Ms. Manwhore (Manwhore #2.5)(14)

“Cold or warm?” I ventured on Monday.

“Warm. That’s all I’m going to give you.”

“East? West? North? South?”

He simply looked at me with mysterious eyes and handed me two credit cards with the name Rachel Saint. A platinum Visa and a black Amex.

I’ve had a bit of trouble getting used to using them.

First, because it kind of turns me on! But so is the abstinence, even if it’s killing me. Saint’s kisses are longer, almost as if he wants me to be in a constant state of hyperawareness until the wedding.

I’ve hit all the high-end department stores in search of the perfect outfits. I’ve forced myself to use the cards and I’ve noticed, a little bit annoyed, that upon the sight of the cards, the salesladies buzz around me like bees to my guy’s honeyed money. I bought bikinis, cover wraps, soft, flowy dresses, tight dresses, lingerie and baby dolls and nighties.

If only it were this simple to find my wedding dress.

On Thursday, after no news from the stores or the designers they’d contacted—Vera Wang, Reem Acra, Yumi Katsura, and Monique Lhuillier—my mother summons me to her house. I take an early lunch break and head over there.

The door swings open and she spreads out her arms, and I walk into them and squeeze her. She doesn’t have a lot of words, at least not in the beginning. She simply pulls my hand out, discreetly brushes the corner of her eye at the sight of my engagement ring, and ushers me inside.

“You look slimmer. You always slim down when you have too many things on your mind and forget to eat,” she says as she leads me to her paint studio. “How is the move coming along? Do you need any more boxes?”

“No. I’m leaving the furniture with Gina, the bed too, for her new roommate. Just my belongings. I’m almost done.”

“Is Wynn really considering moving in with her?”

“I hope so.”

I nod and let her reveal the artworks she’s been doing for the covers of Face.

“Mom, they’re exquisite.”

“Truly, Rachel?” she asks hopefully.

“I love these! Let me take pictures.”

I use my phone to snap pictures of all five of them then hear my mother call me. “Rachel, come. I want to show you something.”

I follow her voice into her room as she extracts something from the very back of her closet.

“A few years ago I had it vacuum packed to preserve it. It’s like new. I didn’t even eat cake in it,” she says excitedly.

She hangs a long white dress on the top of the door, and I gape as I take it in. Simple and satiny, formfitting, with sleek shoulders and an elegant cleavage, a skirt that flares to a mermaid tail.

My mother insists I try on her wedding dress. “You would look so lovely in this dress.”

I have a ton of mixed emotions as I look at it. Among them is a wave of nostalgia so very deep, I get a little itch in my windpipe.

This is the dress my mother walked to the altar in as my dad watched. And after only a year he would never see her, and we would never see him, again. I reach out to touch it but pull my fingers back, guarding myself against the pain it could bring. “But it’s yours, I don’t want . . .”

“Everything mine is yours. Please. Indulge me.”

I inhale, but she looks so hopeful I can’t bear not to indulge her.

I unhook the hanger and slip into the bathroom to undress and ease it on. I step outside without even looking at myself, without even breathing.

My mother can’t conceal the look of delight and emotion on her face when I emerge from the bathroom. Then her brows pinch and she eyes it critically as she circles me and inspects me with the thoroughness of a professional tailor. “We need to tuck it in around here. And the waist and hips. Just a tad.” Her eyes glisten.

“Mother . . .” I begin.

“ ‘Mother’? So serious? Since when do you call me Mother?” She frowns and hovers over me. “Please say yes.”

“I . . .”

“It would mean so much to me! For good luck.”

My eyes water. “But Dad died.”

I cover my mouth, my eyes widen, and I can’t believe I just blurted that out loud. I cover my face, ashamed.

“But when he was alive, we were perfectly in love. We lived the most perfect romance.” She tips my face. “Rachel, I know who you’re marrying. I know that you want this day to be perfect. That you want to look and feel like you deserve to be the woman walking up onto that altar. And you are.

“You’re the right one because he chose you and you chose him. Rachel, no dress will dictate your future. It dictates how you feel . . . on that day. That’s it. Because trust me, I know enough about him to know he couldn’t care less what you wear, so long as you walk up that altar to him. I see the way he looks at you. You’ve been here on Sundays in sports clothes, in dresses, in jeans; he was here when we flash-painted that first cover for Face. You were streaked with paint, and he couldn’t take his eyes off you. You could wear black or pink and that man will still love you.”

I’m silent as I go and take off the dress.

Malcolm wants to give me a big wedding because he thinks that’s what I deserve. I want to be the perfect bride because I think that’s what he deserves. But I know for a fact that every time we talk about the wedding, our main focus, what we’re looking forward to, is not the wedding itself but simply getting married.