The Snow Angel Read Free Page B

murmured with a wry smile. “I sure do try.”
    They both tried, Max and Elena, and I adored them. Though we never talked about it, for all intents and purposes, I was the daughter they never had. I always wondered if Max and Elena left a child in Dutch soil, or if they were simply never able to conceive. But I didn’t question their love for me, and for a few years at least I grew up grateful that my surrogate family accepted me, flaws, baggage,and all—especially when my real family didn’t. Especially because I didn’t really have a family. Before I was old enough to drive a car, I was more or less an orphan: Bev was dead and my father pretended I was. Or, at least, I felt like he did.
    “We are not ‘the tailor shop’ anymore,” Max said the day that Elena and I finished our tenth wedding dress. He surveyed the soft, lovely fabrics that seemed to bloom in unexpected bursts from every corner of his formerly masculine garage. Poplin and seersucker and linen existed side by side with gauzy material that pooled and flowed like melted ice.
    “Come now,” Elena protested. “We’ll always be ‘the tailor shop.’” She leaned against him and kissed his wrinkled cheek placatingly.
    “But we’re more. We’re …” Max’s forehead wrinkled as if he was confused by what his store had become. “We’re a dress shop, too.”
    Elena shook her head. “Not just any dress shop. A wedding dress shop.”
    “A bridal shop,” I offered.
    Max pretended to shiver and threw up his hands in defeat. “Women! I am surrounded!” He shook his head as he left the garage, but I caught the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
    “He’ll be just fine,” Elena assured me with a wink.“Wounded pride is rarely fatal. As for us, I think it’s time we gave this suit shop/tailor shop/bridal shop a name. A way for people to find us.”
    “Eden,” I said without pause.
    “Eden?”
    “You know,” I fumbled, “because it’s perfect. Happy and new. Filled with possibility …” I trailed off.
    Elena nodded slowly and I could practically see the wheels spinning behind her deep brown eyes. “Eden Custom Tailoring—so that there’s room for the odd dress or two amid the army of suits. I think it’ll work.”
    Of course it would work. Everyone needed a little reminder of something whole and full of promise. Everyone needed a bit of paradise.
    Especially people who sometimes felt like their lives were anything but.

     
    Eden Custom Tailoring became a cult phenomenon when the youth of Everton graduated from high school and fled their tiny hometown. As Everton natives populated LA, Chicago, New York, and beyond, sooner or later they found that special someone and remembered the old couple that sewed exclusive suits and wedding dresses back in their all-but-forgottenhometown. Calls started coming in for gowns of Duchess silk and Italian satin, and accompanying those extravagant orders came the imperious directive: “It must be perfect.” Which translated into: “We have no budget.”
    Max bought an old photography studio on Main Street, which he transformed into a charming shop with a custom fitting room and a five-sided mirror with a two-foot pedestal. It worked well when Max had to carefully measure the distinguished gentlemen of Everton, but the brides were the customers who appreciated the pedestal the most. The young women loved to preen and admire themselves from every possible angle. The lighting was dim and flattering since there were no windows in the shop, and though that fact had seemed like a liability when Max first purchased the building, it turned out to be a boon: Most brides were thrilled that their unique creation would remain a mystery until their stirring walk down the aisle.
    And brides-to-be weren’t the only ones who were happy that Eden Custom Tailoring was a dark, nondescript structure on a quiet corner in Everton. As I gripped the handle of the back door and cast a furtive glance over my