"Heather, why are you looking at men's socks?" Sasha's baffled look shifted into a sly grin. "Oh, I know. You're buying something for a new lover."

Heather laughed as she nabbed a crab cake from a passing waiter. "I wish." She'd never had a lover. Even her ex-husband didn't qualify for that. She wrapped the crab cake in a paper napkin, then slipped it into her small black purse.

Female customers strutted about, wearing gowns that cost enough to rebuild New Orleans, their stilettos clicking on the gray marble floor. Heather hoped they couldn't tell that her black cocktail dress was homemade.

Glass counters displayed purses and scarves, designed by Echarpe. An elegant staircase curved up to the second floor. A portion of the second floor was lined with reflective glass. One-way mirrors, Heather figured. As much as this merchandise cost, there was probably an army of security guards up there watching the customers like hawks.

The walls on the ground floor were painted a soft gray and boasted a series of black-and-white photos. She wandered over for a closer look. Wow, Princess Di wearing an Echarpe gown.

Marilyn Monroe in an Echarpe dress. Cary Grant in an Echarpe tuxedo. This guy knew everybody.

"How old is Echarpe?" she asked Sasha. "In his seventies?"

"I don't know. I've never met him." Sasha pivoted like she was working the runway while she looked around to see who was watching her.

"You never met him? But you were in his show in Paris just a few weeks ago." Heather and her longtime friend Sasha had both dreamed of glorious careers in the world of high fashion from the moment they'd discovered their Barbie dolls had cooler clothes than anyone else in the small town of Schnitzelberg, Texas. Heather was now a schoolteacher, while Sasha had become a successful fashion model. Heather waffled between being enormously proud of her friend and being reluctantly envious.