Doubull Indemnity

Epilogue

Isla, Didn't Order That. Or That.

"I didn't order this."

Phượng, shopkeeper and seamstress extraordinaire, pushed the brown papered package under my arm anyways.

I was a regular of Phượng's Fine Philly Fabrics. A long but narrow rowhouse had been converted into the tailor ages ago. Samples of vibrantly colored cloth hung from rows and rows and rows of racks that lined every wall. Bolts of bold patterned fabrics were stacked atop one another, filling in every open corner or available shelf space. Mannequins draped in stunning evening gowns and brilliantly red áo dài crowded the front window. Whenever I needed beads, buttons, ribbons, lace, sewing supplies, whatever, this was the place to go. Phượng's was my favorite of the fifty similarly dedicated stores on the block.

Yeah, fifty. They didn't call it Fabric Row for nothing.

I'd just finished a Sunday morning pop-in when Phượng caught me by the elbow and claimed I'd forgotten to pick up my order. Custom orders were not out of my realm of patronage, but I was, at present, too broke for anything beyond window shopping and sighing longing at cashmere samples.

"It's already paid. She said you'd pick it up yourself."

"Who said?"

Phượng patted me on the elbow. At that same moment, another woman—one of her daughters, I think—popped her head out of one of their fitting rooms and called for her mother in a fast string of Vietnamese. With a wink, the shop owner toddled off, regulating me to no fucks given status, apparently.

Oh well, I guess. Free fabrics for you, girlfriend.

Out on the sidewalk, I rubbed my hands together for warmth and lit up a cigarette, before hooking an impatient pinkie into the brown paper parcel.

My pointed manicure dragged delicately along the edge. The bundle inside was cool and soft. No way—was this silk? I pinched the smoke between my lips and attacked the remaining packaging with two hands, nails shredding the paper to confetti.

Yep. This was silk. Yards of silk. It was a beautiful, deep plum color. What the heck? This shit was expensive. I'd have noticed that big of a charge to my credit card even if I'd drunkenly called in this order. My birthday was over half a year away, Christmas even farther out, and I doubt neither my mother nor my sisters would have called in such an extravagant gift for no reason.

Was this a mix-up? Had I received another customer's order on accident? But Phượng knew me. She'd never mixed up an order before.

Who else knew I shopped here?

Who else had access to my phonebook?

Took a long drag from my cig, letting the nicotine wash out the jitters taking up residence in my nerves.

Did you buy me fabric??? I texted Phoebe.

Her response was instant: I didn't even have my own bank account when I was ALIVE.

My throat tightened.

Greg had been wearing the jacket I patched up for him. Every night I've seen him this week. Course, he'd been wearing it every night because he still refused to sit still for longer than thirty minutes with me in that office. At least he'd stopped complaining about me sewing on work hours. Though that could be a symptom of just how brief we'd been keeping our conversations altogether lately. We were both still a smidge ticked off with one another, which meant he was withholding his miniscule spare time from me, and I was withholding my delightful and highly amusing client recaps to him.