In the city of Avalon Beach, Florida, north of nowhere and just south of Daytona, there is a small shop on the corner of that treacherous intersection known as 8th and Columbine. It used to be a bar. In 2011 it was bought in foreclosure, given a new paint scheme of pale pink with white gingerbread trim, and repurposed. The pirate statue that used to stand outside the door now resides in the men’s section of the store modeling the latest in cosplay couture. Now the sign above the door reads:
AURORA JONES
CLOTHES (USED AND NEW) FOR ALL OCCASIONS
Inside, Aurora herself, known as Rory to her friends and regular customers, sat enthroned behind the cash register. The throne was quite literal--her actor fiancé, Kane Stillingfleet, dragged it across the street from the Avalon Community Theater after their production of King Lear. Today lounging on the throne, she wore a crown of real roses from the garden in the back atop her golden curls. Dismantled moonshine stills make excellent planters.
The door opened, and the first customer entered. The moment the door closed with the jingling of a silver teapot windchime, Rory went to work: Middle-aged woman. Probably a mom from the size of that purse and the frazzled state of her hair. A thousand curses on Bacchus for making leopard print acceptable to wear in public. You’d think that after 2000 years people would get the idea that fashion started by the god of insanity is a bad idea. Nametag. Church worker--office manager for Avalon UMC. Okay, there’s probably some kind of event going on at the Methodist church.
“Good morning,” the woman said uncertainly.
“Good morning, Mrs. Stephens,” Rory answered graciously, rising to meet her and enjoying the look of confusion that flashed across Mrs. Stephens’ face. “How can I help you today?”
“How did you--oh, the nametag.” Mrs. Stephens gave the nametag a disparaging look.“I’ve only got a few minutes’ break before I go back to work. I planned to come in earlier but lunch took longer than I thought.”
“And I surmise you’re looking for something for a church event?”
“Yes, actually. I’m looking for something for Camo Sunday,” her customer replied.
Now it was Rory’s turn to look bewildered. “Beg your pardon?”
“It’s an event we’re doing with the Baptist church next door. Everybody’s supposed to wear camo next Sunday,” Mrs. Stephens explained.
Rory cringed visibly. “Camouflage. But…why?”
Mrs. Stephens gave a diplomatic shrug. “Well, there’s a shared interest in hunting at both churches, and we’re trying to promote interdenominational unity.”
“Okay,” said Rory, drawing a deep breath. “Does it have to be all camo or just camo accents?”
“I think the goal is to wear as much camo as possible.”
“Okay,” Rory said again, that being her thinking word. “I think… I just might have something.” Frustrated by the arbitrary differences between clothing sizes, Rory had devised her own sizing system, ranging from sympathique to mervielleuse to magnifique, each section subdivided by the numbers un, deux, and trois. She estimated Mrs. Stephens’ size to be magnifique un. A few minutes of wandering up and down the long racks of clothing later, Mrs. Stephens was standing in front of a richly-draped, floor-length mirror wearing combat boots, flattering olive-drab pants, and an oversized camouflage jacket over a black tank top. She beamed. “Jodi was right, you really are a miracle-worker.”
Rory tried to stifle a giggle at the thought of her best friend attending Camo Sunday. “I forgot that she goes to Avalon UMC. I’ll have to thank her for the recommendation.”
“How much will all this cost?” Mrs. Stephens asked.
“Thirty dollars even,” Rory replied, having priced everything beforehand.
“Really?” said Mrs. Stephens, looking relieved. “That’s really good for a downtown store.”
Rory only smiled. Given that the store’s placard advertised “new and used clothing,” she didn’t feel morally bound to inform every customer that most of her merchandise was hand-picked from thrift stores.
As Mrs. Stephens left with her battle gear, two women, obviously a mother and daughter, entered. Rory’s assessment was much swifter and much less analytical. Funeral. She was never quite sure how she knew. Maybe because they looked lost in the bright tropical hues of Avalon Beachwear. Maybe it was the meticulous nature of the mother’s makeup. It gave the illusion of control.
“Good morning,” Rory said, suddenly feeling like an abomination in her cheery flower crown and floral pink dress. “How can I help you this morning?”
“We need two black dresses,” the mother said. “For a funeral.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Mechanically, Rory sized them up. Mervielleuse trois et magnifique deux.
“It’s okay,” the mother said automatically as they followed her into the formal wear section. “I mean, no, it isn’t okay, it’s just something you say…”
“It’s not okay,” said the daughter, who looked about fourteen.
Rory looked up from searching through the racks of blue, black and gray dresses. “Was it someone close to you?”
The daughter shrugged. “Sort of. She went to my school. I saw her every day, but I didn’t know her, really. We used to be friends, but we kind of grew apart, I guess. She was in a car accident. It wasn’t her fault. Everyone from school is going to the funeral.”
