Her mother had spent half her life making things at home.
Costumes.
Cakes.
Quilts.
Christmas ornaments.
Funeral casseroles.
Homemade was not necessarily an insult.
“It’s for my mother,” Pearl said.
“Not your portfolio.”
Evan shrugged.
“I’m just saying, if you print fifty copies, it’ll look cheap.”
“Twenty.”
“What?”
“Twenty invitations.”
“Whatever.”
Pearl turned back toward the screen.
“Print one proof.”
Evan sighed.
“Are you done?”
“Yes.”
“Did you save it?”
Pearl’s stomach tightened.
She looked at the screen.
“I thought it saved automatically.”
Evan laughed again.
Pearl turned slowly.
This time, she did not feel embarrassed.
She felt angry.
“You don’t have to laugh.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Evan looked around as if searching for another witness.
“I’m trying to help.”
“No.”
Pearl kept her voice calm.
“You have not helped me once.”
“You could have asked.”
“I did.”
“You asked me to do it for you.”
“I asked you to show me.”
“That’s not our job.”
“Then say that politely.”
Evan folded his arms.
Pearl continued.
“You could have said, ‘Ma’am, we can’t enter handwritten orders, but the computers are over there.’”
“That’s basically what I said.”
“No.”
Pearl shook her head.
“You told me to bring somebody who could use a computer.”
Evan’s face hardened.
“Because you obviously needed help.”
“And I found it.”
He laughed once.
“From who?”
“Me.”
That silenced him briefly.
Pearl turned back to the monitor.
She found SAVE.
The computer asked for an email.
She entered hers.
A message appeared:
PROJECT SAVED.
Pearl breathed out.
“Good.”
Then she clicked PRINT PROOF.
The screen instructed her to request staff assistance.
She looked toward Evan.
“I need one proof.”
He walked behind the counter.
“Paper?”
“The cream matte.”
“Color?”
“Navy and light blue.”
“That border might print flat.”
“That’s fine.”
“The flowers look old-fashioned.”
“I know.”
“The headline is too conservative.”
Pearl stared at him.
“I didn’t ask you to redesign it.”
“I’m telling you what a professional would tell you.”
“You haven’t acted like a professional since I walked in.”
Evan’s eyes narrowed.
Pearl surprised herself.
She was not someone who enjoyed confrontation.
But she was also not helpless.
Age had not removed her ability to recognize disrespect.
Evan printed the proof.
The machine hummed.
A sheet emerged.
He placed it on the counter.
Pearl picked it up carefully.
Her heart sank.
The colors looked dull.
Not because her design was bad.
The paper was wrong.
Bright white.
Glossy.
She looked at Evan.
“This isn’t the paper I chose.”
“It’s a proof.”
“I asked for cream.”
“Proofs come on standard stock.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“It’s obvious.”
“To you.”
Evan shrugged.
Pearl looked at the invitation again.
“You know what?”
“What?”
“I’ll take the file.”
“You already emailed it.”
“Good.”
She folded her handwritten pages.
Placed them back in the envelope.
Then she put the glossy proof inside too.
Evan said: