“At your age, even an old man would do—so long as he pays.”
I didn’t give her the satisfaction of a reply. I only looked at her, calm and steady, waiting for her to run the charge. My hands were perfectly still. My voice, when I used it, did not shake. I already knew that in a few minutes her arrogance would collide with something far harder than her opinion of me.
“Fine, let’s see,” Brittany said, sliding the card into the reader. “Now we’ll find out whether there’s actually money on it, or if it’s just a fancy piece of plastic for show. You can buy cards like that anywhere these days.”
The terminal chirped.
Approved.
Brittany pulled the card out and glanced at the receipt. Her expression tightened at once, sour and pinched, as if she had bitten straight into a lemon.
“Here,” she muttered, handing back the card and the slip. “Go change. I’ll pack the dress.”
I returned to the fitting room, took off the gown, and put my own clothes back on. When I came out, Brittany had already placed the purchase into a branded shopping bag, but she made no attempt to smile, thank me, or offer even the most basic courtesy.
“There you go,” she said, shoving the bag across the counter. “Come again—if your pension can handle it. Or if your old gentleman gives you more spending money.”
I took the bag from her and studied her face for a moment.
“Brittany,” I said evenly. “How long have you worked here?”
Her eyes narrowed. She folded her arms across her chest.
“What business is that of yours?”
“I’m simply curious.”
“Three years, if you really need to know,” she snapped. “I’ve been stuck in this place for three years. So what?”
“Three years,” I repeated with a small nod. “I see. Then tell me, do you know who owns this boutique?”
Brittany grimaced, as though the question itself was wasting her precious time.
“Of course I know. Patricia used to own it. Then she sold it to someone. I’ve never seen the new owner, though. Linda, the manager, handles everything. Why are you asking?”
“Where is Linda now?” I asked.
“In the stockroom, checking in a delivery. New merchandise came in.” Brittany’s mouth curved in a smirk. “What, are you planning to complain? About what, exactly? I didn’t do anything wrong. I sold you the dress and took your payment. Everything was by the book.”
“Please call her,” I said.
“Why do you need the manager?” She rolled her eyes. “Linda is busy. She has plenty to do. She doesn’t have time to chat with every grandmother who wanders in.”
“Call her anyway.”
Brittany huffed, but she took out her phone and dialed.
“Linda? There’s a customer out here demanding to talk to you. Yeah, right now. Can you come, please? She’s just standing here and won’t leave. Yes, on the sales floor. Okay.”
She ended the call and looked at me with open defiance.
“She’ll be here in a minute. But you’re wasting your time. I didn’t say anything like that. And anyway, I’m polite. Ask the other customers.”
I remained silent. I stood by the counter, the dress bag in my hand, and looked toward the window. Snow was falling beyond the glass, and people hurried along the sidewalk, wrapped up in their own errands and concerns. An ordinary winter day. An ordinary boutique.
And in a moment, everything inside it was going to change.
About a minute later, a woman of roughly forty-five stepped out from the back room. She wore a severe gray suit, carried a folder under one arm, and looked tired in the way people look when they have been solving problems since morning. Linda. The manager.
I had met her once before, a month earlier, when I signed the paperwork to purchase the boutique. But she did not recognize me. Back then I had been wearing glasses, my hair had been pulled into a tight, businesslike bun, and I had chosen a dark tailored suit. Today my hair was loose, I had on jeans and a soft sweater, and my makeup was light. A completely different woman stood before her.
“Good afternoon,” Linda said, polite but cautious. “How may I help you?”
“Good afternoon,” I replied. “Tell me, please—does Brittany always speak to customers this way?”
The manager’s brow creased. Her gaze flicked sharply toward the salesgirl.
“What happened? Brittany, was there some kind of issue?”
“There was no issue!” Brittany burst out. “I spoke to her normally! She’s just picking on me!”
“She called me a grandmother,” I said calmly, keeping my eyes on Linda. “She offered to walk me to the door because, in her opinion, I did not belong here.”