The Winters(50)

“Fuck you,” I muttered, feeling like a fool again. I threw the car into gear and spun out of the garage and down the barren drive, leaving a cloud of gray dust in my wake.





NINETEEN


Nothing had prepared me for entering a store like this, a two-story bridal-industrial complex, filled with women shopping in pairs, mothers and daughters mostly, for whom this would be an idea of heaven. There it was again, that mother-shaped hole inside me that made itself painfully known. Of course this was a place for mothers and daughters. A mother would pluck all the right gowns from the racks and toss them over the changing room door. The daughter would try each one on. Each time the daughter stepped out, the mother’s face was the first thing she’d search out, even before her own in the mirror. The mother would cluck a no to all but the one dress of which she was certain. That’s what my own would have done. Or she might have made me a dress, something pretty and flattering that I’d have been proud to wear. It struck me that I didn’t know, and this made me sadder than the plain fact of her absence. Time was stretching my memory of my mother so thin, I was beginning to lose even an outline of her. Tears stung my eyes, the stresses of this morning catching up to me. I dabbed them back with the tips of my fingers before giving my name at reception.

“Did you bring anyone to help you make a decision today?” the woman behind the counter asked me. “You’re limited to two people.”

“No. It’s just me today.”

She smiled tightly. “Did you bring pictures or an inspiration book?”

I was in that common nightmare, trapped in a classroom where everyone’s writing a test I’m entirely unprepared for.

“No. Was I supposed to bring something?”

“No, no. It’s just that usually women come here with a pretty good sense of what they’re looking for. Helps your assistant pull the right dresses for you to try on.”

Her eyes traveled from my hair to my shabby T-shirt to my worn jeans. I imagined her struggling to picture my transformation into a bride.

From behind came a voice. “We do have an idea of what we want. It’s a casual wedding, so we thought we’d start with some tea-length gowns. Pull whatever you have in ivory.”

I turned around and there was Dani, standing behind me in dark sunglasses, wearing a tan mackintosh and slouchy boyfriend jeans, clutching a metallic purse.

“Dani! How— What are you doing here?”

She shrugged. “You said you had an appointment.”

“Yes, but I thought . . . your dad grounded you. How did you get here?”

She rolled her eyes. “Gus, duh. And you can’t tell Daddy that either.”

“Is this your guest?” the receptionist asked, sounding way too happy for me.

“Yes,” Dani said, stepping past me to press against the reception desk.

“Sisters? Friends?”

“Yeah, uh, neither,” she said. “I’m Dani Winter. She’s marrying my father, Max Winter.”

“Oh, well, congratulations!” the woman replied, in a way that made it difficult to discern whether she actually recognized Max’s name or was just doing a good job of pretending.

“Did she tell you their wedding is in a month?”

“No.” The receptionist touched her neck. “That changes things.”

“Yes,” Dani said. “It does. It means we should really only look at samples. Unless we find something we like off the rack. In that case, you should send someone in to pin. We’ll take care of alterations. I have a good seamstress on Long Island.”

“Of course,” she replied.

“Also, can we have one of the private rooms?”

“Um. Yes.”

“And some water, please. Room temperature. I’m super parched.”

“Right away.”

I stared at Dani in disbelief, my emotions a riotous jumble finally settling on something akin to confused gratitude. I was, for the first time since we’d met, more happy than terrified to see her, despite everything that had happened last night and this morning. And her manner, which I would have taken for rude, seemed to be interpreted by the receptionist as purposeful and direct. In fact, she seemed to happily obey this girl who rattled off designers and terminology like an old pro. Then again, she was Rebekah Winter’s daughter. She probably knew the inside of every changing room up and down Fifth Avenue. Even Georgina, the elderly saleswoman assigned to us, thrilled to her every command. We were ushered upstairs and shown to our plush dressing area, where we waited for Georgina to pull the first batch.

“I apologize for last night,” Dani said without quite looking at me. “And also for this morning. I know you were just trying to be helpful. But seriously, I’m fine. I don’t know what got into me.”

“Thank you, Dani, for saying that. And I’m sorry, too.”

“For what?”

“For telling your father you were drunk. For mentioning your mother.” I thought about bringing up the Instagram post. But things were going well. I decided to wait until later, when we were alone, in case she threw some kind of public fit.

“Anyway,” she said, “I’m going to lay off the pot. It’s making me lazy and fat.”

“You’re hardly fat.”