A
bigail’s arms were crossed over her chest. She scowled as I walked into the thickly carpeted waiting area of Best Laid Planners.
“You’re late. You’ve kept everyone waiting.”
Nice to see you, too.
“Sorry,” I said, which wasn’t true. I was late because I preferred Garrett’s company and kisses to Abigail’s orders and harangues. But I didn’t say that. Easier to go with the flow than start an argument.
A few months ago, starting arguments with Abigail, striking a match against the grit of her easily ignited temper, had been one of my favorite pastimes. It was entertaining and oh so easy to do. One quick jab, one sharp, well-placed bit of sarcasm touched to the fuse of Abigail’s ire, was all it took to set off a satisfyingly showy but ultimately harmless shower of sparks. But now, those formerly inert sparks had the power to sting, and I avoided them whenever possible.
Abigail started to say something just as Byron entered the waiting room carrying my dress. He chirped a cheery good morning before giving each of us a quick air kiss and asking us to follow him back to the dressing area. Abigail scurried after him and I followed, not having time to take off my coat.
“Sorry I’m late, Byron.”
“No worries, Liza. It gave us a little time to steam the dress again.”
We turned a corner and entered a large, brightly lit room furnished with a series of white upholstered slipper chairs sitting around a beveled glass coffee table set with an ornate sterling silver coffee service. At one end of the room and half circled by mirrors stood a small platform, the spot where the bride-to-be stood clad in her elaborate white gown, turning slowly like a plastic ballerina on a little girl’s music box, while the audience sat apart, drinking tea and deciding if she would do.
“Abigail, why don’t you have a seat? Or help yourself to some coffee. It’s a new Ethiopian organic that you’re going to love. Liza, darling, follow me.
“Here we go,” Byron said as he hung the dress up on a hook in a curtained changing area. “I’ve got to go and check on your accessories, see if everything came in. Shall I send back one of the girls to help zip you up?”
“That’s okay. I can do it myself.”
Eight minutes later, after much stalling in the changing room, I nervously pushed aside the curtain and emerged.
Abigail looked up and stared at me as I came into the room, her coffee cup frozen midway between the saucer and her lips.
Hearing the rustling of my skirts, Byron, who was standing at a side table arranging a collection of white slippers, pumps, and sandals, turned.
“Liza? What?” His jaw dropped onto his chest and for a moment, he just stood there, speechless and disbelieving.
“What…what happened? The seamstress just altered that dress. Last month it fit perfectly and now…It’s just hanging on you!”
Byron rolled his head back dramatically and let out a loud, frustrated, must-I-do-everything-myself sort of sigh, stomped toward a half-open door and called out, “Someone get Olga on the phone. Now! She must have sent over another customer’s gown by mistake. This one can’t belong to Liza. The poor girl is drowning in it!”
Leslie came scurrying in, looked at me in the dress, and gasped. “Oh my! I’ll call Olga and see what happened.”
“I don’t care what happened,” Byron said with an uncharacteristically impatient edge to his voice. “Just tell her to get the right dress over here. Now.”
“Right away.” Leslie left the room and went back to her office to make the call.
Byron turned back to me. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how this happened. What are the chances of the seamstress having two clients with the exact same dress? Especially a gown from such an exclusive designer? Velma Wong only made six of those dresses.”
“Well, I certainly hope so,” Abigail said impatiently, finding her voice again. “I don’t want to open my copy of
Society Bride
the week after the wedding only to see a picture of Liza and another girl, both in the same dress!”
“No, no.” Byron rushed to assure her. “That’s not going to happen. I promise you. We’ll get this straightened out and have Liza’s gown sent over immediately. Don’t worry. In the meantime, we can start trying on shoes and jewelry. We’ll have it narrowed down by the time your dress arrives. All right? Or we can put off choosing accessories until this afternoon and start working on the trousseau now. The racks are all ready to go. If you’d like, I can have them brought in. I’m so sorry about all this.”
I swallowed hard, reluctant to speak. “Byron, wait a minute. I…I don’t think there was a mistake. I’m pretty sure this is my dress.”
He yelped out a half-laugh. “No, it’s not. It couldn’t be, darling. It’s enormous on you!”
“I know. I…but I’ve lost weight.”
