If You Only Knew(30)
To advertise my skills, the showroom is furnished with dress forms adorned with finished gowns in each of the classic shapes—A-line, mini, modified A-line, trumpet, mermaid, sheath, tea-length and, most popular of all these days, ball gown. The forms stand around Bliss like a beautiful army, shimmering in the pinkish lights of the store, the crystals from the ball gown catching the light and casting tiny rainbows, the satin of the tea-length glowing.
I fluff the cathedral train on the Grace Kelly–inspired dress, fingering the silk mikado. Bliss is not the type of shop that has ready-to-wear dresses. I’m not a salesperson; I’m a designer. But I do keep a few dresses on hand for the women who want to play dress-up.
Another section of the showroom features accessories—veils, belts, headpieces, gloves, garters. I’ll have to make sure my nieces don’t get into too much trouble over there. They tend to view my workplace as their personal playland.
Hung on the brick walls are a huge selling tool—pictures of my brides in their dresses, each one a black-and-white photo, hung at precise intervals. One picture is bigger than the others: Rachel, wearing the most beautiful dress I’ve ever made.
The back half of the shop is where the work really happens. Of course, there’s the dressing room with its apricot-painted walls and dais with three-way mirror, as well as a couch and three upholstered chairs, a coffee table with a photo album of my work. That’s where I’ll do consultations and fittings, where the bride shows me pictures of dresses she likes, where I’ll ask all the questions they love to answer—what’s your vision for the day, do you have a theme, how do you want to look.
The workroom is across the hall, where Andreas and I painstakingly organized thousands of fabric samples: satin, silk, chiffon, organza, charmeuse, lace—I have more than a hundred samples of lace—and yards and yards of muslin, since I make a mock-up of every dress before cutting the dress fabric itself. In the center of the room is a huge oak table—my work space, complete with four different sewing machines.
Shelves hold tape measures and scissors and thousands of straight pins, dozens of types of appliques, lengths of crystal and beading and accents. I never understood how a designer could be unorganized. It makes me cringe on Project Runway when someone loses their fabric.
I love my job. I love weddings, all types. Me, I opted for a quickie wedding on the beach in Provincetown, a weekend when Owen and I seemed to be the only straight couple tying the knot. Rachel and Adam came, Mom, Owen’s wonderful parents, Andreas and his boyfriend, a few friends from New York. We had lunch at a waterfront inn at the tip of P-town, and the sun shone, and we drank and laughed and ate. My dress was a flowing empire-waist sheath with a pale violet sash that fluttered in the wind, and Owen wore a navy blue suit with a lavender tie.
And look at us now.
The one thing I hate about the wedding industry is that it focuses so much on the one day. People become obsessed with details, enraged with those they love, worn out from planning a few hours of a day that may not mean that much in the grand scheme of things. Even as I’m designing a dress that will cost thousands and thousands of dollars, I’ve always tried to work that message in. Don’t forget that after this day comes thousands of other days. Be careful. Cherish each other. Don’t blow it.
Even knowing all this, I blew it. I’d say Owen and I blew it, but he’s the happiest man on earth these days.
I take a pit stop in my little bathroom. I’m wearing my work uniform, my straight, black hair pulled back in a twist, red lipstick in place. I try to look as different from a bride as possible—a little severe and simple, but chic, too. Even though I’m on my feet a lot, I love my fabulous shoes. A talent is a talent, and wearing heels for ten hours a day is one of mine.
“Showtime!” I say, opening the door. “Welcome to Bliss. Hi, Mom.”
Most of the people here aren’t really shopping for wedding dresses. Not yet. Some of them are too young, some aren’t engaged, some just want to play dress-up, which we won’t be doing today. But they’re all welcome, because you never know.
“Oh, my God, this looks like Kate Middleton’s gown!” one young woman exclaims. Brides will be emulating that dress until little Prince George gets married.
“This one looks like a cloud,” says another, pointing to a tulle-skirted masterpiece. I smile and murmur thanks, then tell her a little bit about the construction. Someone from the local newspaper takes my picture. I can hear my mother discussing the details of my father’s death.
The door opens, and in come my three little nieces. “Auntie, Auntie!” they clamor, reaching up with their delicious little arms.
“Hello, my sugarplums,” I say, bending down to smooch them all. “You’re so beautiful!” There’s an audible sigh from the customers. Charlotte, Rose and Grace are dressed like flower girls, in tiny pink tulle dresses with long pink ribbons—made by yours truly, of course. Hey, those girls are excellent marketing tools—who wouldn’t want them walking down the aisle, scattering rose petals?
“We’re fancy,” Grace says.
“You sure are.” I give them each a basket full of cookies. “Would you share these with the nice people?” I say, and off they go. Rose eats one, but that just adds to the charm.
Then I stand up, see my sister, and it’s a punch to the heart.
Adam must’ve told her. She knows. Oh, God.