“I--I see,” Rory said.
“Her mother is my friend,” the mother said, shaking her head slowly.
Rory’s hands went mechanically through the clothing rack as she listened. It was one of those slow weeks when she knew most of her merchandise by feel: Silk, cotton blend, polyester, linen. In a few minutes, she found them each three dresses.
The daughter grimaced when she saw herself in the first dress, a conservative, businesslike shift. “I look so old,” she said, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Ugh, it even smells like a funeral,” she said, sniffing the sleeve.
Rory’s forehead creased in concern. That was the third complaint this week. She was going to have to give up on the natural detergent and go back to Tide. “I’ll try to find something a little more up-to-date,” she said diplomatically.
“No, I like it,” the mother said. “Amy, the world is not your fashion show.”
“I know!” Amy snapped.
“There’s still a few more dresses for you both,” said Rory, taking a step back.
After going through a few armfuls of dresses, Amy’s mother finally selected a long-sleeved black shift similar to the one that her daughter had rejected. It suited her much better than it did her daughter. Amy’s mother and Rory sat down in the chairs at the front of the store to wait.
The mother sighed. “I’m sorry Amy was rude to you--she’s not usually like this.”
“I’m sure it hasn’t been easy for either of you,” Rory said. She remembered when her grandmother died and every day felt like walking on glass.
The mother shook her head silently. “They used to be like sisters, she and Jenna” she said. “And then Amy became popular and pretty and Jenna--she was pretty, but not in the way people wanted.”
Rory wished Jodi were here. Words were Jodi’s thing. But words were like clothing too--only on the surface. Just sounds, just cloth. And running so deep. They waited in silence. Fifteen minutes later, Amy reappeared from the dressing room, clutching a black Vera Wang sheath dress that Rory had found at World Thrift in West Palm Beach. Her makeup was freshly done. Her mother paid for the clothes and they left. Rory didn’t feel obliged to tell them that she had given them the clothes at half price.
She sank down into the throne and sat in silence, but not alone. The light from the windows grew warmer and the shadows lengthened, and the store was quiet.
Some time later, the usually refined teapot-doorchime let out a startling shivering collision as the shop door was flung open. A tiny woman with a profusion of unruly brunette curls danced in. Rory jumped up and ran out and around the desk to embrace her friend. “Jodi!”
Her friend’s smile was almost blinding. “You’ll never ever believe why I’m here!”
Rory’s sharp eyes had missed nothing, especially not the sparkling stone on her friend’s left hand. “You need a wedding dress!”
“How do you do that?” she demanded, beaming helplessly.
Rory grinned back at her. “Ah, you know my secrets. And besides, you look just the way I felt when Kane proposed to me. But oh my gosh! Errol proposed to you! I’m going to make tea and then you’re going to tell me all about it!”
“You mean you don’t already know?” Jodi teased.
“Who do you think I am, Sherlock Holmes?” Rory said. “I just see what’s there, that’s all.”
She fluttered into the back room, and Jodi followed her. “By the way, thanks for sending me business for Camo Sunday,” Rory added as she filled the teapot with hot water and set it on the stove.
Jodi laughed. “Anytime.”
“Are you going?”
“To Camo Sunday? No, fortunately. Errol and I are going to visit my family and tell them the news!”
“Errol has impeccable timing,” Rory said, opening up a fresh box of lavender tea. “He goes to your church too, right?”
“Yes,” said Jodi. “Oh gosh.” She sank down onto the poufy red chair that Rory had inherited from her grandmother along with her sense of style. “He’s so impossibly wonderful.”
Rory sat down on the edge of the matching chair opposite her friend. “Tell me!”
“Well, last night, he took me to Castle Gardens-- you know, the state park where the trees go down almost to the ocean, and said something special was going on. There’s this big clearing where they do parties, and it’s full of beautiful oak trees. We walked into the clearing, and every tree was strung with white Christmas lights! It looked like it was raining stars. There weren’t any other people around, except a photographer who was hiding in the bushes, so I asked Errol if we were early and why the lights were there. And he knelt down and said ‘They’re for you.’” She stopped a moment, lost in dazzling memory.
“Go on,” Rory prodded, eager to hear more even though she knew what was coming.
“He pulled the box with the ring out and said ‘Jodi, love, will you marry me?’ And of course I said yes. Well, actually I was so surprised that I couldn’t really talk at first--but he knew.”
Rory smiled, watching her friend’s eyes sparkle. Her dress is going to be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever done. With the possible exception of mine.
She hadn’t forgotten about Amy and her mother. But most days were a roller coaster at Aurora Jones’ Clothes for all Occasions, and Rory had learned to take the turns as they came.
