A Nightingale in Parkleigh Square

Chapter Eighteen

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W hen ornaments began adorning the trees, Nina could see the transformation take place. The snowy branches were enhanced by ornate, icy-looking ornaments dangling en masse. They grouped them close together, crowding the branches — first with the unique ornaments, carefully divided into ratios to accent each tree.

"Are we putting the decorative lights on first?" Bradley unpacked the glowing icicles: each one had a light's filament in the heart of it, illuminating the clear spindles.

"Either way," said Molly. "We're doing three of the smaller trees, but not the big one. We're putting the individual lighted orbs on it."

Nina cut the tape sealing each box and opened them, one by one. Besides the fiber optic icicles were ordinary plastic ones in different lengths and thicknesses, along with icy-looking snowflake shapes, the mercury glass-style frosted pinecones, frosted orbs and the silvery mercury ones. All these ornaments were filler to decorate the trees until they were full. Other boxes held onion-shaped orbs, and more orbs with filigree and beveling creating the look of crystal in plastic and resin, for a fraction of its actual cost.

"What are these?" Bradley opened a long box containing faceted plastic crystals on chains, some with teardrop crystals.

"Those are replacement prisms for chandeliers," said Nina. "They add a little extra bedazzle. It's an old decorator's trick for trimming trees. Like jewelry for the Christmas tree."

"Okay, I see that," he said. "Cool." He began dividing them into piles as well.

Nina glanced in Molly's direction, but Molly was busy unpacking the pinecones. Now wasn't a good time to talk about last night's tiff, she sensed. It was going to have to wait.

Bradley glanced between the two of them, then cleared his throat. "Um, can I borrow the box cutter?" he asked Nina. "This last box of teardrop crystal ornaments needs to be opened."

"Here," she said, handing it to him. "Sorry." She unpacked the strings of miniature snowball lights, which shared a box with a giant reel of faceted rhinestone beads, which Molly had suggested would be great for making a curtain with the crystal snowflakes.

"Do you want me to cut some of the snow fabric and start covering the power boxes and tree bases?" asked Bradley. "You said we should cover all of the hardware, right, Molly?"

"Right," said Molly. "You can start on it if you want, I'll do the decorative lights for now."

She pulled out a long strand and secured the plug end before tucking the rest slowly through the branches, leaving the icicles dangling between the drifts of snow.

"We still have to discuss the tree toppers," said Nina, unpacking the pearlescent orbs. "What kind of ornaments? Or are we using them?"

"I guess we should decide." Molly disappeared around the other side of the tree.

Bradley opened the last box. "I think we need one for the central tree at least," he said. "But that's just me."

Again, he looked at both of them, then let his shoulders slump. "Is anybody going to venture another opinion?" he asked.

"I'm just putting the question in the open, that's all," said Nina. She waited, but Molly didn't volunteer anything else. I'm going to have to explain before I get any other answers, she thought, with chagrin.

"Help me with the connection for these lights, Bradley," said Molly, uncoiling another long string.

Molly knew it was stingy not to say anything, but she didn't know what to say. Since early this morning, when she came to the studio to pack up their finished ornaments, she rehearsed several speeches, but they all came out wrong. So was she too pushy to be a real confidant? Was she too insistent before, that they could pull off the cheaper ornaments with a little pizzazz?

Now Nina probably thought she was jealous of the designer noticing her — like she cared, even if he was cute, she hadn't been interested in him. This was all so mixed up it was tumbling her mind like kernels of popcorn in one of those air poppers at the theater.

Maybe that was because her stomach was growling. Stupid empty pop tart box , she thought to herself. No breakfast, nothing at all since a single knish last night. She could use one of those goat cheese and ham pies right now.

"When we take the rest of the ornaments to the store, let's take the wreath for the workshop, too," said Bradley. Out of some leftover craft supplies, the metallic paint and teal-colored bonbons in their craft supplies, they had cobbled together a modern minimalist wreath that perfectly matched the Christmas tree upstairs. Nina had suggested it as a surprise for the design team.

