Chose the Wrong Guy, Gave Him the Wrong Finger (34 page)

“Help?” I asked, half expecting her clarification to include something snooty like,
Yeah, moving out, because we’re kicking your ass in sales
.

But instead she just nodded. “I no longer work at the cleaner’s,” she said simply. “And now I have no work. I wonder if you need cleaning when you are closed?”

The timing was almost suspicious, but then I remembered that there had been a piece in the local paper on Dottie’s wedding—she was a local celebrity, after all—and mention had been made of her dress being designed by me. That was only yesterday morning, but in the thirty-six hours or so since, I’d probably gotten at least a dozen calls for appointments.

“I need a seamstress,” I said.

“How can that be? You are providing for the biggest wedding this year, with many people there. My employer—my
former
employer—says that you are much faster and better worker than I, so I did not earn a living wage.”

That was it. He’d been trying to pull more work out of her and it had backfired. “I will definitely hire you,” I said, then I mentioned an hourly figure that I guessed was considerably more than what she’d been paid at the dry cleaner’s.

From the look on her face then, I knew it was true. “Oh, yes,
please
!” she said. “When can I start?”

And this was the thing. I knew she did superior work; that if I paid her well, she would put the detailing on my dresses that I thought was worthy of my name and my shop’s name. I could be proud to send something out with her handiwork, versus that which I’d seen so many other times at the secondhand stores, etc.

So this was a blessing for both of us—for me because Becca was puking, for at least another few months, and for Taney because she was able to do what she loved to do—what she was clearly gifted at—and get paid what she deserved.

I’d mull over the serendipity later.

For now, all I could say was, “Start by packing that dress up with the tissue on the table in the corner.…”

*   *   *

“Are you nervous?” I asked Dottie, buttoning the tiny buttons up the back of her dress with my own shaking hands. I was usually behind the scenes, not at the wedding, so this was what weddings did to me now, they made me nervous. I was always afraid something unexpected would happen, and, in this case, I particularly hoped it wasn’t going to happen to the dress. Somehow Dottie had put on some personal padding since our last fitting a week ago, and I really hoped none of the thirty-five buttons popped and set off a fireworks finale of flying plastic disks, leaving Dottie with a pool of silk at her feet.

“Missy, I have been here before!” she declared, then glanced over her shoulder at me. “Of
course
I’m nervous. Look how the last one turned out!”

There was an awkward moment in which I pictured her, the grieving widow, wishing she’d never loved so she’d never have had to feel the pain, before she laughed unexpectedly.

“Sorry, Quinn, gallows humor. I’ve always been guilty of it. I don’t regret my first marriage and I sure as heck don’t plan on regretting this one. Love’s always a good thing, wouldn’t you say?”

I thought about Burke and how my love for him seemed to have given me almost nothing but difficulty. “Yes,” I lied. “That’s all that matters at the end of the day.”

I should have known better than to think I could fool her.

“Someday you’ll mean that,” she said, standing straighter and sucking it in while I did the buttons at her girth. “I know you don’t believe it now, but you will.”

“I do hope so, Dottie,” I murmured, and Frank came to mind. I hadn’t talked to him since we’d been together, endless nights before, so I knew it was as foolish to pine for him as it had been to spend so many years trying to change the past with Burke. Everyone was so tangled up inside this one story that I couldn’t even make sense of it anymore.

Had it always been Frank?

Was it meant to be?

I didn’t know.

“I do know, Quinn. I do.”

I cinched the last of the buttons at her waist and said, “Turn around. How does it feel?”

She whirled to face me, the motion defying her years in a startling way, and for just a moment—one crazy moment—I saw a young, bright-eyed, happy bride in front of me. She looked beautiful, proving right every poet and cheap lettered wall-hanging that ever contended beauty was a matter of the light within.

Today Dottie was lit from within.

I don’t want to overstate things, but it was like seeing those sun rays that pierce through thick puffy clouds and look like a postcard with a Bible verse on it.

In short, it was happiness.

So who could argue with that?

Taney came over then with Dottie’s shoes and said, with more confidence than she’d shown in asking me for employment, “I think the match is
perfect
.”

