My Favorite Mistake (2 page)

Although…the halter-style gown was actual y quite nice. I peered at the designer label and my eyebrows shot up—
really
nice. Then I peered at the price tag and my eyebrows practical y flew off my head—a $2000 gown reduced to $249? Cindy would be crazy not to buy this dress, even if it wasn’t exactly what she was looking for. While juggling the other gowns, I stepped into the halter dress and twisted to zip it up in the back, then smoothed a hand over the skirt, reveling in the nubby texture of the seed pearls. Longing wel ed in my heart, surprising me, because I was the most no-nonsense person I knew—a dress couldn’t possibly have any power over me.

“That’s perfect on you,” said a salesclerk next to me.

“Oh, I’m helping a friend of mine,” I replied quickly.

“Pity,” the woman said, nodding toward a mirrored column a few feet away.

I glanced around, looking for Cindy in the frenzied mob, then reasoned I might as wel walk past the mirror on my way to find her. I moseyed over and stopped dead in my

tracks.

Even over the leotard the dress was dazzling, and for a few seconds, I
felt
dazzling—my makeup-free face and dark blond, disheveled ponytail notwithstanding. For my quickie Vegas wedding, I’d worn a “What Happens Here, Stays Here” T-shirt, which in hindsight, had been a big red flag to my state of mind. I’d told myself a hundred times that it wouldn’t have mattered if Redford and I had been married in a lavish church ceremony with al the trimmings; but now, looking at myself in the mirror wearing this glorious gown, I had to admit that the right wardrobe would have lent a touch of sophistication to the surreal occasion.

If
I ever married again, I would wear this dress…or something like it.

“Do you have any size sixteens?” a girl yel ed in my face. “I need a size sixteen!”

I shook my head, then realized that al around me, women were bartering unwanted gowns, some hoisting signs heralding their size. I relinquished the size four to a peanut-

sized woman, and during the hand-off, the rest of my bounty was ripped from my arms by circling gown-vultures. I was stil reeling when Cindy skidded to a stop in front of me.

“There you are!” she shrieked over the melee. “I found my dress!”

Indeed, over her leotard she wore a sweet, strapless white satin gown with a princess waistline. Laughing like a child, she twirled, sending the ful skirt bil owing around her.

“It’s perfect,” I agreed. The dress
was
perfect for Cindy’s cherubic beauty, but I felt a pang of sadness as I glanced down at the halter dress I wore…it would have to be sacrificed to the vortex of bargain-hunting brides, which had, if anything, increased in intensity as latecomers descended on the leftovers and another round of frantic stealing and swapping ensued.

Cindy stopped twirling and stared at me. “Wow, that dress looks awesome on you.”

I flushed. “I was just trying it on…for you. It was the closest thing I could find.”

Cindy’s blue eyes bugged. “You should keep it, Denise. If Barry got a look at you in that dress, he’d fal on his knees and beg you to marry him.”

I laughed. “Right.” Barry had never been on his knees in my presence—to propose or do anything else—but I had to admit, I was tempted.

A flushed, middle-aged woman stopped and looked me up and down. “Are you going to keep that dress?” Without waiting for an answer, she proceeded to pick up the fabric of

the skirt to scrutinize the pearls.

A proprietary feeling came over and I firmly removed her hand from my—er,
the
dress. “I haven’t decided.”

The woman glared at my bare left hand. “My daughter Sylvie already has a wedding date.”

I frowned. “So?”

“So,” the woman snapped, “what good wil that dress do you hanging in your closet?”

She was testy, but she had a very good point, especial y considering the fact that I’d been lamenting only yesterday how smal my closet was. Stil , what business was it of hers if the dress hung in my cramped closet until it dry-rotted? (A distinct possibility.)

Cindy stepped up and crossed her arms. “My friend is going to get married again someday.” Cindy stil harbored lingering guilt over my impromptu marriage—she blamed

herself for getting the flu and leaving me to spend Christmas and New Year’s Eve in Las Vegas by myself. Otherwise, I might not have fal en under Redford’s il icit spel .

