WORTHY, Part 1 (29 page)

I met Jane for a day out in the city not too long after she urged me to do so. We started out with coffees while we developed a plan of attack. Jane was all for blowing some of the Wharton fortune while shopping, but there was only one thing that I really needed at the moment.

“So, I have a kind of awkward question,” I said, toying with my cup of coffee as Jane tapped at her phone.

“Ooh, I love awkward questions,” she gushed, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Anything. Give me the absolute worst. No judgment.”

“Well, I need a wedding dress,” I began, but Jane interrupted me with a shriek.

“Yes, yes, and yes!” she squealed, clapping her hands with delight and catching the attention of several other patrons of the coffee shop.

“Do you know what you’re agreeing to?” I asked cautiously, wishing I could disappear. How was I going to go through with a wedding when hundreds of eyes were on me if I couldn’t handle the attention of a few people?

“Of course I know what I’m agreeing to,” Jane scoffed. “We’re going dress shopping!”

“Is there a time you’re free?” I asked.

“Um, we should go right now,” Jane said, shoving her phone in her purse and standing up abruptly.

“Right now?” I asked, feeling a little faint. “Are you sure? We can wait, you know, if you have anything else to do.”

“There’s nothing I want more right now than to help you find your wedding dress,” Jane promised. “We just have to start trying dresses on. Maybe we won’t even get one today. Christ, I had one girlfriend who took an entire three months trying to find the right dress. She’s lucky she didn’t walk down the aisle buck naked!”

I tried to laugh, but I realized that my mouth had gone dry. The lukewarm coffee was hardly a remedy. Why was I so nervous all of a sudden?

Even as I asked myself the question and followed Jane to the car, I knew the reason. Shopping for wedding dresses was something that mothers and daughters shared. When Jane stopped hopping from man to man and settled down, I imagined that she and Amelia would go out shopping together, looking for the perfect gown for the occasion.

Amelia would never do that for me, and I didn’t want her to. We still weren’t on the best of terms after Jonathan had almost fallen out with her. I didn’t think she liked feeling beholden to me. After all, I had saved her relationship with her only son. She could show a little bit of gratitude, but I was pretty sure such human emotions were out of her grasp.

I would’ve given anything for my mother to be there instead of Jane, getting into a car with me to drive around to all the boutiques, helping me find just the right dress for my wedding to Jonathan. But those two worlds would never exist together. I couldn’t have Jonathan without losing my parents, and I couldn’t have my parents without ever having the opportunity to meet Jonathan. Besides, I couldn’t change the past. Even if I’d rather be spending my present with my parents than Jonathan, there was nothing I could do.

And it wasn’t true, of course. I wouldn’t give up Jonathan for anything.

“Is there anywhere you want to hit?” Jane asked, her eyes shining in excitement. The girl loved to shop, and she was rabidly competitive at it, too.

“I’m not really familiar with any of the wedding boutiques,” I said. “And are you sure we shouldn’t just call ahead? I thought you needed to make an appointment to try on dresses.”

“They’ll make room for us,” Jane said, waving her hand dismissively. “Wharton perks, Michelle. Get used to them. You’re going to be my sister.”

When she said this, she squealed again and squeezed me. I wished I could be as chipper as she was. It was my wedding, after all, and my hunt for the best dress. But I couldn’t help but feel that there were several big parts of me missing from this equation.

“Maybe I’ll call Jonathan,” I said. “He could meet us at one of the boutiques for his lunch. It would be nice to have him there.”

“No, definitely not,” Jane said, aghast. “The groom can’t see the bride in her wedding gown until she’s sashaying down the aisle toward him. It’s terrible luck.”

“If you say so,” I said dubiously. “I don’t know where to go. Just pick your favorite place.”

“I know one that serves champagne,” Jane said, lifting her eyebrows in a mischievous gesture that I had seen Jonathan do. “The girls and I used to go there just to get a little midday buzz and paw at the dresses. It was terrible, but so worth it. Oh, high school.”

I shook my head, grinning. “You are a troublemaker.”

“You have no idea,” Jane said, full of sass as she tossed her blowout over her shoulder. The long, dark tresses were effortlessly stylish. I’d spent a solid thirty minutes just trying to get my twist to stay twisted and secured against my head.

The first boutique was so nondescript from the outside that I wouldn’t have pegged it for anything worthwhile. But inside, the décor was chic and the gowns were plentiful.

“We don’t have an appointment, but we’d like to try on some dresses today,” Jane told the attendant. “I’m Jane Wharton and this is Michelle Smith, future wife of Jonathan Wharton.”

“Right away,” the attendant said quickly, her eyes widening at the recognizable “Wharton.” “Can I get you something to drink? Some champagne, perhaps?”

“I think some champagne would be in order,” Jane said, winking at me.

We perched on the edge of a couch with our glasses of bubbly as the attendant grabbed a tablet computer.

“What kind of styles are you looking for, Ms. Wharton—ah, Ms. Smith?” the attendant asked, so nervous that her hands trembled over the touch screen.

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” I admitted. “This is the first place we came.”

“Really?” the attendant squeaked. “Would you go on the record with that?”

“No press,” Jane snapped. “Just bring us a few different styles for her to try on—oh, and keep these glasses full.”

“Yes, Ms. Wharton,” the attendant said, nodding and hurrying away.

“If we decide on a style, that’ll help narrow down the search,” Jane said brightly, downing half her glass of champagne in a single draught. “Any thoughts?”

“Not really,” I said. “I guess something that’ll work well outdoors. Something spring related, maybe?”

“We’ll get it figured out,” Jane assured me, grabbing her phone out of her bag and poking at it. “Ah, here she is.”

The attendant approached us with a huge stack of dresses in her arms.

“Right this way to the fitting room,” she grunted.

