I glance at the elevators. Victoriana’s boarding the one that goes all the way to the penthouse. She’s scratching the dog’s ears. I picture myself with them, flying all the way to the sky.
Chapter 3
A buyer came in, and liked the shoes so well that he paid more for them than usual. With the money, the shoemaker was able to purchase leather for two pairs of shoes.
—“The Elves and the Shoemaker”
“Hey, this place looks a lot better than when I left.” I pass the coffee shop on my way back to the Johnston Murphy shoe emergency. It’s crowded with conventioneers, but last night’s ketchup stains have been wiped from the tables, the straw wrappers and napkins that littered the floor are gone, and the floor itself sparkles like the beach sand outside. Meg and another employee are pouring coffee and plating croissants. “How’d you get it clean so quick?”
“It was like this when I got here,” she says. “So you saw Her Royal Highness then?”
I nod, eyes still scanning the shop. “She seemed nice.”
“Nice looking, you mean,” Meg says. “Not like you actually spoke to her.”
“I did, actually.” I still don’t believe it myself. “She has a dog, and she said that repairing shoes was . . . honorable.”
Meg makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a snort.
I glance around. Even the honey squirter is wiped clean, and the sugar shaker actually glitters. “It was not like this last night. Sean and Brendan left it a total mess. I figured you’d flip when you saw.”
“You were here last night when they closed?” Meg asks. When I nod, she says, “And you’re back again by seven?”
“Six. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal. You can’t work sixteen-hour days.”
“We need the money.”
Meg nods. She gets it. Summers are tough. During the winter, we usually hire an extra employee, but in the summer, when not as many people stay at the hotel, the bills pile up. It’s summer now, but I’m not going to the beach or sleeping in. What Meg doesn’t know is that my mother took another job, so I’m all alone.
“‘Our incomes are like our shoes; if too small, they gall and pinch us, but if too large, they cause us to stumble and to trip,’” Meg says. “John Locke said that.”
“I think I could handle a too-large income right about now.” I look down. “There was a puddle of milk under that table.”
“Mopped it.”
“Before, you said it was clean when you came in.”
“I was lying. I didn’t want you to know that I’m a cleaning genius. If it gets around, they might want to hire me as a chambermaid, and I’d miss the glamorous world of coffee. Now, can we drop it?”
“If we can drop talking about how I shouldn’t work double shifts.”
Meg frowns and puts her hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry. I just . . . wish I could help.”
I shake off her hand. “You could give me an espresso.”
“Got it.” She gets out a cup.
I head for my counter and start working on the sole of the shoe I left. It’s not that I don’t agree with Meg. But I need to work here. We can’t afford what someone else with my skills would cost, so I have to. Losing our family business would be too much of a blow for my mother to take.
At least I did most of the repairs last night. Maybe after this one, I can work on what’s in my secret box, the one I keep under the past-due bills.
I take it out for a second, just to look. Inside is a prototype for a ladies’ high-heel kelly green sandal, skeletal structure, hidden platform for comfort as well as style. I made it.
Most of our customers are businessmen in town for meetings. They travel so much they don’t notice that their seven-hundred-dollar Esquivel loafer is wearing thin until the day of a big meeting. Since they’re desperate, we can charge fifty and up for a rush job. They can afford it.
I hardly ever get ladies’ shoes. The kind of women who stay here throw out shoes if a strap breaks, even if they’ve only been worn once. But sometimes, a maid or au pair will bring in one of her employer’s trashed Giuseppe Zanottis or Donald Pliners, hoping to make it over for herself. That’s how I learned that those strappy sandals can sell for hundreds of dollars.
And the thing is, it would be fun to make them. They come in every color and texture and style. The really good ones are like art. I know shoes, and if I had the materials, I could make shoes just as good as those expensive ones. Better.
So that’s my dream, to become an internationally known shoe designer, instead of just a shoe boy in a hotel. I may repair soles right now, but in my soul, I know I can do more.
It would be nice if I could go to college to learn to market what I design. But, for now, we need to keep the rent mostly paid.
“That’s hot.” Meg comes up behind me with the coffee. “Where’d you get it? Some rich lady?”
I slam the box shut. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. It’s gorgeous. You made it, didn’t you?” She inches her hand over to the box. “Come on. I’ve seen you drawing shoes and stuff when you think no one’s looking. I, of all people, won’t make fun of you.”
I relent. She’s right. I know all her secrets, like this one time when we were twelve and she had a crush on a lifeguard. She went to the pool after work, her bikini top stuffed with cotton balls, only to forget about them when she jumped into the water.
I was the one who alerted her, let her walk behind me until we were out of the sun god’s sight, and went back and explained to him that the cotton balls he was picking out of the drain trap were mine, for a bunion.
No, Meg wouldn’t make fun of me. I slide the sandal toward her and walk over to the auto-soler with the loafer.
“I love it.” She traces the strap with her finger. “Can I try it on?”
I did make it in a size six, Meg’s size. So, on some subconscious level, I was probably looking for a model. Still, the idea of someone, some actual person, wearing them is scary.
“Please. My feet are really pretty. I’ve been told I could be a foot model.”
“Right.” I laugh.
“True. Someday, you’ll see an ad for toenail fungus cream, and it’ll be me.” She holds up the shoe. “I love this design. I want to wear it.”
“You can’t afford it. This is going to be a five-hundred-dollar pair of shoes.”
“Oh, at least a thousand, I’m sure.”
“Not for people like us who shop at Tar-jay.” But I’m flattered she likes them so much, so I say, “Oh, okay.”
She makes a big deal of taking off her own sandals (Mossimo, store brand of Target, $14.99 in faux leather). She does have cute feet with red nail polish that matches her T-shirt. She slips the shoe onto her foot, then stops to admire it before holding it out to me. She says, all wide-eyed, “‘But you see, I have the other slipper.’”
I know this quote. “Right. Disney’s Cinderella.”
“Any girl would feel like Cinderella in these shoes.” Meg slips on the other shoe. Then, she stands and struts the hallway between our shops, strutting and dancing like a runway model. “Meg is wearing a new design in emerald green by that exciting new designer, Johnny Marco.”