“Again? Someday?” The lady snorted and her body language clearly said that women who didn’t get it right the first time around didn’t deserve a production the second time

around. Another good point. I
had
blown it the first time I’d walked down the aisle—wel , okay, to be morbidly honest I hadn’t “walked down the aisle.” I was married in a chapel drive-through, which, in my defense, had seemed the most economical route at the time.

My groom, who I barely knew, was a gorgeous officer on leave. And the spontaneous marriage had been prompted by intense physical chemistry (Redford was rather spectacularly endowed), and perhaps a bit of misplaced patriotism that I had mistaken for love. It was one of the oldest clichés in the book—an observation which, I realized rueful y, was also a cliché. The biggest mistake of my life was redundant. Ridiculously, tears pooled in my eyes.

Cindy gaped at me. I never cried…
ever.

“There, there,” the older woman said, and actual y patted my arm. “You’l feel better once you take off that dress.”

Cindy drew herself up. “Keep moving, lady—the dress is ours.”

The woman huffed and stalked away, head pivoting, presumably looking for other women she could provoke to tears.

Mortified, I blinked like mad to rid my eyes of the moisture. “I don’t know…what happened.”

“Never mind,” Cindy said in her best-friend voice. “Let’s go pay for our dresses.”

I shook my head. “I can’t buy a wedding dress, Cindy.”

“Of course you can…everyone knows you have a fortune squirreled away from clipped coupons and rebates.”

I had a reputation among my friends for being, shal I say, “thrifty.” “I don’t mean I can’t afford it. I mean I…I don’t think I’l ever get married…again.” But if that were true, why hadn’t I simply handed over the dress to the pushy woman?

Cindy shrugged. “Fine. If you stil feel that way in six months, sel the dress on eBay. Knowing you, you’l probably make money on it.”

I bit my lower lip. Cindy was right—even if I took the dress home, no one was going to stick a gun to my head and make me get married. Barry seemed to be as leery of walking

down the aisle as I was. Although if one day Barry got the urge…

I almost laughed out loud—Barry wasn’t the “urge getting” kind of guy. He was just as methodical and nonsensical as I was, which explained how we had contentedly dated off

and on for the past two years without the drama that most couples endure. I was lucky. Luck-
eee.

“It’s a great deal,” Cindy urged in a singsongy voice.

I looked at the price tag and wavered at the sight of the red slash through the original price of $2000 and replaced with the hastily-scrawled $249. I loved red slashes. It’s a great deal. And I probably
could
turn around and sel the dress on eBay for a profit. In fact, I might make enough to surprise Barry with plane tickets for a vacation. He’d been wanting to go to Vegas, and I’d been resistant, for reasons that now seem childish…

As childish as me standing here obsessing about buying a gown simply because it resurrected too many memories…? Memories a wedding dress might exorcise…?

“Okay,” I said impulsively. “I’l take it.”

Cindy clapped her hands, then stopped, as if she were afraid that her celebrating would change my mind, and herded me toward the checkout counter.

Only later, when a gushing salesclerk handed me the gown, bagged and paid for, was I seized by a sudden, unnerving thought:

What if Cindy’s “self-fulfil ing prophecy” experiment rubbed off on
me?

2

THE WHOLE
“self-fulfil ing prophecy” thing was stil nagging at me when I got home and I realized I would have to get rid of something in order to make room for my impulsive purchase.

Buyer’s remorse struck me hard and I cursed my weakness for a good buy. To punish myself, I laid out the brown suede fringed coat I had splurged on last spring but rarely wore, plus a pair of rivet-studded jeans and a white embroidered shirt that had seemed exotic in the store, but smacked of a costume when I stood before the ful -length mirror in my bathroom. I had never worked up the nerve to wear the outfit. As much as I loved the pieces, it seemed unlikely that the urban Western look was going to come back in style anytime soon, and if it did, I obviously couldn’t carry it off. But my friend Kenzie could, and since she now lived part-time on a farm in upstate New York, she would probably find a way to wear them and look smashing.

Looking for other things that Kenzie might wear, I unearthed a sweater with running horses on it that Redford had given me and, after a moment of sentimental indecision,

added it to the giveaway bag, as wel . Then I hung the wedding gown in the front of the closet because it was the only place the skirt could hang unimpeded by bulging shoe racks.