Indeed, the pale salmon–colored shoes were the exact antique pink as Dottie’s dress and all the little roses I’d painstakingly hand-sewn onto it. And with her always-tan skin (outdoorsy, now, more than sexy), the dress and the shoes were the perfect soft pale punctuation to her look.

“Where’s my hat?” Dottie asked, her cheeks positively flushed with excitement.

“Right here.” I went to the pile of extras I’d brought and searched through for a moment, then carefully perched the old-fashioned riding hat—the same pale pink, of course, but with a tiny net of veil hanging down in front—atop Dottie’s head.

The entire ensemble was a mishmash of styles and moods, but it all added up to be a perfect summarization of Dottie.

“You look
perfect
,” I said, turning her to face the mirror we’d propped against the wall. I always made sure, in situations like this where there wasn’t dressing-room lighting or mirrors, to bring a true mirror so as not to have the bride looking at herself at the mercy of a cheap carnival-quality mirror from a discount store, slapped on the wall because someone thought the wall needed something.

I’d learned that lesson the hard way with a bride who herself seemed awfully close to anorexic. She looked at herself in the cheap mirror pegged to the wall of a Civil War house that devoted 20 percent of its space to the business of “haunted house tours” and the other 80 percent to cheap office space for new or bad psychologists, massage therapists, etc.

She’d taken one look in the mirror and burst into tears, and as I went to console her and caught a glimpse of the bubble-butted pinhead that was my reflection, I realized immediately what the problem was. It wasn’t until we’d found an undeniably slim-and-straight ten-year-old boy among the guests, and placed him in front of the mirror for the bride to see the distortion, that she finally stopped sniffling enough to see that there was a little bit of a discrepancy between reality and the mirror image.

But it was close. And I hadn’t taken a chance since on being blamed for a delicate bride’s misperception.

“What do you think?” I asked, standing beside Dottie and looking in the mirror at her.

I knew what she thought, it was written all over her face.

“I think I never imagined I’d be in this place again,” she breathed, flushed like a schoolgirl. “I am so lucky. So
blessed
, to have found love again at my age.” She glanced at me. “Never give up. He loves you.”

“Who?”

“
You
know who.”

I did. I thought. But did she? Were we thinking of the same person? And did it even matter?

I felt my face go warm. That was a loaded conversation we weren’t going to have. “Today is
your
day. You look beautiful, Dottie.”

She looked back at her reflection and took it in, shaking her head slightly. “It’s like a miracle.”

“It is.”

There was a knock at the door and I went to open it. The maid I recognized from Dottie’s house came in with a platter that held a large ice bucket with two bottles, and several champagne flutes. “As you asked, Ms. Morrison,” she said, setting it on the table. “And there’s a gift, as well, from Mr. Lyle.”

Dottie went to the tray and took the small box from it.

“Would you like me to pour you a glass?” I asked her.

“Yes, please, dear. And there’s some sparkling cider there for you.” There was a pointed pause. “If you prefer.”

I cringed, remembering Day Drunk Day. So that’s who I was now. The person you subtly offer the
nonalcoholic
option to. I almost had to laugh, but instead I poured her a glass of Bollinger, and myself a glass of Welch’s sparkling white grape juice.

I took the glasses over to her and watched her open the box, which had no stamp or label. She removed a pad of cotton and underneath there was a delicate gold chain with a Tiffany-set blue topaz on it. It was a modest stone, and the chain was a beautiful, intricate herringbone, clearly good quality but not without signs of age.

She took out the note and put on her glasses. “
Dorothy
,” she read. “
I don’t remember the whole saying, but I know you are supposed to wear something blue. But this, my love, is not borrowed. It belonged to my aunt and it was given to her by her love who sadly died in a war. We will live the love they didn’t have the chance to
.” She gasped and held the note to her chest, then turned to me with shimmering eyes. “Isn’t that lovely? He was raised by his aunt, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know that.” I wondered why, but it didn’t seem appropriate to ask that right now. “What a nice gesture. And a
beautiful
necklace. Do you want me to fasten it?”

