Page 4 of Something Old

The girl shot her such a dirty look that Madeline took a step back. What on earth? You’d have thought Madeline had peed in her Cheerios or something. “Relax. I’m totally—mostly—joking.”

The girl gave her another frank and grouchy evaluating look, then finally managed a grudging half-smile. She hopped down from the bench and stuck out her hand. “Aisha.”

Madeline shook the offered hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Madeline—and if not planning a minor heist, what are you doing?”

Madeline had expected a short response, but Aisha was like a bottle of soda, shaken, then uncapped. Words exploded from her, and Madeline could hardly keep up. Apparently, Aisha had wanted to open a similar shop in the exact same location and had been “battling jealousy and relief” ever since Madeline “beat her to the punch.”

She went on to explain that the “relief” was because she “had reservations about the work and cost of running her own shop,” even though she “desperately” wanted to have a place to sell her upcycle projects.

Next, barely taking time to breathe between transitions, Aisha launched into a detailed description of the type of work she did.

As Aisha talked—and talked and talked, Madeline grew more and more incredulous. Man, the girl could go on. Or maybe she was chatting normally. Madeline spent so much time alone nowadays that any amount of conversation would seem like a lot at first. But that wasn’t what was flooring her. . . .

“What?” Aisha blurted suddenly, interrupting herself mid-description of her workshop, which she called “packed-to-the-rafters with stuff ready to sell.”

“I’m sorry, what do you mean what?”

“You look like you don’t believe a word I’m saying.”

“I don’t. It’s crazy.”

“What?”

Madeline didn’t answer with words, or at least not right away. Instead, she gestured at Aisha’s outfit: wide-legged overalls, created from three different pairs of jeans, featuring ornate, mismatched antique buttons. A panel of ivory lace ran up the front of one leg from the ankle all the way to the top of the bib, giving a whimsical feel to an item of clothing that would’ve otherwise looked quite utilitarian. Ballet flats and the fringed black, pink, and cream cabbage-rose-print kimono that had caught Madeline’s eye right off the bat completed her ensemble. “Yours?”

Aisha looked down the length of her body, then smiled. “Yes, the overalls and this kimono are both my own designs.”

“I noticed your outfit right away, even when your back was turned. Both pieces are gorgeous. Is the other stuff you’ve stockpiled as good?”

“Better.”

Madeline liked that Aisha didn’t waste time with false modesty or feign nerves where she had none. Lauren had been like that, too: assertive. It wasn’t that her daughter had never felt insecure or didn’t occasionally worry. It was just that she, as Aisha seemed to, had complete confidence when it came to her creative vision and the goals behind her work.

In the strange, often contradictory way of grief, seeing this vibrant, passionate, almost hyper-alive girl—who so reminded Madeline of Lauren—didn’t hurt. While on another day—or even during a different moment this day—the similarities might be devastating, right now it felt . . . comforting. Madeline didn’t have time to dwell on that further, however, because Aisha was rushing on.

“As much as I love clothes and have fun creating the odd thing here or there, my friend Katelyn is the real genius when it comes to wearable art. I’m more into practical household items. I do super interesting things with old furniture.”

“Like what?”

Aisha whipped out her phone. “It’s easier if I show you examples.”

Madeline scrolled through photo after photo, and her excitement grew with each new view. Aisha really had a gift—and she’d amassed a wonderful collection of beautiful things for someone so young. There was an antique clawfoot chair with mauve velvet cushions that Madeline dearly wanted to buy for herself. Ironically, considering she had a store full of furniture, her own rented house was practically empty. She’d left all her family furniture in storage.

She glanced up from the phone, scrutinizing Aisha’s face. “These are all of yours, things you made or fixed or upcycled?”

“No.”

Madeline hadn’t realized how fully her brain had launched into hatch-a-new-scheme mode until disappointment thudded like a stone in her gut. Why would Aisha get her hopes up with photos of other people’s projects? “I don’t understand—”

“I mean, yes. Yes, those are all mine. It’s just not nearly all of them. I wasn’t kidding when I told you I have a workshop—more like a warehouse—full. I spend winters pretty much doing nothing but making stuff.”

Madeline grabbed Aisha by the arm and pulled her toward the store’s front door. “Come with me.”

Aisha looked startled but let herself be dragged into the store with only a slightly wary look at Madeline.

It was encouraging to Madeline in a mildly distracted way how Aisha kept wanting to stop and look at things, oohing and ahhing over various items on display. She was on a mission, however, and pulled Aisha deeper into the house without pausing. At one point, near a gleaming sideboard in the dining room displaying lovely old china, she literally yanked Aisha forward.

“Whoa,” Aisha said, but thankfully seemed amused, not put out.