Plum

I knew Shira as a sweet-faced girl poking her head into Rochel’s house — Ma, we’re running out to Tzivi’s — on Shabbos afternoons, but she had great taste even then. She used to gush over the dresses I brought home from Plum, talking about how she’d pair one with a belt and another with statement jewelry. She said it all with authority, not unusual for a teenager, but she stood out because her instincts were almost always right.

Now, she was 23 and moving back to the neighborhood after two years in Eretz Yisrael. I remember being 23 with a knack for fashion, sure I’d never be able to make a living from it. It had been one of my own mother’s friends who had referred me to Plum back when it was still new, before it became the institution it is today.

It had been Rochel’s idea for us to carpool. “Her husband is going to need a ride to kollel every day if she takes their car. We’ll cover gas.”

And it wasn’t an unpleasant ride. Sixteen minutes without traffic, no more than 35 minutes with it.