Miss Scarlet's School of Patternless Sewing by KATHY CANO-MURILLO Page B

the pictures she had seen online and in tourist books—lots of red and brown brick buildings, and clean sidewalks lined with poplar trees trimmed in lights for the holiday season. She hoped to see them lit at night before she returned to New York City. In the meantime, Rosa begged Joseph to please drive her around the area, and he had no choice but to oblige.
    They slowly rode up and down the 120-year-old streets of Glendale Avenue, taking in the neighborhoods of historic cottages that had been updated into contemporary homes. Many were transformed into boutiques, gift shops, craft stores, New Age centers, and even a Christmas store. Dozens of passersbystrolled about the sidewalks to stop into one of the many eateries and pastry shops, while others lingered about the painted wood benches. Rosa admired the holiday decorations that had started several blocks back and traveled way farther than she could see.
    She got a kick out of the fact that one could buy a six-dollar plate of jumbo shrimp at a greasy take-out called Pete’s Fish and Chips, yet a few steps away explore the displays at a high-end doll museum.
    After twenty minutes of passenger-seat sightseeing, Joseph pulled into a parking spot on Fifty-eighth Avenue, let out a sigh of relief, and turned to her. “We’ve arrived. I’ll wait for you here until you’re done.”
    “Joseph, I’ve survived natural disasters; my melodramatic, power-hungry family; and ghosts. This final detour is like stitching a button on a jacket: I could do it in my sleep,” Rosa lectured as she popped open a crystal-covered compact and powdered her nose.
    “Fine. Remind me, am I supposed to be your husband again?” he asked.
    “Yes, if you don’t mind. Now, go have fun. I’ll call you when I’m ready. I won’t be long. I just want an early peek at the classroom.”
    “I’m not leaving, so get used to it,” he said. “I’ll stay in this toy of a car and comb over paperwork. I must admit, it is a satisfactory Thursday. The weather is quite accommodating. I can’t think of the last time we didn’t wear overcoats on December first.”
    “Bangkok, 1990,” Rosa said, licking her fingers to smooth down the sides of her silver hair that was cropped in a graduated bob. She ran her palms down the back of her neck, regretting the last-minute cut from her Manhattan stylist before leaving for Phoenix.
    Joseph shook his head. “All this so you can meet some strange girl.”
    Rosa opened the door and carefully lifted her tired, swollen legs out, one by one. Before she slammed it, she bent down, ever so slightly. “She’s not just
some strange girl
—her name is Scarlet Santana, and I think she might be the one.”
    Buttoning up her camelhair sweater, Rosa made her way up the busy sidewalk. Her veiny hand wobbled as she gripped the large metal handle of Vega’s Vicious Vinyl and pulled.
    The place reminded her of a bohemian gift shop in the East Village, except double the size. She was just about to peek outside and give an “OK, it’s all good!” sign to Joseph, when she heard, “Can I help you?”
    The tall young man who spoke was the spitting image of Rosa’s childhood heartthrob, Montgomery Clift—a Latino version of him anyway. With facial hair. The thick head of charcoal hair, bushy brows, a strong jaw, and wide eyes, topped with a casing of silent suffering—something she recognized immediately because she had one of her own.
    “I’m Rosa Garcia and I’m here to take the patternless sewing class with Miss Scarlet Santana.”
    “Oh, OK, great. For a second there I thought you were lost. Actually, the class starts Saturday,” he said.
    She laughed. “I know, dear. I wanted to come early to get the lay of the land. You need holiday decorations in here if you don’t mind me saying.”
    He glanced around the store. “I’d say you’re right. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rosa. I’m Marco Vega, the owner. On behalf of Scarlet, thanks for coming. Do you prefer Rosa