Priceless : A Novel Part 10

And her favorite!

"I knew Charlotte Williams in high school and she had no morals or conscience then. She was such a b.i.t.c.h and never failed to make fun of anyone who wasn't wearing the right clothes or shoes. I hated her then and I am GLAD her life is ruined. She's probably still doing better than the people her criminal father ripped off. I hope she rots in h.e.l.l."

The really sad thing, she realized, was how true much of it was. She had been a b.i.t.c.h in high school. She had made fun of what other, less well-off kids were wearing. It had been her favorite sport. She couldn't help thinking there was something fair about the pleasure other people were taking in her downfall now. Even if it hurt like h.e.l.l to see herself trashed on the screen.

Jackson walked into the house, dropped his heavy bag, and called out to his mother.

She came out and met him in the hall, giving him a big hug. "How was work?"

He shrugged. "Same as ever. Most of the houses down there are unsalvageable. We do what we can, but it's not much." He spotted Charlotte sitting at the computer. "Looking for things on Amazon?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, but his mom poked him hard in the chest. "Will you quit baiting her?" She turned to Charlotte. "Jackson is spending his days in the lower Ninth Ward, helping to rebuild some of those houses down there-the ones that have anything left to build on, anyway."

"That's very n.o.ble of you." Charlotte wasn't in the mood to be made fun of.

He raised his eyebrows. "It's called supporting the community. Google it."

"I already did. Right after I Googled 'superiority complex.'"

Millie laughed. "You two are silly. You know, Jackson has a band, Charlotte. You two have a love of music in common. I've told him all about your voice, of course."

"About a million times."

"Really?" Charlotte was still feeling b.i.t.c.hy. "I haven't heard of your band at all."

"That doesn't surprise me. You don't really get out of the Upper East Side all that much, do you?"

Millie threw up her hands. "I'm going to leave you two children to it. Dinner in half an hour."

Once she'd left the room, they just stared at each for a moment, and then Jackson snorted a laugh and headed down the hall to change.

THE NEXT MORNING, Charlotte woke up in a practical mood. She needed more clothes, and it didn't look as if she was going to get a job as quickly as she'd thought. She needed to maximize every penny. She flipped through her guidebook to the shopping section and soon found what she was looking for. Encouraged, she carefully packed up another of her linen shift dresses and a Chanel suit it was already too hot to wear and headed out the door.

Magazine Street wasn't as famous as Rodeo Drive or Fifth Avenue, but it contained almost as many couture stores and designer houses as both of them. Charlotte didn't pause, though, just walked fast, heading for the end of the street.

n.o.blesse N'oubliez billed itself as a vintage couture store, and as soon as Charlotte stepped through the door, she knew she'd come to the right place. The walls were painted peac.o.c.k blue, and Louis XIV chairs were covered in pink fake fur and arranged around an Eames table. Clothing was arranged by color and subdivided by piece. It reminded Charlotte of her closet, and she turned impulsively to the girl behind the counter.

"Why by color?"

The girl looked up from her magazine, utterly unfazed by the question. "Because it's Tuesday. Because it's January. Because I felt like it. Sometimes I do it by piece, all the skirts together, sometimes I do it by designer, all the Lagerfeld together."

"Chronologically, though, right?"

The girl looked scandalized. "Of course. How else could I find things?" She tipped her neat little head to one side. "Are you looking for something in particular?"

Charlotte was a tiny bit embarra.s.sed. "I wondered if you did trade."

The girl looked interested. "Sure. For couture only, though. What do you have?"

"Armani and Chanel. A shift and a suit." She opened her bag and took them out. The girl touched the garments knowledgeably, fingering the seams, examining them closely.

"The Armani is 2008, right?"

"Yes."

"I heard they had problems with the b.u.t.tons in that collection."

"I hadn't noticed."

"I'll give you five hundred dollars in trade."

"It cost twelve hundred."

"That's nice to know."

Charlotte laughed, feeling as if it had been too long. "And the Chanel?"

The girl smiled at her. "It's lovely. Do you wear it much?"

Charlotte put the most recent time out of her head. "Not very. And it's a little formal for down here."