Abigail put her coffee cup down on the glass table and stood up. “No, Liza. Byron’s right. This can’t be your dress. There’s been some kind of mix-up.
“She has lost weight,” Abigail confirmed to Byron, “but it can’t have been that much, surely no more than a couple of pounds. Otherwise, I’d have noticed, wouldn’t I?”
She was right to sound incredulous. Frankly, spending almost a week together in the same suite, I’d been amazed that she hadn’t said anything about my weight, or about the sound of my retching in the bathroom. But it was a big suite and Abigail’s bathroom was far from mine. Plus, she’d been pretty wrapped up in the wedding. Too wrapped up to actually notice me, inconsequential as I was, among the distracting collage of floral arrangements, to-do lists, and white tulle.
Byron had a sharper eye. If I hadn’t been wearing my thick winter coat to ward off the cold of an unseasonably chilly April morning, I bet he’d have noticed right off.
“I’m actually down quite a bit. Seventeen pounds,” I said, but then quickly added, “but that’s total. It’s only another twelve since the last fitting.”
This didn’t sound as bad in my mind, but when I looked in the mirror I could see that the numbers didn’t make any difference. Twelve pounds or twenty, the bottom line was that my beautiful dress didn’t fit anymore.
Byron put his hand on my arm. “Liza, what’s going on? You don’t need to diet, darling. You’re a beautiful girl, and the gown looked lovely on you as it was. You were already a size six to begin with. What made you think you needed to be thinner?”
“I don’t. I didn’t. I…I wasn’t dieting. I just can’t eat, that’s all. Nerves, I guess. Nothing to worry about. All brides get pre-wedding jitters. You said so yourself.”
“Seventeen pounds is more than a case of jitters, Liza. Just look at yourself.”
He took me by the hand and led me to the mirror-encircled platform. He was right. The dress was drowning me. It was as if my nightmare, the one where I kept shrinking to the point where the gown swallowed me completely, was coming true.
Abigail came up and stood behind me, peering over my right shoulder into the mirror, flattening her mouth into an appraising line. “Can it be altered? Or would we be better off to order a whole new dress in a smaller size?”
Byron raised his eyebrows curiously, as if he didn’t quite grasp her meaning. “Well, yes, we can alter it, but don’t you think we ought to take Liza to a doctor? Just to see if there is a physical or”—the word “psychological” hung in the air, but Byron didn’t say it aloud—“some other sort of problem. A seventeen-pound weight loss on a girl as slender as Liza is worrisome.”
Abigail nodded. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right. Liza, I’ll call the doctor and make an appointment for you next time you’re in New Bern. You need to see a gynecologist before the wedding, anyway.”
I blushed, wishing she wouldn’t feel quite so free to talk about the intimate details of my personal life in front of Byron, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“That way we’ll be able to kill two birds with one stone.” Abigail smiled, the matter now settled in her mind.
“But,” Byron said cautiously, “don’t you think she ought to see someone right away?”
Abigail waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, I’m sure everything is all right. Liza’s schedule this spring was just insane. She barely had time to eat, that’s all. I’ll keep a better eye on her from here on out, make sure she eats properly. I’m sure she’ll be able to gain back at least a few extra pounds before the wedding.
“In fact,” she said slowly, her eyes narrowing as she reached down to my waist and pinched a good two inches of white satin between her fingers, “perhaps Olga should leave a little extra room when she does the alterations. Better to have the gown a little too big than too small. Don’t you agree? That would be a disaster.”
Looking at my reflection, Byron’s gaze flickered from Abigail, fussing with the waistline of my dress, to my face and then back to Abigail before circling in front of me to discuss the possible use of a more heavily padded bra as a means of filling the gown’s suddenly-too-big bosom without the use of deeper darts.
I stood still on the platform with my eyes to the front and my arms out, saying nothing, waiting for them to finish, feeling like that little music box ballerina, turning and turning but never going anywhere, molded from plastic, feeling nothing.
Hours later, after Olga, the redoubtable Russian seamstress, had been called over to Byron’s offices to re-measure and re-pin the gown she’d already altered once, we were finally able to move on to the business of choosing accessories.
I’m tall, so it was quickly decided that the white satin slingbacks with a two-inch kitten heel would be the best choice. This meant that the dress had to be shortened another inch and a half.