Molly nodded. "Maybe it will thaw Natalia's nerve a little," she said.

"It couldn't hurt," he answered. "I thought Nina would like to do it, but I guess she's working through lunch."

"She says she wants to make up lost time. Who am I to argue?" answered Molly.

"I don't know. Her partner?" suggested Bradley.

She eyed him. "Don't you start," she said. "It's none of my business if that's what she wants to do." This wasn't exactly taking the high ground, but she wasn't going to make it into a big deal, either.

"It's just a remark," he said. "Hey, Ming," he said, reaching down to scratch the ears of the cat by their Asian neighbor's door. "Hey, Molly, want to meet Ms. Fong?"

"I'm not really in the mood for chitchat," said Molly. Couldn't they just go back to the flat and have some packaged snacks before they grabbed the rest of the ornaments?

"Come on. You'll like her, she's nice. She gave me and Ki lunch — he was skipping school again that day, helping me with the bottle hunt."

"That kid must have more detentions than all the youth in Gangster's Paradise ," said Molly.

"Let's just say hi," said Bradley, ringing the bell. "You have to try one of her bean cakes, they're amazing."

"Why would I eat anything called a 'bean cake'? That sounds like what happens to refried beans when they stick to the pot," groaned Molly.

He rang the buzzer, and the door opened a few minutes later, with the elderly Asian woman on the other side in a housecleaning apron.

"Hey, this is my friend Molly," said Bradley. "She's the one who designed the flier — the piece of paper we pushed under your door? I wanted her to meet you — I told her all about your place, and what a great cook you are."

The woman stared at both of them. I doubt this lady remembers him , Molly thought, just before their neighbor nodded, and gestured towards the open door.

"See? She says 'come in'," said Bradley. "Maybe she'll brew some tea for us. It's pretty good."

"I don't think tea will help me right now," said Molly.

The interior looked like a Chinese antique market, except for the house plants that grew in abundance. Molly followed them to the kitchen, where the woman was showing Bradley some of the herbs that were growing. They pinched off leaves, sniffing of them, as Bradley guessed their names.

"This smells amazing," he said. "I think this is tarragon, Molly," he said. "It's really good in seafood dishes."

The woman gestured. She took a tea kettle from the shelf by the stove, and pointed to a cup, looking at Bradley, who folded his hands like a prayer and bowed.

"See? Tea," he said. "Thank you," he said to Ms. Fong.

Green tea had never been Molly's 'cup of', metaphorical or otherwise, but it was actually pretty good. Or maybe it was the room's atmosphere that was calming her, with the quiet ticking of a cat wall clock, the scent of herbs, and the delicious plate of almond-center cookies.

"Okay, I surrender," said Molly. "These are good." She ate another cookie. "There's ginger in this, right?" she said.

"She puts all kinds of spices in her food," said Bradley. "It's really neat. She's been explaining the different types to me — well, teaching me yes and no as to which ones are which," he added.

So far, Ms. Fong mostly nodded, pointed, and affirmed with the slightest of smiles. Molly couldn't argue with it, however, since their company seemed welcome, and the quiet cuppa was amazing her on some subconscious level. She didn't even mind that the cat was in here, sitting on Ms. Fong's lap as she showed Bradley some postcard pictures of scenes in China.

Their hostess nudged a plate closer to Molly, one with several orange slices circling sticky little rice balls that tasted of honey and citrus. It was delicious enough that Molly didn't care about the fact that she didn't like plain white rice, sticky or otherwise.

"I might learn to cook if I could be this good at it," she mumbled, after finishing the last bite. "Does she understand English?" she asked Bradley. "Can I ask her how she makes this?"

"I think she just knows how, it's not a written recipe," he said. "She's an instinctive cook."

"Whereas I'm an instinctive decorator and arguer," said Molly, cozying a second cup of tea. "Thank you," she said to Ms. Fong, who poured it, then poured one for herself.

Bradley helped himself to another cookie. "What's going on between you and Nina?" he asked Molly.

"What? What are you talking about?" she said.

"I could see the way the two of you were today. It was the silent treatment," he said. "You barely made eye contact."

