Page 11 of Do It With Me

5

ELLORA

It was one of Mom’s good days. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor behind the counter, surrounded by garbage bags full of donated clothes, humming an old Sinatra tune while she sorted.

Some of those items, we would put in the shop, and others would go into the bulk packages that we sold dirt cheap. Mom always had been brilliant at knowing what needed to go where. We’d spent entire weeks that she’d visited just like this.

Getting to do it together again was amazing, bitter sweet, and heartbreaking all at the same time. Tears welled in my eyes, but I blinked them back. I grabbed the tagging gun and got to work myself.

“This one’s a keeper,” she said, holding up a paisley scarf and bringing it to her chest like it was a treasure. “Vintage seventies, I’d bet.”

“Then it’s going in the keep pile.” I smiled as I started pricing blouses on the rack.

She nodded proudly, tucking the scarf aside. “You’ve got a good eye, you know. I still think you could charge more for your vintage section.”

“You’ve been saying that since Chicago,” I teased.

“I’ve been right since Chicago.”

I laughed softly. “You’re the one who taught me how to spot a designer tag from across the room.”

The expression in her eyes warmed. “You always had the better instinct for people, though. That’s half of running a shop, knowing who’s coming in and what they’ll love.”

I almost started crying for the umpteenth time since we’d walked in. When she was lucid, it was like the fog lifted completely. Her voice became sure, her smile sharp, and her presence so very her again that it made it hard to believe it wouldn’t last.

Honestly, I lived for these moments now, those brief flashes of time when it felt like I still had my mom.

The bell over the door jingled and I looked up to see Josie from downstairs come in, her apron dusted with flour and her cheeks pink from the ovens. She heaved a pastry box onto the counter and grinned at me.

“I’m about to close up,” she said. “I thought you two could use some of today’s leftovers.”

“You’re an angel.” I inhaled the buttery scent of croissants and Danishes. “An absolute, heaven-sent angel.”

“Only on weekdays,” she joked, wiping her hands on her apron and leaning against the counter. “Hey, have you heard anything about the big developer that’s been sniffing around? Apparently, they’re talking about buying up the whole block.”

My stomach dropped a little. “You’re kidding.”

Josie shook her head. “I don’t know how serious it is, but that’s what everyone’s saying.”

I rolled my eyes, immediately dismissing the rumor as meaningless gossip. “It will never happen. We’re a community on this block. We look out for each other. No one is going to sell out to some big property tycoon who thinks that what the Upper East Side needs is more fancy designer stores and franchise coffee shops.”

Josie nodded. “Amen to that. Like I told Joe from the laundromat, they’d have to drag me out of my bakery kicking and screaming. This place is home.”

“Same here,” I said. “Don’t worry, though. I’m sure someone just misunderstood a half-conversation they overheard while waiting in line for their pizza slice. Something like that.”

Josie smiled. “Probably. I’ll keep my ears open. Enjoy the pastries, ladies. I’m beat.”

“Thanks, Josie,” Mom called as she left. Then she looked up at me with a faintly worried crease in her brow once she was gone. “Are you sure it’s not true?”

I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Even if someone is sniffing around, the community wouldn’t let a developer buy us out. They’ve sniffed before and they’ll sniff again. We can’t stop them from doing that, but we can stop them from succeeding.”

Mom still seemed a little worried, but she went back to sorting and I went back to pricing. Everything felt peaceful as we worked in unison just like we always had. The weak winter sunshine streaming in through the closed windows felt warm, the faint scents of sugar and butter hung in the air, and Mom was humming under her breath.

For just a few minutes, it almost felt like the world wasn’t trying to close in on us. A little while later, the bell above the door jingled again and a young couple walked in. As soon as they appeared, I knew weren’t just killing time before lunch.

They were hand in hand but moving with the kind of purpose that suggested they might actually buy something. Almost immediately, the husband ran his hand along the carved edge of an old armoire, admiring the craftsmanship.

I stepped closer. “It’s solid oak. Handmade. You don’t see work like this anymore.”