Summer at Tiffany...

Crossing Fifth Avenue with the Upper East Side ladies in their spiffy Lilly Dache hats and debutantes sporting golden beach tans headed for the Terrace Room at the Plaza, I felt out of my league in my scuffed saddle shoes...

"So where do you think the bargains are?" I asked Marty. Nothing set my heart racing like a for sale sign.

"Hattie Carnegie?" She laughed. "No--Bergdorf's, like we planned."

"Are you serious?"

Bergdorf's wouldn't have a sale, I muttered, as we peered into their surrealistic show windows. But Marty was right, a SUMMER SALE sign was discreetly displayed. Once inside, the tantalizing scent of Chanel No. 5 sent me into a dream-like trance as I milled around with the elite. How my mother would love this store. She had the greatest eye for high fashion and would have had one of the designers' dresses copied in no time.

As soon as we spotted the MARKED DOWN sign, we made a dive for it. Marty snapped up a pair of white gloves immediately--great bargain. Buried in the back, I found a crisp pink and white pique dress, with a fitted bolero.

"It's five dollars!" I cried, showing Marty how the tiny pleats in the skirt billowed out like a Ginger Rogers dress, a show-off number to dance in. Even she gasped.

When I marched to the front counter to buy it, a snooty saleslady squinted through her chic glasses to examine the price tag.

"This dress is fifty dollars," she said, pointing to a tiny zero with her lurid red fingernail. Fifty dollars! Was she kidding?

I looked to make sure--that dress was meant for me. How could a meager snip of a summer dress be on sale for fifty dollars?

I almost keeled over.

Summer at Tiffany

By Marjorie Hart