WORTHY, Part 1 (30 page)

“That was really my first paparazzi experience,” I admitted. I was shaking as badly as the boutique attendant had been when she realized who we were. All those questions, especially the pointed ones, stung me. Of course Jonathan knew I had a scar. Had they just been trying to get a rise out of me?

“You’ll get used to it,” Jane said dismissively. “Now, let’s hit the next boutique. I know just the place.”

“All right,” I said dully, slouching in the seat.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?” Jane asked.

“The attendant mentioned a wedding party,” I said. “I just hadn’t given much thought to any bridesmaids. Would you—”

“Yes!” she screamed, throwing her arms around me. “Of course I’ll be your maid of honor.”

Well, that was a lot easier than I thought it’d be.

“Who else are you thinking about for your bridal party?” Jane asked. “Any sisters or cousins or best friends?”

I shook my head. “I kind of cut ties with everyone,” I said. “I don’t have any close friends—well, except for Lucy. I’d like to ask her.”

“Who?” Jane asked, distracted by her phone lighting up.

“You know, Lucy,” I said. “She works at the house.”

Jane’s mouth dropped open and she stared at me, aghast. “That Lucy?”

“Yeah,” I said. “She’s been such a good friend to me. Such a help.”

“That’s because she is the help,” Jane said. “Oh, Michelle. There is so much you need to learn. You absolutely cannot ask the help to be in the bridal party. You don’t know how much criticism that would invite. The last thing you want is people judging you on your wedding day. So no Lucy. Who else?”

“There’s no one else,” I said, feeling a little faint. Would it really have been so terrible to have Lucy up there with me?

“Nonsense,” Jane said. “I’ll talk to some of my friends. We’ll have you bristling with bridesmaids before this is through.”

Jane was being so helpful that I couldn’t bear to tell her that having bridesmaids who were strangers to me sounded like a pathetic hell.

“And the bachelorette party will be one to remember,” Jane said, lighting up. “Or forget, if you drink too much.”

By the time we hit the fourth boutique of the day, I was tired and frustrated. Jane kept telling me to be patient, and I was trying. I understood that it could take some time to find the perfect dress, and this was only my first day of looking. But the more dresses I tried on, the more I sweated, and the more my makeup rubbed off. I tried on a dress, looked in the mirror, and paled. My scar was so vivid that it was a wonder the attendant wasn’t staring at it right alongside me.

I didn’t look like a bride. I wasn’t sure I ever would.

“Uh, could you excuse me for a few moments?” I asked, my eyes filling with tears.

“Of course,” the attendant said, ducking out without making eye contact with me. She was probably too disgusted to look me in the face. How could I think that I could do this? How could I think that I could ever be pretty enough for this new life, for Jonathan?

If my mother were only here with me, everything would be different.

“Michelle, sweetie?” Jane knocked on the fitting room door. “The attendant told me you were a little upset. Can I come in?”

“I’m fine,” I said, even though I wept while I said it, tears falling onto the bodice of the gown I was wearing.

“You don’t sound fine,” Jane said. “Now, don’t get me wrong. Brides deserve some tears. But I’m coming in.”

Jane’s eyes widened when she saw me, and I turned away. I knew that crying made my scar even more livid. I knew I looked ugly.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” she said, putting her arm around my shoulder and offering me some tissues.

“Everything,” I said, shrugging.

“You don’t want to marry my brother?” Jane asked, raising her eyebrows.

“No, it’s not that,” I said, shaking my head vehemently. “I love him so much. It’s just that … I wish I could be prettier for him.”

“Is this about your scar?” Jane whispered.

I glanced up at my reflection. It looked like a seething mass of accordion folds and blotchy skin. I sobbed and nodded.

“Sweetie, we have modern medicine,” she said. “I could give you the names of a dozen plastic surgeons in the city who would jump at the chance to get you all pretty again before the big day.”

“I’ve never really considered it,” I said. I hadn’t. I’d been planning on spending the rest of my days in seclusion in the woods. There wasn’t any need to be pretty out there among the trees.

