The Pink Suit: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

reasonable.
    Miss Nona couldn’t wait any longer. “I’m going to call Chanel.”
    â€œParis? It’s six dollars a minute,” Sophie said.
    Nona had the call put through anyway. Each ring sounded like the rattling of tin cans.
    Then finally a voice: “Allo, oui?” It sounded so very far away.
    â€œFor Mademoiselle Chanel. Chez Ninon,” the overseas operator said.
    â€œNon.”
    â€œNon?” Miss Nona couldn’t believe it. “Ask them if I can leave a message. Pouvez-vous prendre un message? ”
    â€œNon.”
    The line went dead.

Chapter Three
    â€œClothing is the fabric that defines and measures time.”
    â€”Oleg Cassini
    A t 4:30 a.m., Kate’s alarm clock fell to the floor, still trilling like a five-and-dime hummingbird. She’d rolled over to turn it off but accidentally knocked it over to where it now lay, insistent. Friday. Every bone ached, every muscle felt sore. The list of what had to be done was long and began with Kate hemming a tea-length chiffon cape for a fifteen-year-old girl who would probably be miserable wearing such a creaky old thing. There was also Mrs. B’s lace ball gown, which needed adjusting: the lace was Spanish and delicate, very prone to unraveling, so it was difficult to tell how long the task would take. And then, maybe, one or two alteration jobs that Maeve couldn’t get to because the fittings were overbooked. Two days’ worth of work needed to be stuffed into eight hours.
    It took Kate another moment to realize that her front door was open.
    â€œHello?”
    She distinctly remembered locking the door the night before. At least, she thought she did.
    â€œWho’s there?”
    Light from the street lamps shone though the thick tatting of the lace curtains that she’d made and illuminated the front room. Everything seemed fine. Kate got out of bed and took a quick look around. The tiny white kitchen was still immaculate. Her mother’s bone china teapot, a Belleek with tiny shamrocks, was still gathering dust. Kate took all her meals downstairs with her sister and her family—that was part of their agreement. Fourteen dollars a week, and Kate made all the clothes for Maggie and her two Mikes, both big and little, in exchange for room and board.
    Next to Kate’s kitchen, the old door that served as her worktable still held the muslin skirt pattern Mr. Charles had made for her. Floor length. He told her it would be “positively enchanting” for New Year’s Eve. Next to it, there were the two bolts of matelassé silk, hand loomed to look like a bed of white roses, that she’d planned to make it with. The skirt would be too fancy for the dance at the Good Shepherd, but Kate was going to wear it anyway. The bolts were beautiful but flawed. Some places were stained and some were snagged. In a few areas, the quilting was so sloppy that it would have to be redone. It would take Kate weeks to work around the imperfections, but the skirt was worth it. It was always worth it.
    If someone was hiding in her tiny apartment, it would be difficult to imagine where. There was barely enough room for Kate. Everywhere one looked, things were stacked upon things. There were dozens of boxes filled with zippers that were grouped according to color—and the same was true of rickrack and lace. Kate prided herself on having thread of nearly every single shade ever made; she had eleven variations of violet alone. Buttons were kept in old mason jars that lined the windowsills. Patterns were filed in a battered four-drawer cabinet that she’d found on the street. Fabric was piled everywhere. It was mostly bolts and swatches from Chez Ninon’s remnant room—the girls always took their pick. Even though that was somewhat frowned upon, it wasn’t really stealing. It was certainly nothing to bother Father John about in confessional. The Ladies eventually threw the excess away. It was