Read The Pink Suit: A Novel Online

Authors: Nicole Kelby

Tags: #Fiction, #Biographical, #Cultural Heritage, #Historical, #Urban

The Pink Suit: A Novel (3 page)

BOOK: The Pink Suit: A Novel
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Miss Nona marked the suit in on the production schedule.

“That's just eight weeks to delivery,” Sophie said.

“Chanel will give it up in the end,” Miss Nona said, but she didn't sound sure.

  

When a week passed without a telegram or phone call, without any response at all, Miss Nona's confidence waned. She began to wonder if asking for a discount from an icon might be perceived as—she couldn't think of the right word.

“Unseemly?” Sophie said. “Insulting?”

Miss Nona was hoping for “amusing.”

She knew that this could be a very expensive miscalculation. Miss Sophie had already ordered the fabric from Chanel's supplier Linton Tweeds, in Cumbria—the price of the yardage nearly made her heart stop. They should have waited for Chanel to agree. They couldn't use the fabric at all without her consent, but they were running out of time. The suit was to be worn the first week in November, just seven weeks away. The President was planning a family weekend. It would be the first time they would visit Camp David—and there was a very good chance that it would be the last. The Wife had already rented a place in the country near Washington, where she kept horses. It was quite clear to the Ladies that the Wife needed this pink suit to convey a strong sense of cheerful femininity—and an unflagging reasonable nature—so that when the First Lady announced that this camp of David was too backwater, she would be photographed looking reasonable.

Miss Nona couldn't wait any longer. “I'm going to call Chanel.”

“Paris? It's six dollars a minute,” Sophie said.

Nona had the call put through anyway. Each ring sounded like the rattling of tin cans.

Then finally a voice:
“Allo, oui?”
It sounded so very far away.

“For Mademoiselle Chanel. Chez Ninon,” the overseas operator said.

“Non.”

“Non?”
Miss Nona couldn't believe it. “Ask them if I can leave a message.
Pouvez-vous prendre un message?

“Non.”

The line went dead.

Chapter Three

“Clothing is the fabric that defines and measures time.”

—Oleg Cassini

A
t 4:30 a.m., Kate's alarm clock fell to the floor, still trilling like a five-and-dime hummingbird. She'd rolled over to turn it off but accidentally knocked it over to where it now lay, insistent.
Friday.
Every bone ached, every muscle felt sore. The list of what had to be done was long and began with Kate hemming a tea-length chiffon cape for a fifteen-year-old girl who would probably be miserable wearing such a creaky old thing. There was also Mrs. B's lace ball gown, which needed adjusting: the lace was Spanish and delicate, very prone to unraveling, so it was difficult to tell how long the task would take. And then, maybe, one or two alteration jobs that Maeve couldn't get to because the fittings were overbooked. Two days' worth of work needed to be stuffed into eight hours.

It took Kate another moment to realize that her front door was open.

“Hello?”

She distinctly remembered locking the door the night before. At least, she thought she did.

“Who's there?”

Light from the street lamps shone though the thick tatting of the lace curtains that she'd made and illuminated the front room. Everything seemed fine. Kate got out of bed and took a quick look around. The tiny white kitchen was still immaculate. Her mother's bone china teapot, a Belleek with tiny shamrocks, was still gathering dust. Kate took all her meals downstairs with her sister and her family—that was part of their agreement. Fourteen dollars a week, and Kate made all the clothes for Maggie and her two Mikes, both big and little, in exchange for room and board.

Next to Kate's kitchen, the old door that served as her worktable still held the muslin skirt pattern Mr. Charles had made for her. Floor length. He told her it would be “positively enchanting” for New Year's Eve. Next to it, there were the two bolts of matelassé silk, hand loomed to look like a bed of white roses, that she'd planned to make it with. The skirt would be too fancy for the dance at the Good Shepherd, but Kate was going to wear it anyway. The bolts were beautiful but flawed. Some places were stained and some were snagged. In a few areas, the quilting was so sloppy that it would have to be redone. It would take Kate weeks to work around the imperfections, but the skirt was worth it. It was always worth it.