“Let me help you,” I said, setting my champagne aside and reaching out to lighten her burden.

“No, no, no,” the attendant chanted. “I’ve got it. Just follow me, please.”

I just couldn’t understand the idea of people refusing my help. I was more than capable of hauling a few dresses across a store, especially seeing how overburdened the poor attendant was. But somehow, I wasn’t supposed to offer, and others were never supposed to accept. I would probably never get used to this part of becoming a Wharton.

The attendant hung all the gowns in the fitting room and waited expectantly. I stared at her until I realized she was waiting for me to take off my clothes.

“Oh, um, aren’t you going to wait outside?” I asked.

“Sure, whatever you want, Ms. Smith,” the attendant said, leaving the dressing room.

That was another thing about this life that confused me. Was there no privacy at all? I had noticed it during the afternoon spent with Rowan and her team of assistants, trying on dresses for the Wharton dinner. I was expected to comply as they dressed and undressed me, hunting for the perfect look.

Well, I could get into my own wedding gown, thank you very much.

Except that I couldn’t. The first one I tried on had approximately a million tiny buttons going up the back.

“Miss?” I called weakly, and the fitting room door burst open. She must have been listening to me struggle.

“Here,” she said, brandishing several enormous clips. “It would take too long to button and unbutton you into every one of them, so I’ll just clip it together. It’ll also give us a better idea about alterations.”

“Sounds good,” I said as she secured the back of the dress.

The one I’d picked first was more traditional. It was an ivory satin gown with a lacy overlay over my chest, shoulders, and arms, effectively giving me long sleeves. We could only guess at the weather—springtime in Chicago—and it could be cold. Even though they were lacy, the sleeves could give me some protection from the elements.

“Okay,” I said. “Next.”

“Next?” the attendant repeated. “Don’t you want to show Ms. Wharton?”

“Do I?” I asked. “Is that how this works?”

“Usually,” the attendant said. “The bride to be has her whole wedding party—all her bridesmaids, and usually all of her female relatives—out there and waiting, and then it’s like a fashion show. She gets all of their opinions.”

“There’s not going to be a huge wedding party,” I bluffed, horrified that I hadn’t even considered a bridal party. Would Jane stand for me, or would she want to stand for Jonathan? Who else did I have? I felt a sudden, warm rush for Lucy. Lucy would stand for me. I wouldn’t be all alone.

“You ready to go out there?” the attendant asked. “Here. I’ll hold your train.”

I stepped out into the main area of the boutique, looking expectantly at Jane. She looked up from her phone and applauded.

“Very Grace Kelly,” she said. “So traditional, Michelle! Are you going for throwback, or are you really that scared of baring those shoulders?”

“Just trying different things,” I said, feeling skewered and insecure.

“Keep showing me,” Jane chirped, going back to her phone.

The next dress was something of a chiffon nightmare, strapless with a huge, puffed out skirt. I felt like I was walking in a cloud—and not in a romantic way.

“Disney!” Jane cackled. “Next!”

“It would’ve looked nice with a tiara,” the attendant said softly, releasing me from the dress.

“I’m no princess,” I said, staring at myself in the reflection of the mirror in the fitting room. Now that I was actually trying on dresses, the wedding seemed even less probable. We had been through so much. Was this really going to happen for us? It seemed to me like the universe—our circumstances, our differences, and the challenges we still faced—wasn’t going to let us.

The next dress was a mermaid—fitted tightly until just above the knee, then flaring out into a foamy train.

“You just love a fairy tale wedding, don’t you?” Jane asked critically when I showed her that one.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I really don’t have a clue what I want. None of these working, then?”

“I mean, they’re nice dresses,” Jane said. “But I haven’t seen it yet, have you?”

I shrugged, but I was more puzzled than anything else. Would I know “it” when I saw “it?” Would the right dress glow when I put it on? I wished I had some closer female friends. Maybe if Lucy could’ve come, or Rowan. Maybe I could ask for Rowan’s help, even if she wasn’t my close friend. Jane was great, and it was fun running around with her, but I just didn’t feel that close to her.

Not for the first time, I wished my mother were there. Wishing, though, changed nothing, and I tried to turn my mind away from such sadness.

I tried on a few more dresses, but none of them had that magical moment of recognition for me—or Jane.

“Let’s try somewhere else,” she said, draining her champagne glass.

“Are you sure?” I asked, feeling doubtful. Maybe there just wasn’t the right dress for me. I definitely wasn’t feeling very positive about the whole thing.

“Like I said, sometimes it takes a while to find the dress,” Jane said. “You don’t want to settle.”

We paused before we walked outside—there was a group of people standing outside with video cameras and digital cameras, pressed up against the glass.

“What is this?” I wondered. “Is there someone famous outside?”

“I told you no press,” Jane said crossly to the attendant as we looked at the swarm of cameras outside.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Wharton,” the attendant babbled. “I didn’t—I mean, I’ve been —”

“Never mind,” Jane said, waving her hand. “We’ll just have to go through them. Welcome to the life of a Wharton, Michelle.” It was then that I realized
we
were the famous ones. The thought made me a little sick.

She hooked her arm in mine and marched us out into the crowd of paparazzi, flashes blinding me and video cameras blocking my path to the car. Questions peppered me from all sides.

“Are you really going to marry Jonathan Wharton?”

“Where’d you get that scar?”

“Is it true you kicked his former fiancée to the curb?”

“Does Jonathan Wharton know who he is?”

“Does Jonathan Wharton know you have that terrible scar?”

“No comment,” Jane said laconically, elbowing her way through the crowd. Mortified, all I could do was follow her and tumble into the car.

“What a rush,” she laughed, and I realized that the champagne at the boutique had done the trick—Jane had her midday buzz. “Oh, sweetie, are you all right?”