"Nothing's wrong," said Molly.

"That's not how it felt this morning," he said.

Molly had already tried shrugging it off, but it wasn't working. Anyway, Bradley had worked with her too long to buy it, he knew something was up. "I don't know. I think we're having a difference of opinion or something like it," she said. "Me and Nina had a little disagreement recently."

"Did you talk about it? Are you still fighting?" he asked.

"I don't know, like I said. It was weird. This job is making us second guess each other sometimes," said Nina. "We're bringing all these outside elements into our work, so it isn't just us making the decisions, it's the environment testing us — challenging us every time we make a move."

"I don't know if you should put it like that," said Bradley. "You and Nina are the ones calling the shots. You're feeling insecure, maybe, because this isn't home."

"Maybe that's it, or maybe we don't know what we want," said Molly. "For once, I'm not so sure."

"You want to run Display by Design, don't you?" said Bradley.

"I think so." She shrugged. "Then again, we're talking about a future that hinges on whether we finish this gig. Or survive finishing it, if you want to get technical."

"You're being gloomy," said Bradley. "I think you're letting this job ask too many questions. You both know you're great at what you do. If you weren't, we would have been fired before the window scene was even finished."

"Based on what? Lack of faith?" said Molly, laughing.

"Based on the fact you wouldn't have made it through the first hiccup," said Bradley. "But you did, so you proved yourselves. I think even Natalia Gaborelli knows it."

I hope I do , Molly thought. She sipped her tea. Was Nina feeling the same way right now? Or was she doubting things under pressure?

***

O n her own, Nina hung the last silver teardrop bauble, and climbed down the ladder. Aglow with lights, the snow looked almost real. Even the pinecones with their tarnished silver patina.

She sighed. Beautiful . If only Molly and Bradley had been able to stay, they would feel the same. But Bradley was restocking their food supplies at the supermarket, and Molly had said something about finishing the garlands before tomorrow.

She stepped out from behind the curtains, and switched off the lights by remote. One by one, the hidden trees flashed off behind their sheets. Nina set the remote on the counter, noticing a box still half-closed. The wreath for upstairs, which Molly and Bradley had brought back after lunch, hadn't been taken upstairs.

She carried it with her as she checked the trees, one by one. At night, the Billington seemed so still and vast, with the lights dimmed, leaving just enough glow for security to check the scene. On either side of the projector screens, through the sheer backdrops, shadows appeared from car headlamps turning on the lane, and from tourists walking by the closed posh shops, taking photos of their Christmas decor. A bus rolled by — maybe the tour bus that came earlier, stopping here so passengers could photograph the tree in the square? It happened every day, with the guide telling the story of how the building miraculously survived the Blitz.

Since arriving, she hadn't had a chance to really appreciate how beautiful this old department store was. The beautiful moldings and the white marble floor with matching pillars supporting the second story's rotunda-like floor, and the beautifully-polished teak of its balcony rails. It was like a ballroom in a Venetian palace, like the ones featured on travel shows, complete with mirrors, which made the room seem twice as large.

In the corner of this room, a bronze plaque commemorated the story. Nina read it again as she passed by. It was sobering to think of bombs falling here, the people who lived nearby cowering in bunkers, thinking the entire world was going to be destroyed. Maybe it gave them some hope that one landmark withstood the blast — and was still standing today, becoming a relevant part of the lane again.

"It is inspiring, is it not?"

Simone Van Stewart was behind her, at the head of the balcony. "I remember when I first heard its story. It touched a chord within, as they say."

She descended. "You are working very late tonight," she remarked to Nina, who was still tongue tied by Simone Van Stewart making conversation with her.

Get a grip on yourself. Nina brushed off the surprise and nerves, acting natural by putting on a smile. "So are you," she pointed out.

The designer laughed. "Yes. But this is my home, presently — that is how I think of every place where my work resides, and I must be with it when the opportunity is at hand. I will return to Paris again and with the spring and summer shows there and in Milan, I won't return for some time. My chance will last but a few more days."