Grumbling in Russian through a mouthful of straight pins, Olga got on her knees next to the platform and started marking the hem.
In the meantime, Byron brought out a series of black velvet trays loaded with a virtual mine of sparkling diamond and pearl chokers, necklaces, and earrings that had been sent over from jewelers. Byron chose a piece from one tray, a breathtaking necklace of alternating oval-and emerald-cut diamonds, and looped it around my neck, coming around behind me to fasten the platinum clasp and adjusting it so the necklace rested evenly below the jut of my collarbones.
“Liza,” he said with a smile as he stepped back to admire his handiwork, “you have an exquisite neck. And this piece only enhances it. And the dress.” He turned to look at Abigail, who was standing to one side with her hand resting lightly near her own throat, looking very pleased.
“I love the emerald-cut stones,” she said. “So elegant.”
Byron nodded. “Of course, we can try on the others if you’d like but, for my money, this is the way to go.”
“I agree,” said Abigail. “It’s perfect.”
“Good. Now I’m sure you’ve rented jewels for special occasions before, Abigail, but just to remind you, we’ll need to call to make arrangements with the insurance—”
Abigail held up her hand. “No, no. That won’t be necessary. I’m not renting it. I’m buying it. For Liza.”
Abigail’s mouth stretched into a wide, beatific smile. For the first time that day, she looked me in the eye.
“It’s your wedding present.” She paused, waiting for me to gasp, or cry, or launch into some appropriately emotional expression of surprise and gratitude.
“I don’t want it.”
Abigail’s sunny smile shriveled. I was glad.
“What do you mean? If you’re concerned about the cost, don’t be. It’s expensive, yes, but this
is
your wedding and you are my niece, Susan’s only child, and my only living relative. I want your wedding to be entirely perfect, completely memorable. You mustn’t worry about the expense. I can afford it.”
I shook my head. “You’re not listening. I don’t
want
it. I don’t want you to buy it for me. I don’t even want you to rent it for me. I don’t like it, and I don’t want to wear it at my wedding.”
Abigail’s brow furrowed. She looked to Byron, searching for an explanation for my inexplicable behavior, but he looked as perplexed as she did.
“Perhaps…perhaps you saw another piece you prefer?” Byron hopped off the platform, walked over to the jewelry trays, and stood in front of them, his finger to his lips, considering the options. “The sunflower vine choker is pretty. A bit ornate, perhaps, but the neckline of the dress is so simple that I think it would—”
“No. I don’t want that. I don’t want any of those.”
Sidestepping Olga, who spat out a pin and cursed me in Russian, I climbed down from the platform, walked to the coatrack, picked up my purse, reached inside, and pulled out a plastic storage bag.
“I’m going to wear this.”
Giving Abigail a quick glance, Byron crossed the room and took the plastic bag from my hand. He pulled out the necklace with its five strands of silver beading twisted together and held it up to the light.
“You know,” he said, his voice a bit surprised, “this is really quite lovely. Where did you get it?”
“I made it. I was wearing it when Garrett proposed.” I didn’t bother to add that I hadn’t accepted that initial proposal. “He wants me to wear it at the wedding. That’s what I want too.”
Byron cast a tentative glance in Abigail’s direction. “It’s really very pretty. Not diamonds, but it does catch the light nicely and is the perfect shape for the neckline. I think it’s sweet, especially because it carries such a romantic history with it.”
Abigail erupted. “No!”
Ah, there it was—the old shower of sparks. I fought to keep myself from smiling.
“Certainly not!” Abigail stormed across the room and snatched the necklace out of Byron’s hand. “It simply won’t do!”
I put my hands on my hips. One of Olga’s straight pins jabbed into my flesh, but I didn’t care. “Well, it’s going to have to do, because this is my wedding and this is what I want to wear to it!”
“Liza! Be reasonable!” She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. I could practically see her counting to ten in her mind.
“It is a pretty piece,” she admitted grudgingly. “And I’m sure it’s very special to you and to Garrett, but it isn’t appropriate for the wedding. It’s not formal enough, not for the ceremony.
“I’ve got an idea,” she said, brightening. “Why don’t you wear it with your going-away ensemble. Hmm?”