The Winters(68)

“I know.”

I repeated my observation while the room seemed to take a loopy turn. This dress was nothing like the simple one we’d chosen. This one was lacy, sexy, with a Spanish cut to the square bodice, its three-quarter-length sleeves flaring out at the elbow. The waist was cinched with a deep red sash, and its lace, layer upon layer of it, was a mesmerizing circular design, like a million mandalas sewn together, the material hanging a bit longer in the back than the front. It was strikingly beautiful, but it was not my dress.

“I already called the store. They’re closed. Good fucking Friday.”

Heat spread up my neck to my face. When I finally spoke, it sounded like I was being strangled.

“You said this is not a disaster. How is this not a disaster? Not just for me but for the woman who’s got my dress?”

“Oh my God,” Dani replied, nearly laughing. “That never occurred to me.”

Tears sprang from my eyes.

“No, no, no,” Dani said, tugging my hand. “No. Don’t cry. Listen to me. Here is why this is not a disaster. A disaster would be if they sent us an ugly dress. But this dress is not ugly. It’s actually pretty, and I bet, I just bet, it’ll fit you and that you’ll look very pretty in it and no one will know the difference and it’ll just be a funny story we’ll tell everyone after the ceremony. No one knows you didn’t pick out this dress, right? See? It’s okay. Try it on.”

How could I say no to her, to this version of Dani, my crisis manager, my expert soother? Here she was, the object of my worry, being sane, supportive, tossing out her troubles and making mine hers. She slid off my bathrobe and helped me step into the center of the lacy circle she made out of this stranger’s lovely dress. She inched it up my skin, to let my body acclimate slowly to this new shape and material. And Dani was right. It not only fit me, it was pretty—stunning, even—far more stylish than the one I’d chosen for myself.

“So not a disaster,” she said, smiling at me in her mirror.

“No. Not a disaster,” I said. “Except for the fact that your father won’t recognize me in this.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too beautiful for me. It wears me.”

Dani rolled her eyes. “When are you going to drop that shit? Look at me, I’m such a nobody. Why is Max Winter marrying little old me?” she whined. “I want you to walk down those stairs like you meant to wear this dress. That’s what my mother would do. That’s what she’d tell you to do.”

How odd, to be getting secondhand advice from Rebekah Winter through her daughter on the day of my marriage to Max. The dissonance was vertigo-inducing, but once it passed, I stepped out of the dress and laid it carefully across her bed.

“And anyway, we don’t have time for disasters,” Dani said, handing me my bathrobe. “Right?”

“Right. Thank you, Dani.”

I pulled her in for our second hug, one to which I committed slightly more effort than she. It was all I could have asked for that morning.



* * *



? ? ?

The final hours flew by. The smell of pork roasting outside permeated the halls, mingling with the sickly sweet lilies and Katya’s hot cross buns. She was meant to be a guest, but there was no keeping her out of her kitchen. Louisa, God bless, brought a bottle of champagne to my room and offered to be my benevolent greeter. I watched from our window as she sweetly chatted with each arrival, opening an arm to usher them inside. There was no groom’s and bride’s side of the aisle; they were all Max’s guests, a fact that bothered me less and less as the hour ticked closer. To amuse myself I imagined Laureen Ennis holding court at the back of the greenhouse, her face turning as I entered, her smug expression melting into deep admiration as I walked down the aisle wearing a dress that probably cost more than her smallest yacht.

Dani wore a short black baby-doll dress with a white Peter Pan collar, made of a delicate satin that shimmered when she moved, and patent leather kitten heels with big silver buckles. Her hair was up in a tight bun. She looked lovely. But when she insisted on doing my makeup, I balked.

“The last time I let you near me with a lipstick, we both ended up in tears.”

“Um, I was wasted?”

Still I hesitated. “I can’t wear a lot with my features,” I warned.

“I know. Just let me. I’m really good at it.”

I slumped forward, eyes closed, chin turned up, surrendering to her ministrations. The brushes tickled now and again, but her hand was confident. Perhaps it was her proximity, or the fact that I could feel her breath on my skin, but I felt emboldened.

“You seem more like yourself.”

“Hold still. This lash is a bitch.”

“Sorry.” I adjusted my body. “Did you and Claire make up?”

She stopped what she was doing. I opened my eyes, a fake lash dangling perilously off my left lid.

“Why is everyone so concerned about me and Claire? No, we did not make up. Claire did a cunty thing and I never want to speak to her again. Now close your eyes. I don’t want to talk about anything negative right now. Let’s focus on the positive.”

“Is she the one who’s been posting those weird comments on your Instagram?”

This time she took a step back, her arms crossed. She wasn’t angry. She seemed impressed that I had the courage to just blurt that out, to admit I knew.