"You won't stay until the opening?" asked Nina. She was surprised, because she thought that was what all of Natalia's big plans were for.

"I regret that I cannot," said Simone. "I had much difficulty rearranging my affairs to come for these weeks to see it come together. Fortunately, I can travel with my work when necessary."

"Home is where your work is," said Nina. "I can relate to that, although I have a place to feel at home." She paused. "But work isn't always where you want to be — even if you love it." She shrugged and smiled.

Simone was surveying the trees in their mystery wrappings. "I look forward to seeing the fruits of yours," she said. "Your company is very mysterious about it."

"That's mostly to keep dust away," Nina confessed. The designer looked slightly amused. "But I hope we impress, regardless," continued Nina. "This place is a lot to live up to. Not just because of the story — it's just so grand compared to others I've seen, even in Manhattan, and there's some pretty amazing architecture in my city."

"I have seen it myself, so I would agree," said Simone. "I prefer Old World architecture, but this place has a distinction that is far different from a palace or a baronial estate. I like that it is ... a survivor ... I suppose."

She lowered her gaze from the view of the circular gallery to Nina. "Is the wreath part of your decor?" she asked.

"No, this is a gift for the workshop," said Nina. "I was going to take it upstairs for the design team. I can wait, because you're working."

"You may come up," said Simone.

"I don't want to bother anybody. Natalia — your store coordinator, Ms. Gaborelli — was pretty specific about staying out of the design team's way. Besides, you're busy."

"Come with me," said Simone. "I am not engaged too deeply in my project. You may see the progress, if you like."

"Sure." Like I'm going to say 'no'?

Behind Simone, Nina climbed the stairs, going to the studio where Vincent and the other designers were creating the summer fashion line. She hung the wreath on the door, then turned towards Simone's office, only to notice the designer standing at one of the tables in the main workshop, cutting panels from patterned moss green silk. She laid the newest one aside.

"You really did bring your work," said Nina, amazed that she was watching the famous designer actually piecing together a pattern in the studio.

"I work all the time," said Simone. "If not on something on design, on ideas, or on little projects for which I never have enough time. Idle hands do nothing to improve the world, I was told once. Mine are never still."

"You have to work hard to build a business this famous," said Nina. "I have a small one, but it takes a lot of time. Of course, it doesn't create anything this big."

"Great things come from small beginnings," said Simone. "I did. I came from nothing to build this — it was the scraps of dreams that made this reality. You can make much of what is given to you, if you have a mind determined to see the pattern in the pieces."

"Your family wasn't in design in Poland?" said Nina.

"I come from a poor family. We did not have more than was necessary to survive. All my life, my mother stretched what we had to make it fit. Clothes made from cheap blankets or castoff garments. She found ways to put them together to make a completely different outfit for me to wear, whether I needed a new coat or a new dress for school."

Simone's scissors cut through another panel of green, marked with sewing chalk. "She used to tell me stories of how difficult it was for her family during the war," she said. "Her mother, my grandmother, had been a nurse in our village. When food and medicine was scarce, they scrounged for what could be found. When their village was overrun by enemy troops, my grandmother carried on, caring for others — hiding those who were being hunted, or who had been wounded trying to defend their homes."

The scissors snipped away a loose thread. "She hid food for them underneath a false basket bottom. She was allowed to leave the village to find medicine, so she smuggled messages — the work of spies — to the resistance by sewing them in her skirts. My mother was small, but she would help her pick the stitches, and put them in again, so small that no one would suspect."

She laid two panels together, pulling a pin from a cushion on her wristband. "In the story she would tell me, my mother would say my grandmother was like the nightingale, and that her song was in the heart of her duty."

"Like the famous nurse," said Nina.

"No, no. Like the fairytale. The nightingale — so plain, but with a beautiful song. It outshines the jeweled one that looked so beautiful to the emperor, but sang a hollow song. The nightingale wanted only to share its gift, it didn't want to be honored. That was grandmother. When the war was over, she never spoke of the people she saved. She never spoke of those duties as being different from what she did for her village until the day she was too feeble."

"That's an amazing story," said Nina.