The phone rang, and I snatched up the handset, wondering who it could be on Saturday afternoon. (I was too cheap to pay for cal er ID on my landline phone.) “Hel o.”

“Hey,” Barry said, his voice low and casual. “What are you doing?”

I dropped onto my queen-size bed whose headboard stil smel ed faintly of woodsmoke two years after the fire sale at which I’d bought it. “Just cleaning out my closet.”

“I have good news,” he said in a way that made me think that if I’d said, “I just bought a wedding gown,” he wouldn’t even have noticed.

I worked my mouth from side to side. “What?”

“I just passed El en in the hal —you real y bowled her over at lunch yesterday.”

I sat up, interested. Barry was a producer for one of New York City’s local TV stations, and El en Brant was the station manager. Barry had referred her to me for financial

advice on her divorce. Over lunch I had listened while she had told me the entire sordid story about her cheating husband, while she downed four eighteen-dol ar martinis. “But he was a rich son of a-bitch,” she’d slurred. “And now I have an effing—” (I’m paraphrasing) “—boatload of money to invest.”

When she’d told me the amount of money she was talking about, it was more like an effing
yacht-
load (although at the end of the evening she hadn’t made a move to pay the slightly obscene bar bil ). Grey Goose vodka had bowled her over. I honestly didn’t think she’d remember my name…or even my sex, for that matter.

I wet my lips careful y, trying to keep my excitement at bay. “Do you think she’l open an account at Trayser Brothers?”

“I’m almost sure of it. You’re stil coming to the honors dinner tonight, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am. I wouldn’t miss seeing you get your award.”

“I might not win,” he chided.

I
pshawed,
supportive girlfriend that I was.

“El en wil be there. I’l try to pul her aside and feel her out,” he promised.

I was flattered—Barry had never been keenly interested in my profession, but then most people were vaguely suspicious of investment-types, as if we hoarded al the moneymaking secrets for ourselves, while col ectively laughing at everyone who trusted us. (Not true—I was currently poor and working toward precisely what I advised al my clients to do: buy your apartment sooner rather than later.) But, El en’s boatload of money notwithstanding, I felt obligated to point out the potential pitfal s of advising my boyfriend’s boss on financial matters. “Barry, you know I appreciate the referral, but…”

“But what?”

“Wel , El en
is
your boss. I don’t want this to be a conflict of interest for you.”

He gave a little laugh. “Gee, Denise, it’s not as if you and I are married.”

Ouch.
I glanced at the wedding gown, barely contained by the closet, and my face flamed. “I know, but we’re…involved.”

“Trust me—it won’t be an issue. In fact, El en wil be indebted to me for introducing her to you. This could turn out great for both of us.”

“Okay,” I said cheerful y, pushing aside my reservations.

So help me, dol ar signs were dancing behind my eyelids. I could picture the look on old Mr. Trayser’s face when I announced in the Monday morning staff meeting that I’d just

landed an eight-figure account. “Partner” didn’t seem as far-fetched as it had last week…or at least an office with a window.

“What’s the dress code for this evening?”

He made a rueful noise. “Dressy. And El en is a bit of a clotheshorse. I’m not saying it’l make a difference…”

“But it might,” I finished, my cheeks warming when I remembered the woman’s critical glance over my aged navy suit and serviceable pumps yesterday. I wasn’t exactly famous

for my style—my
most
trendy clothes were season-old steals from designer outlets. I was more of an off-the-rack kind of girl, and I didn’t relish running up my credit card for a one-night outfit. But drastic times cal ed for plastic measures. “I’l find something nice,” I promised.

“I know you’l make me look good.”

I blinked—Barry considered me a reflection on him? That was serious couple-stuff…wasn’t it? I straightened with pride at his compliment.

“I’l pick you up at seven.”

“Great,” I said. “Oh, and thanks…Barry…for the recommendation.” We had never quite graduated to pet names and as tempted as I was to say “sweetie” or “hon,” I decided

that while he was hooking me up with a revenue stream with his boss, this might not be the best time to start getting gushy.

“Anything for you,” he said, then hung up.

I smiled, but when I disconnected the phone, panic immediately set in—I had two pimples from last week’s peanut M&M’s binge, and my nails were a wreck. It would be next to impossible to get a manicure at the last minute on Saturday.