Hand-Me-Down
Lee Nichols
Thanks are long overdue to Nancy Coffey, Farrin Jacobs, Lynn Nichols, Jessica Alvarez, Helen Ross, Paula Ross and Constance Wall.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 01
CHAPTER 02
CHAPTER 03
CHAPTER 04
CHAPTER 05
CHAPTER 06
CHAPTER 07
CHAPTER 08
CHAPTER 09
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 01
The second time Ian Dunne came into my life, I was trapped under a pile of bodies, behind a sheet of plate glass.
I’d just graduated from UC Santa Barbara, my hometown school. I’d finished at the top of the middle of my class—which is the story of my life—and a week later had grabbed the bottom rung of corporate America.
I was folding men’s charcoal woolens at Banana Republic when my manager materialized at my shoulder.
“You’ve almost got it!” Jenny chirped. “First the sleeve, then over, over…” Showing me, yet again, how to fold a sweater.
I gritted my teeth, and gestured to my pile. “Mine are fine.”
“Good enough for the Gap.” Jenny smiled encouragingly. “Maybe.”
“Maybe I should do the windows instead.”
“You can’t do the windows.”
“But I want to do the windows.”
“Sorry,” she said, and scurried into the back office.
My problem was that I was assertive enough to annoy, but not enough to succeed. That’s always been my problem: I’m the uneasy medium. Pretty enough, but not beautiful. Smart enough, but not brilliant. If I were a college, I’d be a safety school. If I were a skirt, I’d be basic black.
Wren finished ringing up a sale and drifted over. We’d started work the same day, and she’d been promoted to the register by the end of the morning. I liked her despite her obnoxious competence and her glossy dark hair and clear olive skin. She smiled and neatened my sweater stack. “Jenny’s teaching you to fold again?”
“Folding’s not really my strength.” I glanced toward the front of the store. “What I should be doing is—”
“Oh, Anne, not again. She’ll never let you do the windows.”
“But I’m pretty sure that window design is my thing.” I stacked the last sweater. “I’m sort of arty.”
“You were a business major.”
“Well, arty-businessy. Anyway, I have the soul of an artist.” Since graduating, I’d been doing some thinking. It was clear I wasn’t going to make it on looks alone. Not like my oldest sister Charlotte. Nor was I anyone’s idea of a girl-genius, like my other sister, Emily. So I figured I’d be the next Paloma Picasso. Artist/designer. Of course, my dad was no Pablo, but still.
“How many art classes did you take?” Wren asked.
“Does pottery count?”
“Only if you got an A.”
“Oh. Anyway—” I lowered my voice. “Aren’t you a little embarrassed to be working here?” Wren had just graduated from Pomona.
She shook her head. “I love clothes.”
“Yeah,” I said, unconvinced. I liked clothes, too. New ones, at least. “Still. Shouldn’t we aspire to greater things than our fifty-percent discount?”
“Like a sixty-percent discount?”
“Exactly! Or, for instance…”
“The windows,” Wren finished.
I smiled. And ten minutes later, when Jenny was on the phone to the head office and Wren—in a fit of self-preservation—disappeared for an early lunch, I crammed myself into the front window with six mannequins.
An assortment of mall-walkers noticed me, and paused and pointed. Enjoying the celebrity, I gave them a queen’s wave and got to work. How hard could it be? Easy as stacking wood, I told myself—ignoring for the moment that I’d never actually stacked wood.
The official theme for the Fall windows was the stunningly original “Back to School.” I decided to stay on topic and create the Banana Republic Cheerleading Squad. Given Jenny’s level of pep, she’d have to approve.
I wrestled the first mannequin, dressed in denims and suede jacket, into a crouching position. It took some doing, as she was not at all limber, but I finally grappled her onto all fours. The second mannequin was easier, but the third required that I kneel on her stomach and roughly yank her legs. The fourth and fifth, wearing light gray sweaters and khaki cords, were male. I twisted them onto their hands and knees and turned to the sixth mannequin, a recalcitrant squad leader in a plaid mini. By the time I finished tangling with her, I was sweaty and exhausted…and had attracted a crowd.
I loftily ignored them, and arranged the first three mannequins. Easy enough. Side by side, on hands and knees—the two males on the outside, a female in the middle. I manhandled the next one on top, balanced another next to her, and stepped back