"It was merely how people lived in those times," said Simone. "To her, it was necessary — you work hard at what you are meant to do." The pins held the fabric together at a tapered angle, as Simone turned it, and Nina looked down at the pattern of upside-down roses spread out before her.

"My mother worked hard to keep her family comforted and give her children a better life. Instead of cutting bandages, she cut clothes from old materials," said Simone. "I remember a coat she made me once, from a pair of velvet drapes that someone had put into the garbage. It felt like a queen's coat to me as a child. And she made me dresses from simple white fabric, undyed, and embroidered them. Just simple flowers."

"Like the ones on the new winter fashions," guessed Nina.

"Yes, very similar," said Simone. "It was a very traditional pattern." She reached for another pin. "I tweaked it somewhat, to make it my own."

"Did she teach you to sew?" asked Nina.

"Yes," said Simone. "She did. Of course, her skills were humble — she was self-taught, and the basic design was what mattered. The rest I learned from looking at the catalogs and the magazines of fashion. That is how I learned to draw my patterns. That was the first step carrying me towards Paris."

She reversed the fabric, smoothing the seam. "I miss those dresses," she said. "Simple. It is the love in the stitches, I suppose one would say."

She turned to Nina. "You have a story also?" she said. "Most of America is an immigrant story." She straightened the seams of the fabric as she reversed it again, attaching another piece, pre sewn from the same fabric.

"My family was pretty typical," said Nina. "My grandparents wanted a better life — my dad grew up in New York, he worked as a cab driver, then operated a kiosk, then opened a garage for cabs. He had mechanical skills, my mom had cooking skills, but I didn't inherit either of their gifts. I was just pulled a different way."

"Into this art — decorating the windows and the sets belonging to another's vision."

"Maybe it's a kind of art, I don't know," said Nina, with a little shrug. "I only know that I liked pulling things into harmony. I didn't care if it was just for a moment, if it felt right and it brought someone what they needed."

She laughed. "Sometimes my parents don't understand it. They see that it could lead to more opportunity and better money than their goals, but it's less secure. They're afraid I'm working towards an ambition that's too much for me."

"You have your family's determinism," said Simone. "They moved from one country to another to build a better life, and it might have failed for them also."

"Yeah, I guess so," admitted Nina. "They gave me confidence to believe I could try, even if I can't change my car's oil. I did learn to change a tire. You wouldn't want me in triple A service, though."

"There. You see it now." Simone smiled. "There is a great deal of difference between an ordinary dress and an evening gown, but there is still much in common in the creation. So we all go into life, taking what was part of our past, making new with it."

"Crazy, no?" said Nina. "That it could be similar, I mean." It felt awkward to talk to someone like this so casually, but she was doing it. What else, right?

It was so weird — she was watching a legendary designer sew a dress in a studio late at night, like they were hanging out together. She hadn't even pictured Simone Van Stewart sewing up to this point.

Simone finished pinning the panels to the piece she had sewn previously, then reversed the completed piece, a skeleton of a dress made from the soft rose-print green fabric. It looked almost sheer despite being opaque — like a gossamer summer gown that looked like the focal piece of a high-fashion ad with a model standing in a rainy English rose garden.

"Whoa, that's ... amazing me ... for something sewn in the past five minutes." Nina couldn't believe it, expecting something less finished and more 'thrown together' to be the result.

"I know this craft too well," said Simone, in a voice of perfect confidence that never bothered to be surprised or doubtful at this point, probably. She reversed it over a nearby female dressmaker's form.

"Do you, like, have family in this business, too?" asked Nina. "Did anybody else decide to do what you do? You're so successful at it, you've built this amazing empire, because of family." People had this instinct to build a dream to share with the people closest to them — sometimes before they imagined it for the world.

"No one else has the passion for garments," said Simone. "A niece joined me in the workshop in the beginning, but she soon chose her own pursuits. It's a difficult life, you can imagine. We have a reputation for eating those at the bottom."

She adjusted the fit of the garment, sliding pins around the waistline to hold new tucks. "Even my daughter is not interested. She prefers photography."

