Nostalgia - Chapter 2 (Part 1 of 2)

For LMS. Word count: 1 307. Part Two to come soon. 

The new dress shop was already open when Cora woke up, bright and early at seven in the morning, on the First of May. Hearing a kerfuffle both in and out of the restaurant, she dressed as quickly as possible, snatched a cold pancake from the fridge, and ran out to the front. A crowd of chatty folk had inconveniently convened at the front of the Pancake House, ignorant of available seating. They were also blocking Cora’s path.

“Excuse me,” said Cora, meekly. All eyes turned, molesting her as if she had just announced the end of the world. “I’m trying to get by.”

“Are you heading to Nostalgia, that new place next door?” Mrs. Miller, Savoury’s resident cat lady, shot back a question. “If so, you’re in for a disappointment, young lady. There’s nothing in there but cheap clothing that’s most likely been harvested from a Wal-Mart dumpster.” The other all murmured in serious agreement.

“Well, it’s better than no shop at all, Mrs. Miller,” replied Cora, who was aware of the cat lady’s notoriously pessimistic behaviour. Like a little grease helps remove a tight ring from a finger, Cora’s pointed remark shocked the hodgepodge of menopausal women and ED*-afflicted men into parting slightly and she was able to slip through and escape out the front door, to the great relief of both exasperated parties.

Nostalgia was not hard to miss at all, especially since it was The Pancake House’s new neighbour. The building’s front was long, with yellow wooden paneling and sported two large, bay windows on either side of the very centred door. Surprisingly, the window displays were empty, except for gold paint that spelled out “Nostalgia” in elegant script on both, glimmering in the Atlantic sunshine. Shadows fell behind the empty displays so Cora was unable to simply peek in at the new store’s merchandise. She would be forced to enter if she really wanted to see what Nostalgia was all about.

And she really did want to see what Nostalgia was all about so being forced to enter was no problem at all. I need a new summer dress after all, thought Cora before pushing open the door, bell jingling.

Immediately, Cora’s senses were overwhelmed. Warm scents of oak, pine, Indian Paintbrush, lupin, and yarrow met the button of her nose, sending a Chinook wind of aromas about her face, caressing the nape of her neck and ruffling her thick, auburn hair. But that was the least of sensational assaults. Cora peered around the room, processing the rustic interior. The walls were painted a light yellow, prompting memories of buttercups smeared across seven-year-old chins. An eccentric array of fairy lights hung in hundreds from the white stucco ceiling. They were all shapes and sizes, from ladybugs the size of sand dollars to red Dutch tulips. The floors were smooth teak and not a grubby footprint was to be seen. An elegant sign read, “Please remove shoes before entering further,” as though already understanding – knowing – that no one who entered Nostalgia, awash with vibrant feelings, would be able to resist the alluring call of the thousands upon thousands of dresses that hung from gilded racks. Cora was certainly no exception; her black slippers were off in seconds. Stepping on the hardwood, its coolness calmed her rapidly beating heart.

Like the fairy lights, the dresses were organized in no particular way. Dresses of all colours and patterns hung side by side, revolting against contemporary methods of coordination and arrangement. Some fabrics were corduroy, some were satin, some cotton, some soft combinations of tulle, chiffon and silk. The hangers and mannequins were smooth, pale oak and still retained a subtly sweet smell.

Cora approached the first rack of dresses and ran her hand across the different fabrics, feeling the satin snag on her fingertips, the velvet sooth, and the cotton refresh. For a moment, she allowed herself to recall the first time she experienced the magic of a dress.

She was five and at this age there was nothing more satisfying than frolicking in the garden with dolls and serving tea to the dashing ladybugs. If you asked Cora what she wanted to be when she grew up, she would chirpily reply, “A princess!”, and then scamper off to lounge in her throne of leaves in the corner of the yard. Yet, being the accountants they were, David and Henrietta rarely humoured their daughter’s whimsical aspirations and thus provided nothing but overalls, striped t-shirts, and white running shoes for an economical closet. Cora never complained, but whenever the Darjeelings ate at The Pancake House, she never resisted admiring Elita’s vibrant dresses, some flowy, some frilly – all unique and handmade. What she wouldn’t give to float about in a dress, like a princess.

One afternoon, when David and Henrietta were paying at the front, Cora decided to stay behind and be strangely obsessed with rearranging the plates and silverware. Elita came by, as always, to pick up the leftover things. As she reached over the little girl’s head, two green eyes peered up from the auburn mop of hair.

“Will you make me a dress?” Cora asked quietly. It was the first time she had initiated conversation in her entire life. Her heart beat frantically and she waited for Elita’s response with bated breath.

“Pardon me?” Elita looked confused as she fumbled with forks, knives, and scrunched-up napkins.

“Well, I really like the dresses you wear all the time and my mum and dad don’t think they’re practical.” Cora put sarcastic emphasis on the very word that irked her the most. Practicality was David and Henrietta’s mantra and they repeated it day after day, using it as a reason to dissuade their daughter from her impractical endeavours and dreams. This aversion towards creativity and fun likely stemmed from endless systematic, mathematical drills in accounting school.

A small smile tickled Elita’s lips. “Well, there’s no good fun to be had with practically now, is there, Cora darling?” The woman slid next to the girl and whipped out a pen and paper from her pocket. The paper was a receipt for Eggs Benedict wrapped in a pancake (nine dollars and ninety-five cents total). “What kind of dress do you want?”

Cora gleamed and breathed in deeply, inhaling Elita’s lavender scent. “I want to be a princess. Can you make me a dress that will make me look like a princess?”

“Oh, hon,” said Elita. “You already are a princess. You’re Savoury’s princess.” It was true – besides little Xavier Sage who lived in the pink house down from the Darjeelings, Cora was the only other child, and most definitely the only young girl.

“Well, can you make me a dress so that people know I’m Savoury’s princess?”

“I can do that for you, your Royal Highness.” Elita began to sketch an outline of the Savoury Princess Dress. The straps were three fingers wide each, dropping to form a modest square neckline. Elita drew a large bow at the waist, scribbling the word “orange” across it. At the bow, the skirt of the dress was gather and then flared out into a stunning bell shape. The woman then drew an arrow to the rest of the dress and marked it “yellow”. She turned it to show Cora. “What do you think?”

“I think it looks really fantastic!” Cora traced the outline of the dress. “But will there be patterns? It won’t just be solid colours, right?”

“Have no fear, darling. I have just the right fabric. Come in the back with me so I can take your measurements.” With this, Elita stood up, taking the plates and cutlery along with her. The little girl scrambled from the red vinyl booth and followed the lavender-smelling woman into the back of The Pancake House.