“Well, consider it,” Jane said, giving me a hug. “I’m going to put you in touch with Ash Martin. He’s part of the partnership of doctors who gave me these lovely ladies.” Jane hefted her breasts in her hands and laughed. “Ash is the face guy. You’d be right up his alley. He’s given half the girls in this city their good looks. Here. I’m texting you his number.”

My phone vibrated in my purse, and I sighed. Plastic surgery was something I hadn’t considered because I never thought I’d be in public. Maybe it was time to give it a chance.

“I’ll make an appointment,” I said, trying to smile. “Thanks, Jane. I think I’d like to be done with dress shopping today.”

“On to the drinks, then!” she whooped. “And tapas!”

I could use a couple stiff ones right about now.

It took about a month to get an appointment with Ash. He was evidently in high demand.

As I sat in the waiting room alone—Jane had offered to go with me, but I’d declined, feeling like it was more of a personal thing—I was floored by the number of beautiful women sitting with me. Were these products of the doctor’s good works, or were they convinced that the reflection that stared back at them in the mirror was in need of such drastic measures? I felt like I was the only one who really needed to be in there. Everyone else was perfectly normal—and didn’t hide their fascination with my scar.

“Don’t you worry, Miss Smith,” the nurse told me as she led me back to consultation room. “Ash is fantastic. He’ll have you looking fabulous in no time.”

I knew she meant well, but it only made me more self-conscious. I was left waiting for so long in the consultation room that my nerves almost got the better of me. I was gathering up my purse to make my escape when the door swung open.

“Miss Smith, I’m so sorry it took me so long to get here,” Ash said. “My schedule is overfull today, I’m afraid.”

Ash Martin had silver hair and an impossible tan—it was winter in Chicago, after all. He was flamboyant, with a ruby earring in one ear and the faintest of eyeliners making his blue eyes pop.

What really impressed me, though, was how he looked at me full in the face and didn’t so much as wince.

“Please,” I said. “It’s Michelle.”

“As long as you call me Ash,” he teased. “Now. I’m not going to insult you by asking why you’re here. You have an extensive burn scar on your face. Why have you waited so long to get it seen about?”

His straightforwardness was refreshing and not at all offensive. He was professional and honest, and I didn’t want to lie to him.

“I sort of thought I was going to bear it like a cross for the rest of my life,” I said. “Where I was going, no one was going to see it.”

“Like to Antarctica?” Ash said skeptically, sitting down beside me.

“Sort of,” I said. “But circumstances changed. Circumstances changed big time, and I hope it’s not going to be too late for me.”

“Michelle, it is never too late for anyone,” Ash said, patting my knee like we were old friends. “I’m talking about plastic surgery, life changes, revelations, everything.”

“You’re making me feel better about coming here,” I said, smiling at him. I was so comfortable with this man that I wasn’t even doing my usual duck and cover that I did with strangers in close quarters. I was beginning to realize that turning to the
right to get my scar away from people was only drawing more attention to me.

“Do you have something against plastic surgery?” he asked.

“Not really anything specific,” I said. “There were just a lot of beautiful girls out in the waiting room. It’s been a while since I’ve felt beautiful.”

“People get plastic surgery for lots of reasons,” Ash said. “Some people are insecure about something. Others want moles removed, or wrinkles concealed. What you and I are doing right now is pre-counseling that I require of all my potential patients. We want to make sure this is what you really want before you go under the knife.”

“I’m getting married,” I blurted out. “I’m getting married and I want to be beautiful for my husband.”

Ash smiled. “Congratulations,” he said. “But why have you never wanted to be beautiful for yourself?”

The question practically knocked me right on my ass. I’d never considered plastic surgery before because I had reached a point out in the woods where I couldn’t even bear to look at myself in the mirror. That didn’t seem like the right answer to give him.

“I received this burn in a traumatic situation,” I said, forcing my eyes to meet his. “It was in a car wreck—I survived, but my parents did not.”

“I am so sorry,” he said simply. “I am very, very sorry.”

