Monica Ellis had barely touched the handle when the sales associate appeared behind her.
“Please don’t handle that one.”
Monica turned slowly.
The boutique occupied three floors of a limestone building on Madison Avenue, all cream marble, polished brass, smoked glass, and lighting designed to make every handbag look as though it had been discovered inside a museum vault. The morning crowd was still thin. Two women examined scarves near the entrance, a man in a gray suit waited beside the watch counter, and soft piano music floated through speakers Monica could not see.
The woman standing behind her was young, perhaps twenty-seven, with straight blond hair tucked behind both ears and a fitted black dress that matched the uniform of every other sales associate in the store. A small gold nameplate read BLAIR WHITMORE.
Monica looked back at the handbag.
Brown calfskin.
Structured sides.
Dark burgundy handles.
Small brass feet.
Nothing about it appeared especially dramatic unless someone knew what they were looking at.
Monica did.
That was why she had stopped.
“I’m sorry?”
Blair smiled.
“That piece is from our heritage collection.”
“I know.”
“It isn’t part of the regular sales floor.”
Monica glanced at the glass shelf supporting it.
There was no barrier.
No sign saying not to touch.
No rope.
No display case.
Only a small cream card beneath the bag.
ARCHIVE MODEL, 1998
PRIVATE PRESENTATION COLLECTION
Monica looked back at Blair.
“Then perhaps it shouldn’t be where customers can reach it.”
Blair’s smile tightened slightly.
“Most clients understand.”
There it was.
Small enough to deny later.
Clear enough to feel.
Monica had spent twenty-two years as a physical therapist working with children and families. She knew how much meaning human beings could pack into a neutral sentence when they wanted the words to remain technically innocent.
Most clients understand.
She looked at Blair’s face.
“I’m a client?”
“Are you meeting someone?”
“Yes.”
“Which associate?”
“I’m not meeting an associate.”
Blair glanced toward Monica’s denim jacket, white knit shirt, wide-leg black trousers, and white sneakers.
Monica noticed.
Of course she noticed.
The jacket was old.
Not distressed for effect.
Actually old.
She had bought it in 2016 and liked the way it fit.
Blair looked toward the front desk.
“If you have a service appointment, repairs are on the second floor.”
“I don’t.”
“Personal shopping?”
“No.”
Blair waited.
Monica waited too.
Finally Blair said:
“Then I’m not sure who you would be meeting.”
Monica almost smiled.
“That sounds like a problem for one of us.”
The young woman’s expression hardened.
Monica turned back toward the handbag.
She raised one hand again.
Blair stepped closer.
“Ma’am, I did ask you not to touch it.”
Monica stopped with her fingers an inch away.
“Why?”
“It’s an archival piece.”
“You said that.”
“It has historical value.”
“I know.”
“Then you understand.”
Monica looked at her.
“No.”
Blair blinked.
“If touching the bag is prohibited, I understand.”
“If only certain customers are allowed to touch it, I’d like you to explain the rule.”
Blair’s lips parted.
For the first time, the polished answer disappeared.
“No customer should be handling it without assistance.”
Monica nodded.
“Good.”
“That is a rule.”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you say that first?”
Blair’s expression changed.
“I did.”
“No.”
“You told me most clients understand.”
“That was not the rule.”
A man at another display glanced toward them.
Blair noticed.
The muscles around her mouth tightened.
“I am trying to help you.”
Monica looked back at the brown bag.
“I didn’t ask for help.”
“Then perhaps I can direct you to the area you need.”
“I’m already in it.”
Blair looked around.
“Handbags?”
“Yes.”
“Are you shopping for something today?”
Monica turned fully toward her.
“Would my answer change whether I’m allowed to stand here?”
“No.”
“Then why do you need it?”
The young woman exhaled.