If You Only Knew(32)

“I can also modify existing dresses, so if you want to wear your mom’s dress but have an updated look, or if you’ve already bought a dress but want some changes, that’s not a problem. If you’re a bride who has a hard time with traditional sizes, I’m your girl.” There are a few plus-size women in the shop who brighten at this. “If you have any questions, feel free to ask. I’m here all afternoon. Look around, drink some champagne and contact Andreas if you’d like to make an appointment. Your first consultation is free. Thanks again for coming!”

For the next half hour, I take questions, get complimented on my shoes, escort Charlotte to the bathroom, get hired to make a mother-of-the-bride dress for next winter and sell the tulle ball gown. I keep an eye on Rachel, who seems shockingly normal, mostly lingering in the back with Andreas or digging in her giant mommy bag for crayons, a Wet-Nap and a book or two. Grace, armed with a Hello Kitty notebook, pretends to take dress orders from customers, who are enchanted with her cute solemnity. Rose has curled up in the upholstered chair and looks like an angel sleeping there, and Charlotte is sitting under the drinks table, playing with Andreas’s shoelaces.

Someday, maybe my daughter will be here. The image of her is so strong and clear that I feel her, my heart swelling with fierce love—my little black-haired daughter, playing dress-up with her cousins, sitting on the floor to show off her sparkly little shoes.

“I can’t believe people will pay so much for a dress,” Mom says.

“Can you keep that sentiment to yourself, please?” I whisper.

She sighs. “Well, fine. But I can’t believe it.”

“Yeah. You’ve told me a thousand times or so. Go drink champagne. Or better yet, help Rachel with the girls, okay?” Celebrating her children’s accomplishments isn’t one of her strengths.

The door opens, and like salt in a wound, in come Owen, Ana-Sofia and their baby, who’s sleeping in a sling, making Ana look like a very posh Native American. My mother’s face lights up. Drama. So much fun for her.

Owen comes right up to me, takes both my hands and kisses me on the cheek. “Jenny. This. Is. Amazing.”

“He’s right, Jenny,” Ana-Sofia seconds. “Oh, what a shop! It makes me want to get married again.” Then, realizing what she’s just said, she freezes.

“Me, too,” I say to break the awkwardness. “Hello there, Natalia!”

She’s even more beautiful than last week. Long, straight eyelashes, elegant eyebrows, a tiny pink rosebud mouth. Her lips move as if blowing kisses.

The ache in my chest is painful now.

“Jenny, I’m sorry to interrupt,” my sister says. “Owen. Ana.” Her voice hardens, bless her. “Nice to see you. Your baby is just beautiful. Jenny, so sorry. Mrs. Brewster’s here, and she’s got a slight emergency with Jared’s wedding. I told her you could help.”

“Look around, guys,” I say. “And thank you so much for coming. It means a lot.” As Rach leads me through the crowd, I whisper, “And thank you for rescuing me.”

“Why are they here?” Rachel whispers back. “Can’t they leave you alone? Do they have to force-feed you their perfect life?” Nice to see some fire in her. Of course, it’s always easier to be mad on behalf of someone you love, rather than deal with your own problems.

“It’s not like that,” I tell her. “We’re all friends.”

She gives me a cynical look. “Mrs. Brewster,” she says, “you remember Jenny, don’t you?”

“I suppose I do. Yes.”

“Thank you so much for coming, Mrs. Brewster. How are you?”

“I’ve been better,” she says.

When we were kids, the Brewsters lived up the hill from us in this glorious old house where we were told not to run, not to eat and not to laugh. Mrs. Brewster is the president of the chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution, the COH Garden Club, the Women’s Committee (which seems to exist to sell pies), and the COH Lawn Club board of trustees. Her husband is the pastor of the Cambry-on-Hudson Congregational Church. He’s actually quite nice.

It would be a coup to make the wedding dress for Jared Brewster’s wife. The ceremony will take place at Mr. Brewster’s enormous and beautiful church, and with a venue like that, the dress is usually big and memorable—and expensive. The reception will be at the country club, and Mrs. Brewster says it will be featured in Town & Country and Hudson Bride, glossy magazines geared toward the 1 percent.

I could use that kind of business. Up here, it’s commonplace to rent a limo and head to the city, to Kleinfeld’s and Vera Wang, to find the dress of dresses—and possibly appear on a TV show. I need those clients to come to me. Moving here was a risk, and the blessing of the blue-blooded Brewsters would go a long way. A lot of mothers of brides will urge their daughters to go where Eleanor Hale Brewster tells them to.

“Excuse me, I need to help Charlotte. So nice to see you, Mrs. Brewster.” My sister zips away, her girls always good for the perfect escape hatch.

I notice that Ana-Sofia has knelt down so Grace can inspect her baby. My niece looks up at Owen. “Your baby is pretty, Uncle Owen,” she pronounces solemnly.

The title is like a shard of glass in my heart.

“So what can I help you with, Mrs. Brewster?” I ask. “I know Jared is getting married this summer.” Time to focus on business.