On my latest wander through the secondhand store I spotted a 1950s tulle underskirt. The kind of floaty thing that practically hums with forgotten dances.
It was a perfect fit, thanks to an adjustable elastic band with buttons.
I knew at once: this was destined for Clare Sparkle.
I scooped it up, brought it home, and slipped it over her there in the kitchen. No sooner had the tulle settled than music as ABBA, and the Nutcracker, of course—and suddenly, there she was: twirling and spinning like she’d choreographed joy itself.
Meanwhile, I stirred dinner. Happiness.
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