If someone was hiding in her tiny apartment, it would be difficult to imagine where. There was barely enough room for Kate. Everywhere one looked, things were stacked upon things. There were dozens of boxes filled with zippers that were grouped according to color—and the same was true of rickrack and lace. Kate prided herself on having thread of nearly every single shade ever made; she had eleven variations of violet alone. Buttons were kept in old mason jars that lined the windowsills. Patterns were filed in a battered four-drawer cabinet that she'd found on the street. Fabric was piled everywhere. It was mostly bolts and swatches from Chez Ninon's remnant room—the girls always took their pick. Even though that was somewhat frowned upon, it wasn't really stealing. It was certainly nothing to bother Father John about in confessional. The Ladies eventually threw the excess away. It was “liberating the fabric,” as Maeve said. Kate couldn't help herself. When it came to fabric, she was obsessed by the touch, color, and the promise that it held.

Some of what Kate took from Chez Ninon was for personal use, but a few pieces were remnants of history. There was a half yard of the bride-ivory satin from the inaugural-gala gown. And then the Renaissance red wool that turned out to be “the perfect thing” for an upcoming televised tour of the Maison Blanche renovation. Kate was loath to remember the thick chain stitching that outlined the standaway neckline and the hem of the skirt, a signature of the Christian Dior house that had nearly made her go blind. Her favorite was a small snip of Chinese yellow silk from Nina Ricci for a state dinner held in a room that was quickly painted off-white by the staff so that the brilliant-yellow and deeply black gown could not possibly go unnoticed. They were all reminders that beauty was calculated—nipped, tucked, pulled, and pleated into life.

What time did I get in?
she thought. Too late, of course. And no dinner. Again. September meant back to school, and that meant new wardrobes for everyone. All the girls at Chez Ninon worked late, and Kate was no exception. But still, leaving the door open was inexplicable. And now she was wasting time. She'd be late. She was never late.
Ever.

Kate quickly took the curlers out of her hair; her head was raw from the bristles and clips. She put on her favorite suit, the gray tweed one. Mr. Charles had made it for her. The heather in it set off the strawberry in her skin—at least, that was what he said. He was quite the flatterer, with his Frank Sinatra ways, but Kate liked him all the same.

The morning was bleak. There was a dull, cold rain. Kate pulled out her umbrella and put on her cashmere beret instead of her hat. She left the matching mittens behind and wore a new pair of soft gray kid gloves because one doesn't wear mittens in the city. She wasn't even sure who'd told her that. Probably Miss Sophie—she was always giving the back-room girls tips on how to improve themselves.

By the time Kate arrived for six o'clock mass at the Good Shepherd, the rain was furious. Her hair was soaked, the curl gone. The beret and gloves would probably shrink. Kate's only comfort was that at that hour, not many from the neighborhood would see her. Pete the Cop, maybe. He was everywhere. But he wasn't really from the neighborhood and wasn't Catholic, so he didn't count. Father John, of course. But he never cared about that sort of thing; he couldn't even match his own socks. Father John had been an esteemed member of the famed Cork Gaelic footballers. He wore the red and white of the Blood and Bandages, as the team was called. He was a man who knew both God and greatness—and so that was more than enough. And he had such a beautiful voice. Soaring.

Christe eleison.

The first mass of the day was always a Low Mass. It was simple, the way Kate liked it. No choir or organ music. Just Father John, chanting in the ancient darkness. Two candles on the altar—and nothing more.

Christe eleison.

Indolent clouds of sandalwood and frankincense hung low overhead. Everything seemed preserved in amber.

Kyrie eleison.

Kate's voice echoed in the rafters. The church was nearly empty. For a moment, she thought she heard Patrick Harris somewhere behind her in the darkness. Pitch-perfect and humble, as usual. He wasn't showy, like some who had good voices.

Kyrie eleison.

It wasn't possible, though. It was Friday. Patrick Harris was a Sundays Only Catholic—which was not his choice. He'd told Kate that many times. He'd go every day if he could. Patrick made it quite clear that he wasn't one of those Poinsettia-and-Lily Catholics or Christmas Bunnies—but he had a butcher shop to run and no one to help him anymore. All of his people in America were gone. His father went first, with a heart attack. Then, two months ago, Peg, with the same. So Patrick had to be at the shop every morning, even on Saturdays, because the pig men at the slaughterhouse delivered at the crack of dawn. Two squat men with a couple of skinned beasts slung over their shoulders—Kate had seen them often.

Kyrie eleison.

But it did sound like Patrick. Kate turned around to take a quick look, but the church was too dark. Still, it had to be him. While there were nearly twenty thousand parishioners at the Good Shepherd—priests said nine masses in the church every Sunday and five more for the overflow crowd at the school—she knew that voice very well.