“Would you?” She held it out to me and I went to fasten the clasp, but the necklace was small and Dottie’s neck was less so, and the chain dug into her flesh. “Oh, no.” Her shoulders deflated.

“Hold on, I have an idea,” I said. I took my Swiss Army knife out of my purse, then took off my own gold necklace, which was newer and cheaper but had links. I pried a link open a couple of inches from the clasp and squeezed it shut again, then held it up. “Chain extender!”

She beamed. “Aren’t you resourceful!”

I laughed. “I broke into my car with that knife once,” I said. “It’s the greatest tool I’ve ever had.” I clipped the chains together and was glad to see that the difference wasn’t all that obvious with a few feet of distance. “Let’s try this again.”

She turned around and held her hair up and I put the necklace on her. “Perfect!” she declared, and turned around. The stone sparkled against her chest at the collarbone. It was perfect.

“What else could you need?” I asked.

“Actually,” she said, “there is one thing. I wonder if you’d mind running over to the reception hall and grabbing a little bite of something for me? I’m feeling a little faint.”

“You’re probably revving high right now with nerves,” I said. “You need protein. Have a seat and relax, I’ll be back in a few.”

As I was leaving, I saw three of Dottie’s friends bustling toward the back room to join her. They were the old aristocrats from town, you could tell by their eclectic dress and hairstyles. The
real
rich, in my experience, tended to be the oddballs. I smiled to myself and took out my phone and pushed speed dial.

“Crazy Town, how may I help you?” Glenn answered.

“That bad, huh?”

“Your ex was here at the reception hall, on the phone with a lawyer, trying to make sure her assets were protected in case he was”—he lowered his voice—“a gold digger.”

I thought about how happy Dottie had looked getting ready and how cruel it would be to crush her hopes. Over what? Money?

“I’m coming over,” I said. “Can you set up a little platter of something for me to take back to Dottie? I think her nerves are getting the best of her. Meanwhile, I’ll try to talk some sense into Burke, though I don’t imagine that’s going to be easy.”

“You ain’t kiddin’.” He clucked his tongue against his teeth. “I’ll set something aside for you to take back.”

“Thanks.” We hung up and I quickened my pace. Dottie wasn’t a little old lady who couldn’t take care of herself. And Lyle wasn’t a gold digger, but even if he was, she was a sane adult who was making her own decision to marry him.

The place was bustling when I arrived. Glenn’s staff was busy setting up the food, the ice fountain of champagne, the antique pink carnations on the tables. It was beautiful and dignified and 100 percent perfect. Man, I hoped Burke wouldn’t ruin it.

You’d think he’d know what it was like to have someone step in and blow up your wedding.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to work hard to get him into conversation, as he came to me the moment I walked in.

“You’ve
got
to talk some sense into her,” he said without preamble.

“Who?”

“What do you mean,
who
? You know exactly who. My grandmother. She’s making a huge mistake.”

I collected myself for a moment, then spoke calmly. “I don’t believe she’d agree with that. In fact, she looks happier than I’ve ever seen her. Happier than I’ve ever seen most people, actually.”

“
All
I’m saying is that they should sign a pre-nup.”

“And I see why you think that’s smart; maybe I’d want the same thing if it were my grandmother, but that’s only on the very off chance that he’d take advantage of her. I don’t know Lyle that well, obviously, but I
really
don’t think that’s the case here. Maybe you should ease up and give Dottie the gift of her dignity today, huh?”

For just a second I thought maybe I’d reached him, then he shook his head. “Okay, this conversation is over. I’ve got things to handle, I don’t need to argue with you.”

“Fine.” I started to turn and huff off, but stopped. “Let me just say one thing that I hope you’ll take seriously. I mean,
really think about
before you fuck up your grandmother’s whole life. Lyle is a nice guy, a great guy, I think he can make her happy, but”—I searched for words that wouldn’t be demeaning—“I just don’t think he has it in him to orchestrate the kind of plan you’re talking about. I don’t think … He doesn’t seem all that
aware
of Dottie’s net worth or the implications. I think he really loves her.”