"Oh, you'd be surprised. But it'll fly off my racks, so I'll give you eight hundred for it." Charlotte opened her mouth to complain that it had cost four times that, but the girl held up her hand. "I already have three just like it, so that's the best I can do."

"A thousand."

"Nine hundred."

"Deal. Can I take the money in the form of clothing? a.s.suming I find something I like?"

Now it was the other girl's turn to laugh. "You can leave that part to me. I know you better than you know yourself. It's my job." She held out her hand. "Kat Karraby."

"Charlotte Williams."

"Pleased to meetcha, Charlotte."

Kat had a sleek Mary Quant bob, the two points of which met nearly under her chin and were dyed red to match her lipstick. She had large blue eyes and a cheeky expression. She was dressed in head-to-toe mid-'60s couture, presumably to go with the hairdo, and Charlotte would have traded her car for just the boots. They had goldfish in the heels.

Kat walked over to the racks and stood for a moment, thinking. "Are you wanting to stick with high couture, or can I experiment a little?"

Charlotte shrugged. "I'm trying to get a job, so nothing too out there."

"OK." Kat leaned forward and pulled a cream trouser suit off the rack. Even on the hanger, it was awesome.

"More Armani? Too dressy and too easily wrinkled."

Kat laughed. "You're right. How about this?"

"Early Gaultier? Too '80s."

"This?"

"Katherine Hamnett. Mid-'80s, still. Mind you, she did some nice things before the big T-shirts."

Kat looked at her strangely and then reached for something else. Charlotte smiled.

"Ah, early '90s Calvin Klein. Simple but a little boxy for me, maybe. I'm too small-chested. How about-"

Kat beat her to it. "Donna Karan. Why didn't I go there first?" She held up a deceptively simple pale green jersey dress, and her eyes sparkled. "This is going to look great, and it's only two hundred dollars."

Charlotte leaped up to try on the dress. Silk jersey. Lined. Beautiful. Easy to wear, up or down. She smiled at Kat as she went by. "You really do know your stuff. Your boss must love you."

"She does." Kat laughed. "She's me."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

Kat's story was an interesting one.

Her family was New Orleans royalty. Her mother had been the Komus Queen, which meant nothing to Charlotte but was apparently the crowning achievement, so to speak, for a young New Orleanian of a certain cla.s.s. Her father owned one of the oldest restaurants in the city, and Kat had led as pampered and spoiled a life as Charlotte had. They were the same age, too, and Charlotte couldn't help wondering if they'd have been friends in New York. Kat's older sister had followed in her mother's footsteps, doing the whole debutante deal, as Kat described it with rolling eyes, but Kat had always gone her own way. She'd opened her store when she was just eighteen, using a loan from her daddy that she'd long since paid back.

Charlotte told her about her mother's clothing collection, and Kat nearly choked on her coffee.

"Zandra Rhodes, really? Ozzie Clark? That stuff was already vintage when she was working."

It was always funny to Charlotte when strangers knew who her mother was, but for once she appreciated it. She liked this girl, and wanted to be liked by her. It was a novel experience, caring about someone else's opinion.

"I think she was like us. She got into modeling because she got into fashion first, as a stylist."

Kat sighed. "That's my dream job. I get a chance every so often down here, but there aren't that many styling jobs for left-of-center stylists in New Orleans. The rich play it pretty straight, and the hipsters aren't so interested in high couture." She thought of something. "I did get a mention in Vogue Vogue, though." She went behind the counter and pulled out a very dog-eared copy. "After Katrina, everyone came here for a while, to support the city and all that good stuff, and I got a picture!" She flipped through and handed it to Charlotte.

The shot was actually Kat herself, although at first Charlotte wasn't sure. Kat was working a Jean Seberg boy cut, blond, wearing a '50s beach dress with a Mardi Gras print, rope-soled sandals, and a fabulous straw beach bag with a sombrero-wearing donkey embroidered on it. A little accompanying blurb mentioned the store and referred to it as a mecca for vintage couture.

"The dress is Hartnell, right? I love the bag. Who is it?"

Kat laughed. "Target." She p.r.o.nounced it with a French accent.

Charlotte frowned. "I don't know them."

