A Dangerous Dress

Table of Contents

 

 

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
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First published by New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, July 2006

Copyright © Julia Holden, 2006

All rights reserved

“Bewitched,” words by Lorenz Hart, music by Richard Rodgers. Copyright 1941 (renewed) Chappell & Co. All Rights for Extended Renewal Term in U.S. controlled by WB Music Corp. and Williamson Music. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Holden, Julia, 1959-
A dangerous dress / Julia Holden.
p. cm.

eISBN : 978-0-451-21864-3

1. Young women—Fiction. 2. Dresses—Fiction. 3. Americans—France—Fiction.
4. Fashion shows. 5. Paris (France)—Fiction. 6. Manhattan—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3608.O4832D36 2006
813’.6—dc22 2006000202

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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W
armest thanks to Bill Contardi, Kara Cesare, Claire Zion, Mom and Dad, Grandma Mary, Gianluca, Carolyn, Mary Jane, and, of course, Milan. To my dear Parisian inspirations: Françoise; Flavien, Céline, and all my friends at Hotel d’Aubusson; Loredana; Colin at the Bar Hemingway; and Valerie at Armani Collezioni. Finally, deepest gratitude to Laura, and, always, Mitch.

T
his is the story of a dress. A dangerous dress. A magical dress, I think. My Grandma’s dress. And it is a true story.

Essentially.

I know, just because I went and qualified
true
with
essentially,
now you’re going to think this story is
not
essentially true. But it is. For example, here are some of the things that are one hundred percent true.

I go to the glamour capitals of the world, Paris and New York, where I do incredible (but true) things. Like selling the most exclusive designer clothes on the planet to the most radiant human beings on the planet. And attending an ultra elite private fashion show on a yacht, surrounded by the most gorgeous partygoers in the universe. And debuting on live TV as the fresh new voice of a major network news program. But in spite of all that fabulousness, this story starts—and may even end—in a town that everybody under the age of forty whose opinion I value, including me, more often than not calls Bumfuck. Even though its real name is Kirland, Indiana. If I were making this up, I wouldn’t start—and I certainly wouldn’t end—in Bumfuck.

The town is named for Hap Kirland, who was an engineer. The railroad type. Probably nobody would’ve ever named anything for him, except that in 1887 he was driving a train out of Chicago, and right after he crossed the state line into Indiana, he ran off the tracks. The place he derailed, people started calling Kirland Siding. Which over time got shortened to Kirland. That’s what they taught us in school. Although why anybody would name a town after a guy who couldn’t keep his train on the tracks is beyond me. And what kind of a name is Hap, anyway?

A sign at the town line says, WELCOME TO KIRLAND, INDIANA, POPULATION 5,120. The number is wrong. Nobody’s sure which way it’s wrong, but everybody agrees it’s not wrong by much, so it’s just easier to leave it the way it is. What matters, and what we can all agree on, is that Kirland is a small town.

If you only talked to people from Paris and New York, you’d never guess that genuinely dramatic things happen in small towns. Because those big cities are made up of two kinds of people: those who never lived in a small town, and those who fled small towns to move to more exciting places like Paris and New York. And now I am about to perpetuate this problem. Because even though I’m from a small town, most of this story happens in Paris and New York. But I don’t want you to think that nothing of interest has ever happened in Kirland, Indiana.

The interesting events began in 1986. I did not actually observe those events, as I was only five at the time. But everybody in Kirland knows what happened. Every last detail. Not a day passes without somebody telling the story like it happened yesterday. Each time somebody tells it, everybody stops and listens to what Nick Timko did to Mary Kovach.

Back in 1986, everybody in Kirland loved Nick Timko. My mom insists I loved him just like everybody else did, even though I was five. Nick was a huge baseball star at Roger Wells Kent High School, which is the public high school. Nick was a senior, and he went steady with my cousin Mary, who was a junior. Mary’s mom, Rose, my mom’s sister, died about eight years ago. Mary’s dad, my Uncle John, is president of the Independence Savings and Loan Association of Northwest Indiana.

Nick couldn’t decide between a baseball scholarship at Purdue and an offer to play single-A ball for the Cleveland Indians organization, even though Mary wanted him to go to Purdue so he could come home on weekends. But Nick couldn’t decide, and they had a fight about it at the senior prom at Reinhardt’s restaurant, and Mary ran off crying. Only before he could run after her, the prom committee announced the selection of the Prom King and Prom Queen. Of course Nick was crowned King, and of course Tina Kaminski, who everybody says was hot enough to peel paint off a Pontiac, was crowned Queen. So Nick and Tina had to dance together. Even though Tina was dating Greg Deegan, I guess she was always a little hot for Nick just like everybody else was, and for all I know maybe he was a little hot for her too. Or maybe it was just that night. But the consensus is that when they danced the ceremonial first dance, they danced very very close. And I guess they didn’t stick around for the second dance, because they ended up in the back seat of Nick’s old Dodge Dart in the parking lot. Which is where Mary found them.

Before the sun was up the next day, Nick beat it out of town and started playing minor league baseball. He eventually made it to the major leagues for about twenty minutes. He never showed his face in Kirland again. We have an expression—when other people say
It’ll be a cold day in Hell
or
When pigs fly,
folks in Kirland say
That’ll be the day Nick Timko comes home.
And to this day, unless you ask her point blank, my cousin Mary never even mentions his name. Other people do, but not Mary. Which I think is entirely understandable, given what he did.

Incidentally, I do not want to suggest that every small-town romance is as dramatic as Nick and Mary’s. My point is simply that interesting things do happen in small towns—not that they happen all the time. They do not.

Anyway, enough about Nick, because the part where he’s relevant is done. But Mary is very relevant. With Nick gone, she had to figure out what she was going to do next. Uncle John always wanted her to go to work at Independence Savings. A lot of people assumed he would want Mary’s younger brother Johnny to work there, what with Johnny being a boy and all. But Uncle John figured that since Mary was born first, she should work at the bank, and maybe even take it over someday. I think if Nick had behaved and not gotten all sticky with Tina, he and Mary would’ve gotten married, and even though Mary wouldn’t have loved it, I think she’d have been willing to go to work at Independence the way Uncle John always hoped.