Chapter 24: Mine

The boutique on Elmwood still had the same bell over the door.

It rang when I walked in on the first Saturday of December.

Snow was melting on my shoulders, and my mother came in one step behind me.

The woman at the counter looked up and stopped smiling.

She knew my face. By then, most of Buffalo did.

"Mrs. Holloway," she said. "I'm so sorry. I wrapped the box in October. He told me it was a surprise."

"It was a lovely dress," I said. "It was never the dress's fault."

Her shoulders came down.

"Whitcomb," my mother said, behind me. "Her name is Lena Whitcomb."

"Of course. Whitcomb. What can I show you?"

"Green," I said.

My mother made a small sound in her throat, and I did not turn around.

The woman brought out three: a pale sage, a bottle green, and a deep emerald.

The emerald had long sleeves and a plain high neck.

I took the emerald into the fitting room and shut the curtain.

I stood in front of the mirror for a long time.

Nobody was waiting outside to tell me how it looked.

Nobody had picked it, signed for it, or decided what it would mean.

It fit across the shoulders. It moved when I did.

When I came out, my mother was holding my coat, and her eyes were wet.

"Well?" I said.

"It looks like you," she said. "Buy it."