“’Once again, the charges against Monty Flint fall flat’,” November read to her employees. “’The Police are furious and some sources say he is buying off the judge.’”

“I think Monty Flint is being persecuted,” said Gayle primly. “He gets blamed for everything that goes wrong in this city.” Since being promoted to manager, she had taken on what she considered a more mature attitude. November gave her a week before she was back to her silly, gossipy self.

“Didn’t the police think he was behind the Red Shoe Murders?” asked Alyson Griffin, one of the new salespeople.

“Exactly,” Gayle said. “Doesn't it just show you?”

“That’s the last headline,” November stood up and dropped her empty coffee cup in the garbage. “We open in ten minutes. How does the sales floor look?”

“Perfect,” Gayle smiled.

“I got my newest watercolor up above the Gucci display,” Alyson said as she unpacked a box of Prada heels.

November nodded. “Good. That wall was looking blank. And I have a customer looking at your ‘Dreams of Light’, so you’ll have to find something for the wall near the window soon.”

“That’ll be the fourth painting I’ve sold this month!” Alyson laughed. “Thank you, November!”

“Thank you,” November collected a stack of catalogs and walked out to the sales floor. “We made the paper last week because of your work. I swear we’re becoming more a museum than a shoe shop.” She didn't mention the scathing comments about herself in the article--accusations of smuggling stolen goods, having connections with the mob, even hints that she might have been the real murderer all along.

It'll blow over, she told herself, dropping the catalogs onto the counter with a slap. It will all blow over.
Gayle followed her carrying a pile of shoes for the new summer displays and Alyson brought out a box of shells and tiny bags of sand.

“Beach theme,” she said, answering November’s unspoken question. “I was up all night making these bags. Now we can have the sand without the mess.”

“Bringing in an artist not only gives this shop a touch of style, but also guarantees the displays will be spectacular," November said, smiling.

“Pretty,” Kimberly Powell said walking through the door.
Alyson smiled.

"Here's our high school graduate!" November said, giving her a hug. “Did you get the letter, Kim?”

“I did,” Kimberly waved a piece of paper as she danced across the floor. “I start at Stanford in the fall.”

“I knew it,” Gayle said. “I told you she was a shoe-in.”

Kimberly and Alyson groaned.

“Oh, come on,” Gayle giggled. “I thought that was pretty funny.”

“And you still want to work here?” November asked.

“That was the whole point,” Kimberly said, leaning against the counter. “Did you like the Marc Jacobs I ordered? They’re my favorite this year.”

“Flawless,” November agreed. “The best move I ever made was making you my buyer. You are certainly welcome to keep that position.”

“I want to do sales too,” Kimberly said, slipping her silver name badge over her head. “Part time sales and part time buyer. Does that sound okay?”

“Deal. Girls, we’re open!”

Gayle unlocked the doors and three customers walked right in. They stayed busy until midmorning and it was during the lull that David Spencer walked in.

"I wanted to see if we were still on for dinner tonight,” he said to November.

“Yes, but we’ll have to think of something else to celebrate. I’ve decided not to sell.”

David looked surprised.

“I thought Mr. Holister’s offer was too good to refuse? I thought you wanted to go to design school?”

“It was and I did.”

“So what changed?”

“I just can’t let this place go,” November looked around. “I love this shop. I went to sign the paperwork and realized I don’t want to do anything else but own my art gallery shoe boutique.”

David smiled.

“Good for you. How did Mr. Holister take it?”

“Like the gentleman he is,” November said. “He said he understood, but if I ever change my mind he wants first option.”

“Why not?” David said. “I suppose it’s in honor of his wife. I wanted to ask you, have you heard from Rose?”

“Just that one letter explaining and apologizing. Is there any news about the case?”

“She took the deal,” David said. “She’s testifying against the whole organization for a plea deal with immunity. Looks like her father was another Monty Flint and Rose is selling out the whole gang.”

“I wish she didn’t have to go through this,” November shook her head. “I wish I could help her.”

“You did. Your testimony gave her the leverage she needed to get the immunity thrown in.”

November smiled.

“Come to lunch with me,” David said. “I want to talk to you about Monty Flint. There's arumor that he's heard of your shop and--"

“Excuse me, are you November Cole?” a thin woman with gold curls and very white teeth approached them.

“I am. Can I help you?”

“I’ve heard wonderful things about your shop,” the woman said smiling. “Everyone who is anyone says I have to shop here or I’ll be cast out of society. I want to see the summer Pradas, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” November said. “They’re right over here, Ms…?”

“Mrs. Flint,” the woman said, holding out a well-groomed hand. “Karen Flint.”

Copyright © 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Laura Lyle