The Green Lace Corset

The
GREEN LACE
CORSET


Copyright © 2020 by Jill G. Hall
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.
Published June 19, 2018
Printed in the United States of America
Print ISBN: 978-1-63152-769-2
E-ISBN: 978-1-63152-770-8
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020907226
Book design by Stacey Aaronson
For information, address:
She Writes Press
1563 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707
She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.


This book is dedicated to my dear friend Judy Reeves,
who made this and so much more possible.


1
Anne’s boots clomped along the wooden sidewalk as she breathed in the clean, crisp air. April’s sponge-painted clouds hung in the turquoise sky. Snow-capped peaks from the last storm of the season loomed above Flagstaff to the north.
Ever since her friend Sylvia had told her about the area’s peaceful beauty, Anne had wanted to visit. She bet it hadn’t changed much since Sylvia had been here in the 1960s. Long-standing downtown storefronts boasted Babbitt Brothers, Macy’s European Coffeehouse, and the brick Monte Vista Hotel, with its original neon sign. The stone Nativity Church’s steeple appeared as tall as the ponderosa pines that lined nearby Route 66.
Anne hadn’t been certain Tweety, her yellow Karmann Ghia, would make it all the way from San Francisco, but it had chugged along the old route without so much as a cough. She’d spent the night in Needles, and this morning, after a good night’s rest, she had traveled the short distance to Flagstaff. Tomorrow she’d cruise out to the Painted Desert and through the Navajo reservation, two places Sylvia had spoken of with fondness.
Anne wanted to feel close to her mentor, who’d been gone for more than two years now. She missed her wise guidance. Fortunately, Anne’s boss, Priscilla, at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, where Anne taught, had found a substitute so she could go. Almost a year earlier, Anne had broken it off with her fiancé, Sergio, for the last time and still reeled from it. She’d been so certain he was the one. She hoped this journey would relieve some of her loneliness.
As she continued along the wooden sidewalk, the window of Really Resale Boutique’s shop caught her attention. A mustached mannequin in full cowboy regalia—Stetson hat, checkered shirt with snaps, and suede-fringed chaps—was posed beside a rusty wagon wheel and a life-size plastic cow. Searching for found treasures was one of her passions. Sometimes she’d find a little something for herself, as well as objects for her artwork, still selling well at Gallery Noir.
Anne stepped inside to the tinkling of a bell. A straw aroma from the hay bales strewn around for ambience tickled her nose.
“Morning.” From behind the counter, a girl looked up from her books with a smile. She wore a Northern Arizona University T-shirt; her blond braids hung down over it. “Can I help you?”
“Just looking.” It was all in the hunt. Anne always let her intuition guide her.
“I’m Lola. Let me know if you need anything.” The girl returned to her studies.
Anne looked through a basket of bandannas and flipped through a clothes rack. The 1950s tulle prom dress, the sequined Mexican shawl, and the faded gingham dress didn’t do much for her, but she held her breath when she spotted a green corset.
Black lace trimmed the bodice’s top edge and moved down its front. A short, flouncy skirt rested over it. Both pieces were the same color as her favorite cocktail dress, the one she’d had on the night she met Sergio.
The corset appeared to be from the 1800s, something Miss Kitty might have worn in that old TV show Gunsmoke—a true vintage piece. Rarely could something this old be discovered in a resale shop, especially in such good shape.
Anne pulled the hanger off the rack, held the corset up to the light, and checked for moth holes and tears. Some of the lace had become loose, but Anne could easily mend it. She ran her hand along the smooth satin and fingered the hooks that marched down the corset’s center.
She fantasized about what it would feel like for Sergio to unlatch the hooks, one at a time, slowly. It had been months since she’d seen him. He called occasionally, but when he did, she felt sadder and lonelier than ever. She shook her head. She should be over him by now.
A country song played: “How Do I Live.” She didn’t remember the singer’s name, but she liked the twang and the lyrics. Her eyes welled up. She never knew when a song would hit her.
“Want to try it on?” Lola asked from the counter.
Anne blinked away tears, shook off her emotions, and turned around. “How much for the set?” She searched for a price tag but found none.
Lola opened a ledger and scanned a page. “Don’t know. I need to call the owner. Want to try it on in the meantime?”
“Sure.” Anne couldn’t pass up this opportunity.
Lola took the hanger from her, led her to the back of the shop, and hung the corset on a screen. “Just give a holler if you need help.”
Behind the screen, Anne slipped out of her boots, jeans, and sweater. She unpinned the pieces, stepped into the skirt, and tied the side bows. She pulled the corset around her and reconnected the front metal hooks. Good thing she hadn’t gained back the weight