Audrey Hepburn's Pearls: Part I

Chapter 101.3: 1995, Ruiz

Chapter 101.3: 1995, Ruiz

The fabric store was quiet this Sunday morning. Not many people were here, probably all at church. But I was here alone, fingering different fabrics and walking around.

I hadn't planned to come here. I'd been wandering around, and found myself in the neighborhood. Overcome with memories of the last time I'd been to Ambrose's favorite fabric store, my feet had taken me here on their own. The memory of Ambrose slipping on the slush at the door made me pause as I'd walked over the threshold. It was as if our ghosts were permanently stuck there, him slipping and sliding and holding onto my shoulder as my eyes bugged out of their sockets in fear for him.

He'd been wearing his Louboutins. Or were they Manolos? I couldn't remember anymore. I'd wanted to remember.

Thinking about it now, touching a sheer piece of mint organza on a roll that had been left out on a table, I recalled which shoes he'd been wearing. I shook my head by mistake, my thoughts too overpowering, too in my own world. He had to have been wearing the Manolos. I'd have remembered the red color of the under parts of the shoes if they'd been the Louboutins. He'd taught me that, about the Louboutins. How the red was trademarked, no other shoe could have a red color like that on the bottoms.

I moved on, walking the familiar creaky wood floors. This was an old building, the floors ancient. It was like walking in a museum, a fabric museum. The colors were piled high to the ceiling on the shelves. Rainbow colors.

I was just browsing, but I couldn't help but think about what Ambrose could make with these fabrics. He'd slip them under the needle of my Nana's sewing machine and create all these amazing looks. Purples, reds, dark blues. Pretty glass jewels, rhinestones, pearls.

Pearls.

I wanted to wear my Nana's pearls with something he made. My Audrey pearls.

I closed my eyes and breathed in, my hand resting above me on a ruby red cloth that was slippery. Breathing out, opening my eyes, I stared at that ruby red cloth.

I wanted him to make a dress. Make me a dress. He said I was his muse, so I bet he could think of something...

But now... I continued to walk down the skinny aisle. I ducked under a roll sticking out. The light blue cloth hanging down trailed on my head, tickling the part in my hair. I breathed in deep again, the smell of brand new clothes flooding in.

Ambrose. I'd ran out on Ambrose again. He hadn't called. How had I made him feel? That guilt again, like it was all my fault and none of his.

But part of my heart really felt like it wasn't any of his fault. That was a problem. Confusing all of me. It was insane. This was his fault. But there was still this huge part that was guilty, that I'd hurt him and... I had.

Neither of us was right. How could we be right in this? We'd hurt each other. That was the bottom line. Wasn't it?

I wandered, my hands spread out on either side of me. My fingers trailed the rainbows of fabrics, being careful not to scrape my nails against their delicate threads to damage them. Ambrose had taught me that, too. How if I did that on some delicate tulle or a nylon I could pull a run in it and we'd have to pay for it, be honest about it and pay for the entire ruined roll.

Ambrose... 

My ears perked. I'd walked into a part of the store where a hidden radio was behind a stack of little rolls of lace and other trimmings.

This song. I paused, the creaking of the wood under me stopping, too. My hand paused on a shiny white silk. Then I retracted it quickly, remembering what he'd told me about how the oils from our hands can stain some silks.

Oh, Ambrose, this song. My heart ached. A memory... Would Ambrose remember, too? He would. I knew he would.

This song was Save the Best For Last by Vanessa Williams. It had been his favorite song when it came out. We'd danced to it together at the club how many times? Out on the dance floor, holding each other as friends, smiling. Sometimes we'd be all goofy, making fun of the song. Other times, he'd be so serious. He'd hold me around the waist, and I'd rest my face against his body, smelling his carnation perfume so deeply.

I was getting a choke in my throat. My fist clenched at my side, unable to control it. The first time we'd danced to this song together...

How the hell did I not realize at that time, dancing too slowly to Vanessa Williams with him, that he'd been in love with me? How did I miss it? He'd been so lonely back then. He'd only just moved in with Miss Cha Cha a couple months before. He'd been energized, getting ready for the Valentine's Ball. He'd made me a long red dress with pink lace details. He'd worn a matching one, white with red lace.

I could still feel that smooth white silk of his dress. A 1930's inspired masterpiece. My eyes traveled up, to the white silk right next to my head. It was placed right there, in the perfect position.

That first time we'd danced to this song. All I could remember was how he'd felt. How warm he was. How strong, sure on his feet. I'd felt so safe, dancing with my best friend in the whole wide world so soon after Miss Paula and Miss Kitty had passed away. It was the first time I'd felt safe since then, the first time I knew things were going to be alright. How life was going to go on. We were going to go on.

I was shaking, trembling, standing here. The song was ending. I knew it so well.

I held my breath, and turned on my heel. My arms were stiff at my sides, trying to stop myself from the shaking. The wood of the floor creaked under me quickly as I made my way towards the exit, almost sprinting if not for having to dodge the haphazardly sticking out uneven rolls.

The music couldn't be heard near the exit, but it was haunting me. I stopped at the door, breathing in and out as if I'd just ran a marathon. My head dropped down, trying to catch my breath. When I saw I was standing on that same floor mat as my last memory of this store... How we were waiting to go outside in the blizzard... I forced myself to move. Get out of there.

Sure-footed, I dashed over the threshold, the ghosts of us seeming to grab at me. Take hold of me, not let me go.

I ran. Just ran.