When did I know that Lacey was mine? In what felt like an instant. She swanned into our Polk Street shop on a weekday, on a runway of sunlit tile with midday’s bright aura that fills our south-facing entrance, as self-assured as Lana Turner in tight sweater and slacks. Turned heads and whispers went unnoticed, as if Lacey couldn’t give one whit about them. Had no time for triviality. No use for adulation. I wondered then. Is she glamorous because she’s an exceptional face and body, or is she exceptional because she radiates glamour? No matter. I was hers at once.
We chatted while she browsed the season’s new collection. Lacey lived in a country town, above the fabric shop she opened before the war. Her family was glad to invest in Lacey’s local business venture to keep her close to home.