“I guess it’s stupid to say it aloud,” I began, “but it had always made so much sense in my head. In a way, I kept the scar as a way to hold on to my parents … and to punish myself.

“Punish yourself?” Ash repeated. “Why? For surviving?”

No. Not for surviving. But I couldn’t push myself to go any further with this than I already had. This was the extent of my honesty with Ash.

“Lots of people have survivor’s guilt,” he said when I didn’t answer him. “It’s a natural thing, Michelle. I think it’s healthy that you’re looking to move forward with your life. Surely you can honor your parents in a better way than bearing a scar in their memory. Do you think they would want that?”

“No,” I said faintly. “No, they wouldn’t want that at all.”

“I think you’re an excellent candidate for surgery,” Ash said, patting my knee again. “It’s been, what, five years, six years since the incident?”

“Yes,” I said, dumbfounded. “How did you know?”

“You haven’t had any procedures done to lessen the scar,” Ash said. “My bet is you haven’t even rubbed cocoa butter or lotion or anything on it. Am I right?”

“I hate touching it,” I admitted. “The only thing I rub on it these days is makeup to cover it up.”

“Well, if everything goes according to plan, you won’t have to be worrying about that anymore,” Ash said. “I’ve dealt with burns before, and I’m happy to take on another case. I find them to be much more rewarding than a nose job an eighteen-year-old gets for her birthday.”

I laughed. “I’m glad I’m helping you find your soul.”

Ash’s giggle was infectious. “I’d also like to bring a colleague in on this. He’s one of the foremost doctors in burns. Is that all right with you?”

“Of course,” I said. “That would be wonderful.”

“Michelle, it was such a pleasure,” Ash said, helping me stand as he did so himself. “Please speak to the receptionist out front, and we’ll schedule an appointment. Let’s do this! Let’s take your life back.”

I felt so excited that I actually hugged him before leaving. I trusted this man, and I looked forward to the procedure. Who knew? Maybe I could get it done before the wedding. I’d look like a different person in all the photos.

I stepped out onto the sidewalk and took a deep breath of the cold, bracing air. This was really going to happen. This was me, taking my life back.

“Michelle?”

I turned and my eyes widened.

“Jonathan?” Chicago really could be like a small town sometimes, especially if you moved in certain circles.

He grinned as he approached me. “What are you doing out?” he asked.

“I could ask the same of you,” I said, suddenly realizing that I didn’t want to tell him about the surgery. He’d think I was weak, that I couldn’t deal with the scar anymore.

“I met a client for lunch not too far from here,” he said. “I decided to walk back to the office—the sun’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said, taking his hand and trying to yank him discreetly away from the building I’d just exited.

I failed miserably. Jonathan craned his neck and peered at the sign, then stopped dead in his tracks.

“What did you say you were doing here?” he asked, keeping his tone calm and even.

“I didn’t say,” I said meekly.

“Uh-huh. Are you going to say now?”

“Do I have to?”

“Uh-huh.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “Jane said she knew a really good plastic surgeon. I just went for a consultation about my—my scar.”

Jonathan hissed through his teeth. “Jane suggested that you fix your face?”

He was so angry that it scared me. “No,” I said. “I was upset, trying on wedding dresses. She assumed—correctly—that it was about my scar, and suggested Ash Martin. I liked him.”

“You
liked
him?” Jonathan repeated, incredulous.

“Um, he’s gay,” I said. “I liked how honest he was. He seems really positive about the surgery.”

“Baby, I don’t want you to have surgery,” Jonathan said. “I don’t want anybody cutting on you. You’re perfect the way you are. Haven’t I told you that? You’re beautiful, Michelle. This is who I fell in love with, the girl with this face. This is who I’ll always be in love with—the girl with this face.”

Tears sprung to my eyes. “I just want to be beautiful for you for the wedding,” I said, leaving out the realization I’d had with Ash about the scar’s connection to my parents.

“You already are beautiful,” Jonathan said, walking away from the doctor’s offices with me. Our reflections were mirrored in the glass of the building. “Do you believe me?”

