We were ten miles outside Nashville, in a run-down strip mall far from any boutique Vanessa would ever set foot in.

A mother rolled a squeaky metal cart past us, loading it up with marked-down children’s winter coats.

“Honey, you haven’t stepped into a store like this since the 1980s,” Margaret said.

“I’m well aware of that,” I said.

I hitched the canvas grocery tote higher on my shoulder and moved farther into the cramped aisles.

The air smelled of old paper and stale laundry soap.

I walked past a rack of brightly colored blouses by the front register and headed for a section of drab, castoff clothing in the back corner.