The Coldest Summer✓

Nine

Around five Eleanor and I arrive at the boutique where her office resides. Sam has gone to a spa after our late lunch, and I still have to deal with my fashion emergency—as referred to by Eleanor—as soon as possible. This ordeal always gives me a headache, so I literally can't wait for this day to come to an end.

Lurking my eyes around this nicely decorated office, I can't cease wondering how a classy woman like Eleanor could be this nice to some poor strangers coming from some other part of the country. Maybe not all rich people are as conceited as I normally believe.

I should really graduate from the prejudice school.

"Just a moment, Kira. I need to confirm my flight," Eleanor tells me, holding a telephone receiver.

"Sure," I easily oblige.

A few minutes later we head for the main task. The boutique has two sections, ladies and gents, separated by a gorgeous lounging area. We go to our respective section, and my eyebrows arch at the sight of all the stocks inside the place.

Modernly furnished in white and cream, the boutique surely looks fancy and feminine. Shoes, clothes, and jewels are professionally displayed.

Eleanor goes through a few dresses in the racks, as though searching for the particular one among the others. She does it so elegantly as she moves slowly while measuring me with her eyes from time to time. Frankly all the dresses look like designer brands.

Can I do any of it justice?

"This . . ." Eleanor frowns, undecided. "No, not good." She tosses it aside, then wanders around and plucks another one.

Thank God! I suck in a deep breath of relief, for the first one wasn't my scene at all.

After catching and discarding, Eleanor finds an interesting dress at last. It is an off-shoulder burgundy dress, cascading up to above the knees when she vaguely lays it on me.

Kind of my scene, I guess.

"I'm sure this one will do," says Eleanor, then looks at me expectantly. "What do you think?"

"I think . . . I like it." My smile is bright.

"Okay, go ahead and try it. And this one, too." She hands me another one, a black high-slit maxi dress. "I'll be back in a minute; I'm expecting one more important call," she says smilingly.

I slip into the fitting room and take a moment eyeing my reflection through a full-length mirror. It refuses to say a word; it just stares back at me with a pitiful expression. I can't even tell my current demeanor, for it's like I'm living different lifetimes at once.

I feel happy, and then I'm not sure if I am when a strange fright seems to be lurking around, like a smoldering heat ready to turn into dangerous flames. It's overwhelming. Sighing, I take off the caftan I'm wearing so as to try the new dresses.

The black one looks very fancy on me—royal-like fancy—and it's a bit too much for a simple evening I'm looking forward to. Turning my body left and right, eyes on the mirror, I decide to go on to the next one. I put the black one off, and on follows the burgundy one.

It's simple yet elegant, and goes well with my thick curls; it's exactly what I need, I decide. The silky fabric slides smoothly as I fit in the dress. I like it already. However, the horror starts when I try to zip it up. Ugh, I hate this job!

It's always a hassle in my case, which makes me despise dresses with back zippers. I'm about to pull it forcefully when I recall that I must treat this dress with utmost respect. Sighing, I suddenly hear some footsteps approaching and I know I can use some help.