Page 55 of The Second Chance Cinema
My Mother’s Shop isn’t a shop. A shop suggests a choice. Inside a shop, you pick out a little round pair of goldrimmed spectacles that perch on the bridge of your nose and make you feel studious. Out to dinner that night, you lean forward into the conversation with the air of an Ivy undergrad. Your gaze in the mirror lingers a second too long. You look good. There it is, staring you in the face. Your choice.
At My Mother’s Shop, you don’t get a choice. The dresses choose you. They’re polite about it, sure. Each dress is spaced ten inches apart on beautiful copper racks that line the edges of the room like ballet bars. Fabrics are shaded in Painted Lady row home hues: cream, dusty rose, violet. The swirl of tulle and lace brings to mind hundreds of blushing girls posed for a cotillion. When the front door swings open and a breeze inspires them, the girls start to dance.
Ellie made Melinda’s idea of a dress shop sound like a romantic endeavor. Really, it had been a strategic business decision. Drake had turned over late one night to find Melinda reading a book calledSmall Business: An Art Form. “Specificity is key,” the first chapter said. Also, “have a niche.” Despite becoming a known presence in the community, her mother had struggled to find regular customers for her antique shop. Was there a way to focus on one thing? Melinda had wondered out loud.
She’d spent the next few weeks writing down niche ideas on a yellow-lined pad. Then, when one of their former teachers brought in her old wedding dress and asked if she would want to sell it, Melinda wrote down a new niche and underlined it:Previously loved dresses.
Drake scanned the next section.
There are wedding dresses and party dresses, tea dresses and Sunday-afternoon dresses. There are “this old things?” and picnic-in-the-park dresses. None of them try to hide that they’ve lived. When a garment comes in—usually by way of the shop owner, Melinda, herself—it is revived by hand with love. Melinda waits for a whisper to tell her what to change and where to embellish. Then, she writes a note for the next wearer based on what that whisper tells her.
It’s a written game of telephone, if you will.
On the front counter of My Mother’s Shop, a candle burns that’s worth a visit in itself. Cinnamon and sage bubble inside a handsome cauldron.
Melinda was still burning those candles. Drake had started the long lineage. Liquid Gold, they were called. The wax was poured inside fancy jelly jars. He’d bought the first Liquid Gold from Clara’s, their town’s only gift shop. Clara herself had helped him pick out a gift for Melinda. “This one,” she’d said, tapping her spindly finger on the top of the lid. “She’ll love it.”
Apparently, Melinda did love it, or maybe Jamie had the same great idea.
The scent has a melody that washes over you as you wander the racks and stop to admire the handwritten lavender notes tucked inside each dress.
“Your wish comes true at midnight” the first one says. Reading the words etched in calligraphy, one can summon an author with tousled blonde curls, the presence of a grandfather clock ticking its way through a wicked, late night, and a Louisa May Alcott book hinged on the edge of an antique desk. The note, fittingly, is paired with a traditional white bridal gown. Pearls hug a sweetheart neckline that begs to be worn by someone who believes in romance, thekind of love that ran through meadows and pledged itself to someone in an oath.
A cheekier dress with a seafoam beaded bodice tells the wearer to find the best man at the wedding. It knows its audience.
A plum silk dress with a plunging neckline and soft flutter sleeves kindly requests: Meet me in a reverie.
Pause, now.
Zoom out for a second.
Imagine you’re standing in the textbook definition of an idyllic small town. A towering old-fashioned clock tower tells the wrong time, making everybody a few minutes late to their appointments. That kind of thing is okay here. The streets of this traditional block are theme-park clean, and the trees that line those pristine streets are named for the folks who live there. One of them, a spruce called Mayor Steve, is dedicated to a man who ran for mayor years ago and just missed the mark. They named a tree after him to smooth over any friction.
If Ellie had found the tree assigned to Drake for his ambitious community service efforts, she didn’t mention it.
When you see people at the grocery store and ask about their families, you care about those answers. You feel the reward of buying an incredible scented candle at the one gift shop in town, knowing you’re truly supporting local businesses because you saw for yourself the way that the owner, Clara, was able to expand into a bigger storefront.
Zoom back in.
The dress shop is nestled right in the heart of all that.
The door jingles as you enter. It gets stuck when it’s half-way open. Jamie, Melinda’s husband, might run over to giveit a pull like it hurt your feelings. On my first visit to My Mother’s Shop, Jamie disappears into the attic apartment above us. Then, Melinda explains the truth about the surroundings. She is fascinated by giving previously loved things a second chance. She believes that old items passed to a new owner are a reminder that we should appreciate the imperfect versions of ourselves. The dresses represent all the lives we’ve lived. Even though we’re different than we used to be, evolving is safe in this space. Sacred, even.
“Go explore now.” Melinda waves from behind the counter. Jamie returns to her side. They drink peppermint tea with honey sticks, each reading their respective hardcover books behind the desk. When Jamie laughs at a line, Melinda turns to smile at him like she’s the luckiest.
Drake didn’t love reading about Jamie. He wasn’t jealous, but did anyone want to read about their ex and the person they ended up with?
Beyond that laugh, though, and the crinkled books turning to a new page, the store is silent. It’s designed that way. Because if you listen closely, the girls will start to chatter.
“Lift up my train on the stairs, won’t you?”
“Take me out to a garden, I want to see the roses.”
“Somebody, buy me a pony.”
“I. Want. To. Tango!”
“Let me be your muse.”
