Kimber Chin

Crystal hustled out of the back stockroom as the bell over the store door rang. Officially they were closed, but as she was in the store, she figured they might as well be open.

The sight that greeted her made her second guess her policy. Two huge male mountains scowled at the selection, extreme irritation written across their craggy faces.

“Good evening.” She fixed a smile on her lips, dusting off her clothes. “I’m Crystal. What can I help you with?”

“I need a da-” the older man caught himself in time “monkey suit.” More grumbles she couldn’t make out from behind that bushy beard.

“My sister, his daughter is getting married,” the younger, clean shaven one added, his baseball cap in hand. He was handsome with a weathered face, square chin, blue eyes.

“I see,” that they were here under duress. Neither of them wanting to wear a tux. “Does she have a particular style in mind?”

“She doesn’t know,” the brother confessed.

“Said I could walk her down the aisle like I am.” That was one easy going bride. They were both wearing checked cotton shirts, rugged blue jeans, scuffed work boots. “But no, her mother said we were to dress up. Surprise her, she said.” The father glowered at his feet. “More like make us look like jack-”

“Dad.” A caution. “Mom gave us this.” The son held out a clear baggie. Crystal took it, his callused fingers brushing hers, a shiver of awareness nearly paralyzing her arm.

Fabric samples. “This will help.” She circled the two of them, measuring them with her eyes. “I can’t see you as James Bond types.”

“Da…” another self censor, “English fairy” from the father.

Blue eyes met Crystal’s and they both smiled. The beard, it was a clue, reminded her of… “On a warm summers evening on a train bound for nowhere” she sang softly under her breath.

The gristly older man’s face lit up. “You know The Gambler?”

Jackpot. “My name’s Crystal, isn’t it?”

“Crystal Gayle.” He stepped closer. He smelled of sap and the outdoors. Must be lumber men. “You do have brown eyes.” He laughed at his own wit. “This here,” a big hand slapped the son’s shoulder, “is Kenny.”

“I prefer Ken.” A tolerant smile.

She smiled back, she couldn’t help it, and then forced herself to focus on the dad. “I bet you’d make a handsome gambler. You have the shoulders.” She spread a measuring tape across them. “To pull it off. Not many men do. A vest in the silver to match your daughter’s colors. A string tie. Black coat. Hhhmmm…” She paused. “You’d need a silver buckle to make it work though.” She distracted him as she measured his imposing girth.

“I have one of those,” a proud boom. “Won it in the lumberjack showdown of ‘89. Might be too flashy though, solid silver.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.” She ignored the son’s endearing dimple. “The flashier, the better.”