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“I bet Corney’s taking it hard.” She sighed. “Don’t get me wrong, I love Corney. She’s a hard worker and devoted to the Chamber, but sometimes I think the Chamber is too identified with her. She doesn’t listen to anybody, she’s convinced she knows best. She really pushed this Easter Basket promotion hard and, well, it seems to me we need to attract customers from outside Tinker’s Cove. Face it, what’s the winter population? A couple thousand folks? But there are plenty of people floating around who want lovely things and are willing to pay the price for top quality, but they have to know where to find them. I think the Chamber has been letting us, me, down in that regard. Corney’s focus is much too local.”
“I know there are others who agree with you,” conceded Lucy. “What would you like the Chamber to do?”
“Well, for one thing, we need more of a presence on social media.” She sighed. “But I’ve got to admit, I was naïve. I really had no idea what operating a small business really entails. I can’t blame my problems on anybody else.”
“Why did you decide to open a lingerie store?” asked Lucy, realizing this interview was going to take longer than she’d hoped and growing uneasy about sending Karl Klaus on alone to her house, unchaperoned.
“It was a dream,” began Mallory, slightly embarrassed. “It really was. I was working as a buyer for a giant retail chain, and I’d go to all these lingerie shows and I’d see such lovely things. Some imported, others made by small producers, folks who were true masters of the craft. But I had to focus on the mass producers, price was everything for our customers, and I couldn’t touch the superb high-quality stuff, which I really regretted. So when I came into a small inheritance I decided to quit my job and open a boutique that would offer unique and lovely lingerie.”
“Would you give me a little tour of the shop?” asked Lucy. “It doesn’t seem like you have a lot of merchandise.”
“Not out on racks,” said Mallory. “It’s all about the personal service I provide. Customers tell me what they need, and I choose a selection for them to try on. As you can see,” she said, leading the way through the shop to the dressing rooms and opening one door, revealing a generous carpeted and mirrored space complete with a curvy upholstered stool, “these fitting rooms are very spacious and private. Mirrors on three sides so they can see their backs. When a woman leaves here she can be confident that whatever she’s chosen—swimsuit, bra, panties, nighties—is a perfect fit that will flatter her for years to come.”
“So, say, I was shopping for a bra, what would you show me?”
“Step right up,” invited Mallory, indicating a piece of furniture that looked like a painted dresser. What appeared to be drawers, however, were a false front and she took her place behind it, producing a couple of lacy bras that she displayed on the top. “Now this is a bit of a push-up, which is very flattering, but not for every day. This, on the other hand, provides more coverage, but both offer plenty of support.”
“They are lovely,” admitted Lucy, who was quite taken with the push-up version, which she knew Bill would love. “How much is this one?”
“Ninety-five dollars, and the other is less, at sixty-five.”
“Oh,” said Lucy, trying not to show how shocked she was. Truth be told, she usually bought her bras at the big box store outside Portland, often from the sale rack. “And what’s the range for the nightgowns?” she asked, noticing an armoire with doors open, displaying an intriguing array.
“They start at eighty or so, and go up from there. Believe me, the skimpier they are, the more expensive they get.”
Lucy suddenly understood why business was not booming at Sweet Nothings. “So tell me,” she began, trying to be tactful, “who do you see as your typical customer?”
“Well, I admit I may have misjudged the market. I was hoping for women who enjoy, who insist on, the finer things in life, including personal service. What I have been getting, however, are mostly vacationers who want to treat themselves, or excite their partners.” She smiled naughtily. “Perk up their relationship, you know, with a sexy little camisole or negligee. And that’s my beef really with the Chamber. I’d like to see advertising to attract shoulder-season tourism, preferably in glossy, upscale travel magazines and in social media. I have a lovely website that costs me quite a bit but I need help letting people know about it.”
Lucy realized she hadn’t been listening closely, she’d been imagining how Bill might react if she wore one of the lacy little camisoles to bed. It might be just the thing she needed, she thought, to distract him from their unexpected guest. And one of the camis, in particular, had caught her eye. “How much is this little thing?” she asked.
Mallory fingered the tag, then made a quick decision. “To tell the truth, it’s about time I marked it down. Let’s say forty dollars.”
“Deal,” said Lucy, producing her credit card.
“My husband is going to love this,” she said, momentarily forgetting her houseguest and thinking of the romantic evening ahead. “But Maine tends to be chilly, even on summer nights, and really very cold come winter. All this lace is lovely but . . .”
“I realized that,” said Mallory, passing her the charge slip for her signature, “so when women came in looking for flannel pjs and nighties I brought some in. Over there,” she said, pointing to a rack in the rear that Lucy hadn’t noticed. Mallory sighed. “But even they haven’t sold and I’ve put them on sale.” She smiled. “I can promise you cozy nights, whether you’re wearing lace or flannel,” said Mallory, returning her credit card. “And, where’s your Easter card? I’ve got a sticker for you!”
“Right,” said Lucy, rummaging in her bag and producing the slightly crumpled Easter card. “My first sticker.”
“I hope it’s not the last,” said Mallory, who was wrapping the cami in tissue paper, before sliding it into a lovely pink-and-white striped bag. She added the sales slip as well as the Easter card, now adorned with a pretty Easter egg sticker. “Have a nice day.”
“Thanks,” said Lucy, pleased as punch with her purchase. “You, too.”
“I’ll try,” muttered Mallory, returning to her laptop and flipping it open.
Lucy felt rather pleased with herself as she walked down Main Street, heading for her car, carrying the ritzy shopping bag. It occurred to her as she walked along that this was something she rarely did. Most of her shopping was at the big box store, which entailed parking in a giant lot and usually involved pushing a wheeled shopping cart. She thought of scenes in movies where the heroine returned to her fancy hotel room carrying a number of bags boasting famous designer logos and chuckled at herself. One little striped bag containing a marked-down cami hardly made her a movie star or a one-percenter, but she had to admit it did give her self-esteem a little boost. She was thinking along those lines when she reached her car, climbed in, and called Sue. She felt the need to share this somewhat exciting development and who better to share it with than Sue, who lived to shop.
“Guess what?” she began, when Sue answered. “I went to Sweet Nothings and bought myself a new nightie!”
“Congratulations,” laughed Sue. “Something sexy? For Bill?”
“Kind of,” she admitted, feeling her face grow warm. “Do you shop there a lot?” asked Lucy, encouraged by Sue’s approving tone.
“I pop in from time to time, but you know me. I’m a bargain hunter. Her stuff’s lovely, but it’s so expensive. I do a lot better at the outlet mall.”
“She says her prices are justified by the personal service. . .”