Kate usually stopped at the butcher's on the way home if the family needed something—and sometimes, even if they didn't. Patrick Harris still had a bit of that particular Cork accent, that music, to his voice. It was lovely just to hear him talk. It was, in a way, like being home again.

People were lining up for communion. Kate looked over her shoulder again; she still couldn't see him.

“The body and blood,” Father John said as he held the host out for her: a small, white, round wafer in his huge pink hands.

“Amen.”

Kate scanned the church again. All around her, people had their heads down, praying. Standing. Kneeling. Patrick Harris didn't seem to be anywhere. Communion continued on, pew by pew.

“Amen,” Mrs. Flaherty told Father John.

“The body of our Lord,” Father John said to Mrs. Kilpatrick and then to Mrs. O'Hara and then Mrs. McNamara.

Patrick Harris was still nowhere to be seen.

After the service, Kate took a moment and lit a candle for Mrs. Harris. Peg had always been so very kind to her.

Outside the Good Shepherd, the rain had not stopped. She stood on the church steps under the shelter of the roofline. The subway station was across the street, just a quick dash, but it felt like it was miles away, given how hard it was raining. Her umbrella was still wet. Her hair—she didn't even want to think about her hair. The train would be leaving in just a few minutes. Traffic was backed up all the way down Broadway, so Kate made a run for it, dodging between stopped cars. She jumped over a puddle, pushed through the glass doors, and then ran down the stairs and through the turnstile. The station, thankfully, was nearly deserted. There was just a handful of people. It was not quite rush hour.

The express train began at 207th Street. The conductor leaned out the window of the train, red faced and cheery. “Raining, is it?” He wasn't from the neighborhood. He had a smart word for everyone.

Kate shook out her hair, pulled out her compact—and that was when she saw him. Patrick Harris. He was standing on the platform with his umbrella in one hand as if waiting for her to arrive.

Kate let out a little yelp. “You gave me quite a start.”

“Sorry.”

Patrick must have been in church after all. He was dressed in a suit and dark overcoat. He'd shaved, and his silver tangle of hair was finally trimmed into place. He was only three years older than Kate, but, unlike Mr. Charles, he'd gone gray early. Kate had never noticed how blue his eyes were before. He looked handsome, actually. He was wearing a tartan tie, the Irish National. And he wasn't even damp.

“I was wondering if you'd like to have some cake with me,” he said. “I made it myself. Peg's recipe.”

“I have to go to work.”

“Just a quick bite. Father John and I are having cake in the rectory. In honor of Peg. Mam. It's her birthday.”

Kate had completely forgotten. She was glad she'd lit the candle, and would dearly love a bite of Peg's cake, but the A train was ready to leave: two bells.

“I have to go.”

Patrick seemed slightly embarrassed, as if he'd overstepped some invisible line. “Of course. Certainly. Peg would not want you to be late, especially not on her birthday.” He turned to walk back up the stairs.

“Aren't you coming downtown?”

“No. Pete the Cop let me jump over. I told him I had to ask a girl about a cake. I think he thought it was a code for something. He laughed, slapped me on the back, and gave up a wink.”

“Hopeless romantic, is he?”

“Or dirty old man.”

The subway doors were closing. Kate jumped on board the train.

Patrick smiled, but he also looked sad standing there on the platform, all alone.

“What kind of cake?” she yelled after him.

He didn't hear her. She hoped it was Peg's yellow crumb.

  

When the White House called Chez Ninon later that day, the toile from Chanel had still not arrived. It had been eight days since Miss Nona's counter offer had been sent via Western Union. When Maison Blanche called, it was usually Kay McGowan, Cassini's showroom director, who coordinated fabrication and acquisitions for the state wardrobe. But this call was not from an assistant or a secretary or an assistant to a secretary but from Her Elegance, as
Women's Wear Daily
called the Wife. The childlike whisper, the patrician tone—Miss Nona's hands began to sweat.

“I'd like to see the toile,” she said. “I'm not sure if the weight of the fabric will be right for casual wear.”

“Of course,” Miss Nona said. “Would four o'clock work for you?”

It would.

As soon as Miss Nona hung up the telephone, Miss Sophie said, “I suppose you have a plan?”

“I have her dress form, muslin, drafting tools—and Kate.”

“Then you have a plan.”

BOOK: The Pink Suit: A Novel
3.92Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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