“I believe that you think I’m beautiful,” I said. “But sometimes, I don’t believe that I’m beautiful when I look in a mirror.”

“Then you always need to imagine my voice in your ear,” Jonathan said, leaning close. “You’re beautiful, Michelle. You’re so beautiful.”

I laughed as we walked along, leaning against him.

“If it means that much to you, I won’t get the surgery,” I said. “I thought it would be a surprise wedding present.”

“The best wedding present of all is that you are going to be my wife,” he said. We passed by some shops, all with artfully designed front windows. One of them caught my eye.

“Wait,” I said, stopping in my tracks and yanking Jonathan back. “Wait, wait.”

“We’re not going back to the doctor’s office,” he said, his tone of voice stern.

“No, of course not,” I said. “Look. Just look at that.”

We stood in front of a boutique window, and there was my dress. It was my dress. I hadn’t been certain that this moment would ever come, but I realized what everyone had been talking about now.

“What are we looking at?” Jonathan asked, confused, as people passed around us.

“We’re looking at the dress I’m going to be wearing when I marry you,” I said. “Just look at it.”

It looked glorious, hanging perfectly from the mannequin. It was floor-length champagne-colored silk edged with lace that ended in a miniscule train that looked like it flowed all around where my feet would be. A satin bow cinched the waist in as the neckline plunged in a deep “V.” It was sleeveless, but the lacy overlay came up and over the shoulders.

“We’re going inside,” I said, dragging Jonathan along behind me.

“Isn’t it bad luck for me to see your dress beforehand?” he asked.

“We saw it together,” I said, looking around the boutique wildly. “It’s a sign, Jon. This is my dress, and I was supposed to see it with you.”

I was a little confused. The boutique catered to party dresses, not weddings. Perhaps that was why I’d been having such a hard time identifying with any of the other dresses I’d tried on. Maybe I’d been looking in the wrong places this whole time.

“I have to try that dress on,” I said when an attendant approached us, pointing at the mannequin. “Please. That’s going to be my wedding dress.”

I knew it was going to fit the moment I was in the dressing room with it. These things didn’t just happen. I didn’t just find Jonathan in the woods. We were brought together. We were meant to be, and this dress was another sure sign.

When I stepped out of the dressing room, Jonathan’s wide grin matched my own.

“You’re going to be my wife,” he said, picking me up and twirling me around in my wedding gown.

“Hell, yes,” I said, kissing him deeply.

The holidays whirled by. Collier and Amelia went on a Mediterranean cruise, and Jane met some girlfriends in Cabo San Lucas. Jonathan and I enjoyed a big, quiet house all to ourselves, sitting by the fireplace in the den on the first floor, curled up by the Christmas tree.

“You know, we’re going to be married soon,” he said, tracing patterns on my back as I went over my class load on the iPad.

“I’ll be starting classwork before we tie the knot,” I murmured, absorbed in the syllabus for environmental science.

“Ah, spurned for education,” Jonathan said wistfully.

“That’s right,” I said, pulling the cover over the iPad and leaning over to kiss him. “You’re not getting cold feet, are you?”

“No way,” he said. “I only wish we could’ve managed everything you’d wanted for our wedding.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “I know it’s going to be beautiful.”

“Everything” had been having the wedding at the cottage. But with Amelia and Collier and Jane’s endless guest lists, as well as the business contacts Jonathan thought he should invite as a show of goodwill, there was no way the cottage could sustain everything. It was just too remote.

We were going with the next best thing—a large park just outside the city that would accommodate our hundreds of guests.

“Amelia’s actually been pretty good about arranging everything,” I said.

“Are you keeping her in line?” Jonathan asked, burying his face in my neck as he kissed me.

“I’m mostly letting her have her way,” I said. “Peace on earth and all of that.”

“Merry Christmas, baby,” Jonathan said, kissing me and kneading my breasts beneath my sweater.

“Stop,” I said, my eyes darting around. “Someone could see us.”

“No one’s here,” Jonathan said, continuing his blithe explorations of my body.