I brought Shira into the boutique. Would she really sabotage me?

IT

had been my idea to bring Shira to Plum. “She has such a knack for fashion,” I told Marcia. And to Rochel, I said, “We could use some young blood.”

I knew Shira as a sweet-faced girl poking her head into Rochel’s house — Ma, we’re running out to Tzivi’s — on Shabbos afternoons, but she had great taste even then. She used to gush over the dresses I brought home from Plum, talking about how she’d pair one with a belt and another with statement jewelry. She said it all with authority, not unusual for a teenager, but she stood out because her instincts were almost always right.

Now, she was 23 and moving back to the neighborhood after two years in Eretz Yisrael. I remember being 23 with a knack for fashion, sure I’d never be able to make a living from it. It had been one of my own mother’s friends who had referred me to Plum back when it was still new, before it became the institution it is today.

It had been Rochel’s idea for us to carpool. “Her husband is going to need a ride to kollel every day if she takes their car. We’ll cover gas.”

And it wasn’t an unpleasant ride. Sixteen minutes without traffic, no more than 35 minutes with it.

Sixteen minutes. So quick, we’d stay outside Shira’s apartment, wrapping up our conversation before she went inside.

Sixteen minutes. With the wrong person, an eternity.

T

hirty years in, Plum is still my happy place.

There’s nothing like walking into the main room, letting my hands run over silky fabric and my eyes settle on the bright, bold colors of this year’s spring collection. I know there’s this assumption that fashion is always uniform, that a store like Plum would be full of one color and a thousand identical dresses.

But I’m happiest in a riot of colors, in modern cuts and stunning needlework, in a place where there really is something to complement everyone. From the moment I first walked into Plum, back when it was three racks in Marcia Gelman’s basement, I knew this was where I wanted to be for the rest of my life.

Marcia and I are the only ones left from the original staff, and I see how hard it’s getting for her to walk around the store now, to manage even the counter. She comes in less often now that she has a cane. Her daughter, Aleeza, fills in as manager instead, pulling me over whenever there’s a problem she can’t solve.

“Customers just feel more comfortable with you,” she says wryly. “I don’t know what I’m doing. You have that gentle touch.”

“I’ve been here for a very, very long time,” I remind her.

But the truth is, this is not really Aleeza’s thing. She’s an occupational therapist. “Mom just needs the backup right now, you know. More hands on deck. Someone else to take charge. “At least we’ve got Shira.”

She looks with undisguised admiration as Shira talks to a customer, and I can’t help but puff up a little with pride at my protégé. Shira is holding up two dresses right now, shaking her head.

“I just think you have such a striking face shape, and we can find the right dress for it. Something that’ll soften it, maybe.” Shira tilts her head, taking in the customer. “Oh! I know exactly—”

She disappears into a rack and emerges with a dress that makes my eyebrows shoot up. It’s not exactly dated, but it isn’t stylish, either. It’s just… a neutral kind of dress, without any imagination. The sort of thing I’d recommend to an older (much older than me, thank you very much) woman who looks nervous just being in Plum.

It isn’t a good match for a 20-something shopping for her vort, and I can see that both the girl and her mother look almost as skeptical as I feel.

I keep an eye on the dressing room, feeling suddenly responsible for Shira’s misstep. I’m the one who brought her here. If she’s giving middling advice, then it’ll be up to me to say something….

The girl emerges from the dressing room, a vision in green. Shira had given her a sash to pair with the dress, and it looks perfect, the dress effortlessly brought to the next level, the ensemble like something straight out of our catalog. The girl is glowing as she says, “It looks good, right? I thought it looked good.” She stares at the mirror in wonder. “I look good.”

“Of course you do,” Shira says, beaming at her. “You’re beautiful.”

This is the best part of Plum, watching people emerge from their cocoons and spread those delicate, filmy wings for the first time. Seeing the way they fly, the colors that move with them, the moment of pure wonder when they find the perfect dress.

“She’s really something,” Aleeza says from beside me, eyebrows raised as she watches Shira.

And it’s strange, the moment my pride wavers and my certainty is replaced with something sick and mean. Just for a single instant, so glancing I can dismiss it as a blip. Just a moment of watching Shira glow and wondering what might dim that smile.

Just a petty moment of jealousy.

I don’t answer Aleeza.