Shoe Done It

and turn more gracefully. The only eligible man I’d met in months was Nick the gymnast. At least I assumed he was eligible.

Despite the strong Cuban coffee, I fell asleep on the couch, warm and secure in the knowledge I hadn’t broken any of Aunt Grace’s rules and wasn’t going to. When I woke up the next morning, I went to my closet to find just the right outfit. It was Saturday and I knew the shop would be packed with last-minute shoppers with big plans for Saturday night—the Benefit, the parties, whatever. I decided to wear a knit dress from the Marc Jacobs spring collection. It was no longer spring, but hopefully no one would notice. Dolce had special ordered the dress for a customer who then decided not to buy it.

When it arrived, the woman shuddered. “I had no idea the colors would be so bright. I’m getting a headache just looking at them.”

Dolce never broke a sweat or lost her cool. All she did was turn around and insist I try on the blue vertical striped skirt with attached checkered blouse. The red blazer thrown casually over my shoulders completed the ensemble. “I know it’s bright, but you’ve got the shoulders to pull it off,” Dolce said, patting me on the back. When she said that, I wondered if maybe it was too bright and called attention to my shoulders that were admittedly a tad broad. “It’s yours,” she said. “Pay me when you can.” That’s the kind of warmhearted, generous woman my boss was. How could I refuse her anything she asked?

Today was the perfect day to wear the outfit with my new push-up bra and some hip-hugger panties. I buckled a wide belt around my waist, snapped on a vintage Bakelite bracelet, slipped into a pair of metallic ballet flats and called a cab.

“Lady, you got an hour wait at least,” the dispatcher said. “Busy day today.”

Dolce badly needed me to come early, so I took the bus. Some day I’d save enough for the Chevy Corvette I’d always coveted, but fortunately San Francisco was basically a small, pedestrian-friendly city and the bus took me almost to my door. One thing was for sure: I was the only person on the Nineteen Polk who was wearing Marc Jacobs and carrying a pair of handmade silver shoes in a shopping bag.

More than a few heads turned as I lurched down the aisle toward an empty seat by the window. Admiring glances I was sure. I was feeling good until I sat down, opened the Chronicle’s fashion section and read that “Muted colors are fall’s key look.” I frowned, then folded the newspaper and stuffed it under the seat. No one could say I was muted today. Far from it. Ah well. It wasn’t fall yet, not officially. But if I were in Florida now, I’d fit in perfectly. No muted colors in South Beach.

Just before eight I arrived at the Victorian mansion that Dolce’s great-aunt had left her over a year ago. My boss had done a fabulous job converting it into Dolce’s Boutique. I let myself in with my own key. The twelve-foot- tall entry hall with the original crown molding was lined with racks of filmy scarves and clunky costume jewelry. The real stuff was locked up in a glass case in the great room. That was the room with the marble fireplace and a curved bay window where the morning sun streamed in on the racks of gorgeous dresses. The kind of dresses suitable for evenings at the theatre, the symphony and coming-out parties in Pacific Heights.

Dolce must be in her office, the converted closet under the grand staircase that led to her charming quarters on the second floor.

“I love living above the store,” Dolce always said. “How else could I live in an 1800s house in a happening neighborhood?” She never got a break, but maybe she didn’t want one. She was totally dedicated to fashion and her customers.

I was about to knock on the closet-turned-office door when I heard voices. Dolce was not alone. I dropped my hand and stood shamelessly listening.

“I can’t let you have the shoes before you pay for them, MarySue. What if something happened to them? A spill, a crack?” Dolce asked in a firm voice.

I was so shocked, I almost dropped my bag. First, I couldn’t believe a Dolce customer wouldn’t have paid in full for the shoes. And second, that the customer was MarySue Jensen, who was originally a Garibaldi, an old San Francisco family.

“Dolce, I’ve got to have the shoes. I’ve scrimped. I’ve saved. I’ve sweated for those shoes. I gave you a sizable deposit.” MarySue sounded desperate.

“But MarySue . . .”

“I’m the cochair. I can’t go without my shoes, can I? You know I can’t. My dress is nothing without the shoes. You know it’s true. When I saw the picture of them in Vogue, it was love at first sight. I had to have them. My picture will be in the paper tomorrow. And you’ll be mentioned. Don’t forget that.”

“Publicity is nice, but money makes the world turn,” Dolce said.

I nodded. I’d heard my boss say that before.

“We had a deal,” Dolce continued. “You told me you’d have the rest of the money by today, so I ordered the shoes for you. You give me the money, I give you the shoes. Rita is on her way as we speak with the shoes in hand. You know I can sell those shoes ten times over, but I’m giving you first crack at them. But I have to have the money you owe me today. No checks. Cash or credit card.”

I gripped the handle of the shopping bag tightly. I pictured MarySue, a tall, statuesque blond who was one of Dolce’s best customers, facing off with my boss. It wasn’t a pretty picture.

“I can’t,” MarySue said. “Not today. Things happen, Dolce, can’t you understand? I thought I’d have the rest of the money today, but . . .” Her voice broke and there was a long silence. I wondered if MarySue was crying. I imagined her tears running down her face, smearing her mascara and leaving a streaky trail on her perfect skin.

“I’ll hold them for you until six o’clock tonight,” Dolce said. “I’ll stay open late if that helps. As soon as you get the money, they’re yours.”

“You don’t understand. I have to be there at six thirty with my shoes on. I’m the cochair. I can’t appear in anything else. I have to have those shoes now.” MarySue’s voice rose.

“MarySue, stop, you’re hurting me,” Dolce said loudly. “Let go.”

I froze. I leaned against the door wondering if I should burst in or call 911.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m not myself, Dolce. I’ve got a lot on my mind. If Jim finds out how much they cost, he’ll kill me.”

“There’s no way he’ll find out. My lips are sealed. Everything that goes on at Dolce’s stays here. You know that. I took over the shop because this place is a safe haven just like it was for my great-aunt. I want my customers to feel the same.”

“I know. They do. I love coming here. Everyone does. The atmosphere. Everything. I’ll have the rest of the money next week, I swear I will. I just wish you’d trust me.”

“Of course I trust you, but I’m running a business, MarySue. I want you to have the shoes, but I have expenses. The property taxes alone are out of sight.”

“Your taxes are not my problem, Dolce.”

“The shoes are your problem, MarySue.”

I heard the sound of a chair being scraped across the refinished hardwood floor, then a loud thump like something or someone had fallen on the floor. I pressed my ear against the door. All I heard was the whir of a ceiling fan. I reached for the antique doorknob, but it wouldn’t turn.

From inside I heard a cry. “Help!”

Two

I reached for my cell phone, but my hands were shaking so much I couldn’t even dial 911. Face it, I was no good in a crisis.

Finally I heard MarySue’s voice on the other side of the door.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean it. Give me the shoes and I’ll forget we had this conversation.”

I heaved a sigh of relief.

“No,” Dolce said. She sounded tired.

“Yes,” MarySue shouted. “I’ll have the money for you on Monday.”

“Now,” Dolce said.

The door jerked open and MarySue stormed out. I jumped out of the way, fearing another collision. MarySue