The Winters(51)

“Well, I am lazy.”

I left that one to simmer, marveling at the differences between our adolescences, the ones that went beyond class and money. We were quiet until Georgina returned, pulling a clothes rack that looked entirely made of meringue.

“Here we are,” she sang.

In a strange way, the drama in Rebekah’s closet had removed any remaining shyness about my body. After the first misfire (an off-the-shoulder mermaid thing), it became clear that a floor-length gown would indeed swallow me whole, ivory went best with my skin tone, and beading was ridiculous.

The trying on and discarding of clothes and outfits and identities seemed to be an entirely female endeavor that I had only been introduced to since meeting Max. In my old life, being poor meant having few clothes. But it also meant I wasn’t destined to constantly become different versions of myself. Yet here I was again, Cinderella discarding rags for a ball gown, a hovering stepdaughter to boot, one who was becoming less and less ugly to me by the minute. Watching the stern pride she took in touching the materials, examining the hems, the buttons, the beads, discussing these details with Georgina, warmed me. Finding something I liked became less important than finding something she liked on me, in the hopes that this would be what drew us closer. At one point, while she struggled to close a tiny clasp on my sash, her hair was near enough to my hand to lovingly stroke it, yet I resisted.

“This thing . . . is . . . a little bitch,” she whispered.

Don’t smother her with affection. It’s like socializing a feral cat. Let her come to you.

“There!” Dani said. “What a pain in the ass. But . . . look.”

I turned around, Georgina chasing my hem to tug it straight.

When it hung limply on the hanger, there had been nothing remarkable about this dress. But the way the cap sleeves cupped my shoulders, how the ivory silk bodice held my waist and the chiffon skirt brushed my calves . . . it simply looked like my dress.

“Well, now,” Georgina said, placing her hands on her waist.

“What do you think?” Dani asked, her poker face cracking.

“I . . . like it,” I said, lying. I had instantly loved it, but I wanted to know what she thought before I went all in. I didn’t want to have to backpedal embarrassingly if Dani turned her nose up at it.

“You can’t like it,” she scolded. “People don’t like their wedding dresses. You have to fucking love it. Do you? Do you fucking love it?”

“I think so. I—”

“Because I fucking love it!”

“Then I fucking love it!” I replied, louder still, taking a little leap. I motioned towards her for a hug, but she turned to Georgina and resumed an all-business air.

“This is the one,” Dani said.

“In under an hour. Impressive,” Georgina said.

“It’s because of Dani. I would have dithered all day.”

I turned back to the mirror. Dani came behind me and gathered up my hair in a rough bun.

“Wear it like this . . .” she said, tilting her head. Our eyes met in the mirror. There was a flash of something, not love, not friendship, but maybe an alliance.

A short film replayed in my head, stopping on a frame from a few months ago. I saw myself piloting a dozen drunk men to the middle of the Caribbean to catch and kill fish they did not eat. There was another still: me in a stained golf shirt, trailing Laureen to her car as she barked instructions at me. Then I was cross-legged on a rickety twin bed eating cold noodles out of a Styrofoam cup. A party I wasn’t invited to raged on in the kitchen I shared with strangers. Look at you now. This is real life. Your life. You live in a mansion on an island. In a month you will marry a man you love, who loves you, too, the only obstacle to your happiness his difficult daughter, who might have just granted you a blessed reprieve.





TWENTY


Leaving the boutique, wearing my jeans, sneakers, and T-shirt again, my hair back up in a ponytail, was to feel like Superman exiting the phone booth as Clark Kent. We walked to a restaurant Dani liked near Central Park. She kept her distance, pointing out landmarks with a perfunctory air.

The restaurant was a sea of older attractive people, men with no hair or a lot of white hair, women who’d had excellent work done on their faces and expensive haircuts; I wasn’t properly dressed for this place either. We were seated immediately. As the waiter pulled out her chair, Dani’s phone dinged a text. She glanced at it.

“Daddy,” she said, wincing. “Making sure I’m still at home.” She typed a quick reply, then put the phone away. “Again, you can’t tell him about today. I mean it. He’ll be so mad.”

“I’m sure he’d be happy to know that we were able to spend a little time together. Without fighting. Especially after this morning.”

Now my phone alerted me to a message, which we both knew could only be from Max. Home after midnight. Hope today went well. Can’t wait to hear about your dress. Love M.

“Promise,” Dani pressed.

“Fine. But he won’t believe I picked that dress out by myself.”

“Miss Winter, how are you?” The waiter poured two glasses of water and told us the specials. It clearly pleased Dani that they knew her name, that they knew she preferred sparkling water, and that I was witnessing this. But if she thought I envied being fifteen and a regular at a fancy restaurant, she was wrong. There were other, better things she could be mastering at this age, especially with her fortune, like concerts, or posh camps, or ski trips. Not adult rituals like this. I also noted we were closing in on two entire hours together, the longest we’d spent in each other’s company.