Kat thought she was joking and roared. When Charlotte just looked perplexed, she laughed even harder. "You have a lot to learn, Charlotte. Lucky for you I've got plenty of free time." She got to her feet. "All right, let's go get you a job. I've got to get changed, though."

"Why? You look awesome."

Kat grinned. "Why, thank you, darlin'. But we're going to go see my daddy, and he likes me a little more ladylike."

WHEN CHARLOTTE AND Kat walked into the restaurant an hour or so later, a large man looked out through the kitchen door and shouted. Kat walked into the restaurant an hour or so later, a large man looked out through the kitchen door and shouted.

"Katherine Karraby, don't you look a picture!"

"Hey, Daddy. How y'all doing in here today?"

Kat was wearing an original Laura Ashley tea dress from the early '70s, long enough to cover the Dr. Martens underneath. Charlotte had grinned to see them, but Kat pointed out that one could only sell out so far.

"Daddy likes me to wear a dress, but he's never noticed shoes in his life."

Her father, David Karraby III, was as tall as Charlotte's father but a great deal larger in every other respect. He was easily as charismatic, though, and made Charlotte feel immediately at ease.

"Charlotte, you say? Of the North Carolina Charlottes?" He roared with laughter and gave her a friendly hug. Behind his back, Kat rolled her eyes in apology. "Why, there's nothing at all of you, nothing but the frame you came with." He turned toward the kitchen. "Louis, we need beignets out here, and lay on the sugar with a heavy hand, man." He pulled out chairs for them both, and they sat, as if they were all old friends.

David Karraby managed somehow to make Charlotte feel like the center of attention while at the same time greeting absolutely everyone who walked in, some of them by name. At one point, he got up to hug a party of about two dozen people, and Kat leaned over to explain.

"The Karrabys have been in New Orleans since before it was American. We're Creoles, ya know? As far as my family is concerned, the vieux carre vieux carre is the only is the only carre carre, baby, though even we moved out when the tourists moved in."

Charlotte laughed but didn't really understand. Like most New Yorkers, she took little interest in the history of other cities. All she knew was that for some reason, New Orleans felt good to her, reminded her of Paris, and these friendly Karrabys were part of it.

"Even though many of our customers are from out of town, most are locals or frequent visitors, and my father prides himself on never forgetting a name or face." She watched her dad working, with affection. "He loves it, really, wouldn't want to be anywhere but here. After Katrina, we were one of the first places open."

David Karraby sat back down, having grabbed yet more food from somewhere. He pressed it on them. "Eat, Charlotte, eat. You'll need stamina to make it through the humidity of our summers." He sat back and regarded her thoughtfully. "You know, when you walked in, I thought you looked familiar, but I a.s.sumed it was because you were a friend of Kat's. But I just put it together-you're Jacob Williams's daughter, aren't you?"

There was a silence. Charlotte carefully put down her beignet and dusted off her fingers. She looked at Kat, who just smiled.

"Daddy, you're getting slow in your old age. I recognized her as soon as she walked into my store, but I was raised with more gentility than you, it would seem."

Charlotte stood. "I'll leave. I'm sorry."

Kat and David were horrified. "Oh, sit down, darlin', sit down!" he said. "The goings on in New York couldn't matter less of a whit down here, for one thing, and secondly, if we were all held liable for the sins of our poppas, the Louisiana jails would be even fuller than they are." Karraby looked sorry that he'd worried her, but his eyes were still as sparkly as his daughter's. "New Orleans is a sanctuary for many, and you are welcome to our fair city, Charlotte Williams."

Kat leaned forward. "She needs a job, Daddy."

He smiled. "Can you wait a table, sugar?"

Charlotte tried to look confident. "I can try."

He laughed. "Well, if you can't, you can always wash dishes. That would be novel for you, I'll wager. You can start tomorrow night."

Another crowd came in, and he bounded to his feet.

"Mr. Mayor! Bonjour! Bonjour!" He launched into a charming, laughter-filled mix of French and English, clasping everyone by the hand and greeting them as if they'd been on a desert island for a decade.

Kat watched her daddy at work and grinned. "You'd never think the mayor was at our house just this past weekend, would you?"