's
incredible. The reporter went so far as to say our work is, and I
quote…" She scanned the article. "Where is it? Where did that passage
go? Oh, here it is." She jabbed it. "She said our work is 'inspired by
the gods themselves.' Ha! You couldn't pay for better advertising."
"You probably could," I said.
Carrie
flipped the ends of her chestnut hair. "Listen, y'all, I just got this
new gel manicure machine in the mail. Do you mind if I go freshen up
these bad boys?" She wiggled her perfect coral nails. To my eyes, they
needed no refreshing. But hey, every girl has some sort of vice.
Carrie's happened to be that she was ADD about her nails. In the three
years she'd worked for me, I'd never seen one chip. Ever. Mine, on the
other hand, looked like Godzilla had tried to paint them—there were
broken wedges of color that Carrie would have deemed unforgivable.
"Go ahead. We'll be here," I said. She picked up a shipping box and exited to the back.
I
hung Reagan's wedding dress on a rack and brushed my hands of any rogue
sequins that hadn't been sewn on properly, which was actually
impossible since I'd done the work myself. But my grandmother had always
taught me to be humble, so that was my attempt.
Sera
chewed her bottom lip. "The reporter says, 'Dylan Apel's dresses will
transport you to another time and place. A claim I can attest to
personally, for I experienced this peculiar phenomenon first-hand when I
tried on one of her gowns. When I saw my reflection in the mirror, for a
split second I was taken back to the cotillion ball where I met my
husband thirty years ago. If that wasn’t enough to put a spring in my
step, one bite of Seraphina's baked treats and I was back in my
grandmother’s kitchen as she created confections on the stove. Truly a
magical experience.'" Sera paused, looked up at me. "Seriously. That's
some good stuff."
"Yeah, it’s good,” I said. But the
reporter’s description about trying on my clothes bothered me. I
shrugged off the uncomfortable feeling and smiled. "Though I have been
accused on occasion of drugging my clothes."
Sera frowned. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
The bell tinkled. I stepped forward, my most welcoming smile on my face.
My sister glanced at me. "You look like a piranha. Tone it down."
I settled into a half smile. "Good morning! Welcome to Perfect Fit."
A
towering redhead sauntered into the store. Bangles covered both her
arms, clinking pleasantly as she walked. Emerald-green eyes fixed on me
and Sera. I squirmed. Couldn't help it. At five-five I wasn't short. Not
by any means. But this was a tall woman. Five-ten easy. And all that
hair. A cloud of silky crimson and honey curls cascaded down her back. I
don't even think she had any product in it. It was a totally natural
head of hair.
I hated her.
Kidding. But envy did surface.
She
smiled brightly. My envy turned into instant like. "Mornin'. I wanted
to try on some clothes," she said in a throaty voice, the kind that
drove men mad. I'd never seen her before, and Silver Springs was a
minuscule town. From the look of interest on Sera's face, I guess she
hadn't seen this woman before, either.
I stepped forward. "Absolutely. What are you looking for?"
"Just some regular day-wear stuff."
My
time had arrived. I had a knack, a sixth sense really, about clothes
and people. In one try I could create an entire body-fitting wardrobe
and not even know the size of the person. What can I say? It came
naturally to me.
"Are you looking for sportswear or business?"
"Both."
Cha-ching! "Let me pull a few items and see what you think."
"I'm gonna head back," Sera said. "I'm sure there's something I need to make."
I waved. "Bye."
She
waved back and left, leaving me to focus on my client. Five minutes
later I had two armfuls of pants, jackets, and blouses. "Let me get you
in a dressing room. After you're done, come out and see what you think
in the three-way mirror."
None of my dressing rooms had
mirrors. People thought it weird, but I wanted to be around when my
clients saw themselves in my clothing for the first time.
The
woman disappeared behind the door, a roomful of clothes at the ready.
Two minutes later she reappeared in a pair of jeans and a loose blouse.
"Take a look."
She
stepped forward. The air contracted as if the very atmosphere had been
sucked away. The mirror shimmered, and the woman's image bowed and
straightened. It happened fast, so fast no one ever noticed. No one
except for me.
So, this is where I tell you what that's
all about. I would if I could. The easiest explanation is that my
clothes make people feel great. From what Sera's told me, putting on one
of my garments reminds you of an amazing time in your life. For
instance—you're a fifty-year-old woman buying a dress for your
daughter's wedding. You try something on and poof, you're transported
back to the wondrous feeling you experienced at senior prom. Of course,
that would be you, not me. My prom stank thanks to Reagan Eckhart.
At
least, that’s what I’d always thought. It’s also why the reporter’s
story bothered me. She saw her younger self in that mirror. That had
never happened before—at least not that I knew of. My clothes blanketed
clients in a wondrous feeling. They didn't make anyone see visions.
Sera's
baked goods do something similar. Every time I eat something she's
made, I feel amazing, like I could take on the world. One bite of a
buttery croissant and I'm totally superwoman. Minus the red cape. And
the tights. Now that I think about it, I wouldn't be caught dead in that
outfit.
But why are we like that? We're gifted; that's what our grandmother always called it. We have a gift.
"What do you think?" I asked.
She stared at her image. After a long moment her lips curlicued into a smile. She licked the bottom one, her eyes shining.
"Your clothes are breathtaking."
Thirty minutes and three hundred dollars later, I placed the last package in the redhead's hands.
"How'd you hear about us?" I asked.
"I saw the article in the paper."
I clicked my tongue. "Wow. News travels fast." Sweet. Today might be a crazy, busy day.
She smiled, her eyes glittering. "You don't even know the half of it."
"Oh?"
She pinched her brows together, giving her a dark, ominous expression. "In one week I guarantee you won't recognize your life."
An awkward laugh escaped my lips. "Oh. Ha-ha. I hope it's all good."
She
shook her head. "That little article that came out about you? The one
that was supposed to help your business? Well, you just did the
opposite. You stirred up a bed of fire ants." She leaned forward and
gave me a stern look. "And in case you need remindin', the sting from a
fire ant lasts a long time. Take this as your warnin'."
I was so confused. "What do you mean, a warning?"
"Watch your back."
With
that she left, her cloud of hair billowing behind her. I stood stone
still. Numb shock tingled over my body, filtering down into my fingers
and toes.
What the heck just happened?
With a job as a camp counselor, sixteen-year-old Nina heads to the wilderness for summer break. With her year all she wants is an escape. But some special kids can hear her thoughts and she can't hide her head in the sand like she planned. Can Nina come to terms with all her swirling emotions? Sometimes all it takes is a drop of sunshine!
Tricia Copeland grew up in Georgia and now lives in Colorado with her husband, three kids, and multiple four legged and finned friends. Drops of Sunshine is her first young adult and paranormal work. First published in Spellbound, a YA paranormal novella collection, it has already received great reviews. Tricia’s clean new adult Being Me series includes the titles Is This Me?, If I Could Fly, and Think You Know Me. The series finale is due out September 2016. If not on the trail, you can find Tricia at triciacopeland.com or on many social media channels.