"Were you okay with that?"

Simone seemed to think about this. "I suppose so," she said. "Like all the women in my family, she knew what she was meant to be. I wasn't surprised. Disappointed, perhaps, that her choice wasn't mine, but it was scarcely fair to expect it. Imagine if I had been expected to do exactly the same as those before me. Imagine if they had done as I did only. The world would have been a different place, certainly — what would have been the fate of my family's village if my grandmother had only known or cared of dresses?"

She had a point. Nina didn't laugh, but smiled, for the serious part as well as the humor from the designer.

"Some part of me has always known that this is my destiny regardless." Simone smoothed the point where the bodice's lines met the seams in the skirt's panels. "I should expect whoever comes to share it to be as surprising as myself, no? Otherwise, I am limiting others the way I was once limited, which would be a great pity. Others in my family have respected my journey, as I have respected theirs. I must do the same to those who come next also."

Nina never thought of it like that before. Expectations were heavy things, she knew that — so were the expectations you put on the experiences you chose. What if you made them into things they weren't meant to be?

She wasn't sure about saying the next part, then decided to do it. "I know the windows were different from what you — and Natalia — had pictured. The whole glam, exclusive theme with limited-edition ornaments," she said. "I want to say personally that we're really sorry we couldn't deliver that vision."

"These things happen in life and work both," said Simone, mildly. "It would not be the first time a plan was changed."

"Someone said you liked the new look, but it's a mark against us to go against client expectations," said Nina. "We don't have any expectations of glowing recommendations after this."

"I do not think it is unforgivable," said Simone. "And I did like the look of the windows. It was very timely. I think you chose them for the appeal they would represent to the label itself."

"Kind of," admitted Nina, amazed and pleased that the designer recognized the homage was directly intended.

"Of course, I expect that you will create something worthy of the occasion."

That was the voice of a woman who was never wrong these days, and Nina knew it probably spoke words that fired people on a monthly basis. "We definitely don't want to disappoint — that was never the plan," said Nina.

"I cannot reassure you for what I have not seen, naturally. The standards — those are mine as much as the design house's. I do not do anything by halves, and expect the same of all who work for me."

I can imagine. Nina nodded. "Vincent said as much." She was feeling nervous again — it felt like a shadow falling over their future, cast over a scene that had been like something out of a Christmas movie until now.

"He would know quite well," said Simone. "Although he and I sometimes disagree on whether they have been met, he has the intelligence to know he must lose the argument most of the time." She turned to look at Nina. "You understand it, it is only the matter of meeting it that will be the challenge."

Nina shrugged, once. "We always tell customers that we're trying to create what they want, even if they don't know what it is," she answered.

"You have seen my garments — that tells you all that you would require to know of my brand, fortunately, which must be more than you have been given in the past," said Simone. "Natalia explained to me the nature of your portfolio. I think you have been prepared for this challenge by it, although she disagrees. I suppose we will see." She finished pinning the bodice. "It will be a compelling moment for both of us."

"I couldn't put it better," said Nina. She looked around the studio. It felt like an intimidating space at present. "I still have some work to finish at our studio tonight. Every second counts, like you said before. I guess I should go."

She was leaving, but heard Simone's voice. "In case you wondered, the comment of praise on my social media was my own," she said.

"Was it?" said Nina, surprised. "Thanks." That was a deep compliment.

"It was deserved." Simone unrolled a spool of thread. "Good luck."

"I don't know if we need it, but we'll take it — just in case," said Nina. "Goodnight."

Until now, Nina hadn't realized it was possible to feel elated and discouraged at the same time. Simone had paid them compliments, and taken them away at the same time with that tiny warning for what the future might hold. That stung, but it didn't take away hope ... not entirely. They simply had to work harder than they'd ever worked in their entire lives if they wanted a recommendation from Simone Van Stewart.

No biggie, right? Just everything staked on the slimmest chance in the world.

She finished switching off all the lights but the security ones, all the twinkly ones threaded around display stands, sharing a single remote, leaving Christmas in the dark as she walked to the service door.