Chapter 4
Juniper Bridal on Sycamore Street smelled of steam, white carpet, and lavender soap.
Celeste sat in the deep velvet armchair in the middle of the room, holding a small glass of cider, her legs crossed.
I sat on the wooden bench by the fitting room curtain, my coat folded across my knees, my purse resting on my feet.
The woman who ran the floor pulled the heavy white drape back with a soft hiss of metal rings.
"All right," she said, looking around the mirrors. "Who’s the mother of the bride?"
Celeste’s hand came up right away.
"I am," Celeste said, her cheeks turning pink.
The woman gave her a warm, practiced smile, then glanced down at me on the bench.
"And you’re... the aunt?"
The mirrors seemed to hold the room still.
Tessa stood on the small circular stage in her slip, looking at her bare shoulders in the glass.
She saw my eyes in the corner of the frame.
She didn't look away, but she cleared her throat twice before she spoke.
"She’s my dad’s wife," Tessa said.
The woman’s smile didn't vanish, but her shoulders dropped an inch into professional indifference.
"Wonderful," she said. "Let’s get the lace on."
Tessa stepped into the dress—heavy silk with three dozen tiny cloth-covered buttons running from the small of her back to the nape of her neck.
"The side is catching," Tessa said, her shoulders hiking up as the woman worked the buttons. "The wire is poking right into my rib."
Celeste leaned forward from the armchair, her hands clasped under her chin.
"Oh, sweetheart, you look like a drawing," Celeste whispered, tears coming easily to her eyes. "You have your grandmother’s neck. Exactly like the old portraits."
Tessa tried to smile, but her breathing was tight, her ribs pulling against the silk.
"No, it’s really biting," Tessa muttered. "Right where the seam meets."
Celeste looked around the room, her fingers fluttering over her knees.
"Maybe if you hold your head a little higher, darling? Shoulders down?"
I didn't say anything.
I reached into my bag, pulled out a small plastic box of heavy brass pins I kept for proof bundles, and knelt on the edge of the stage behind Tessa’s heels.
"Breathe out, Tessa," I said.
She let the air go on instinct.
I slid two fingers under the silk, worked the wire flat against the interior tape, padded the rough edge with a scrap of hem tape from my kit, and pinned the lining smooth against her ribs.
Tessa’s neck loosened.
"Thanks, Mara," she muttered into the mirror, keeping her eyes forward.
Then she turned toward the velvet chair, holding her hands out.
"Mom, look at the train. Does it fall right when I turn?"
Celeste stood up, tears wetting her cheeks, and wrapped both arms around Tessa’s waist, pressing her face against the white silk.
"My beautiful girl," Celeste sobbed into the fabric. "My sweet girl."
They stood together on the platform under the lights, two women with the same nose, crying like people in a catalog.
I stayed on my knees on the carpet, putting my pins back into the little plastic case.
Twenty minutes later, we were at the counter by the door.
Tessa had signed the alteration slip.
The woman behind the desk tapped her terminal and turned the little digital screen toward me.
"The deposit for the rush beadwork and the veil comes to thirty-two hundred dollars," she said. "Mr. Hollowell called this morning to say his wife would take care of the card."
The green light on the little machine was blinking.
I looked over at Celeste.
She was standing near the display of satin hairpins, turning an ivory comb in her fingers, completely deaf to the register.
I looked at Tessa.
She was watching me, her lower lip pushed out just a little, waiting for me to pull the leather wallet out of my bag the way I had done for her driver’s ed fees, her college textbooks, and her wisdom teeth.
I left my hands in my coat pockets.
I reached out with one finger, caught the corner of the little card terminal, and slid it across the marble until it bumped Celeste’s sleeve.
"The mother of the bride is right there," I said.
Celeste jumped, nearly dropping the comb.
The woman with the pen stopped writing.
Tessa’s face went white, then mottled red.
"Mara!" Tessa hissed, coming around the counter. "Dad told you to put the deposit down! He said he’d pay your account back on Friday!"
"Then your father can drive down here on Friday and sign the slip," I said, keeping my voice level. "Or your mother can run her card. She’s the one who spent the last half hour crying in the mirror."
Celeste’s mouth opened, her throat working hard.
"Mara... I spent what I had on the move. I don't have three thousand dollars sitting in my checking account."
"Then I guess Tessa waits for regular delivery," I said.
I picked up my purse.
"You're doing this on purpose," Tessa choked out, real tears coming now, hot and angry. "You came here today just to make me look small! You hate that I have a real mother now!"
"No, Tessa," I said, looking straight into her wet eyes. "You just told the whole room who I am. Don't ask me to pretend I didn't hear you."
I turned around and walked out the glass door into the gray air.
I was halfway across the asphalt when Grant’s pickup swung into the lane behind my car, the tires scraping the wet curb.
He jumped out of the cab and slammed the heavy door so hard the glass rattled.
"Mara!" he shouted across the lot.
He caught me by the driver's door, slamming his hand against the roof to keep me from opening it.
"Tessa just called me from the curb, crying so hard she can barely talk," Grant said, his face red, his breath hot against my cheek. "You embarrassed our daughter in front of the whole shop!"
"Your daughter just told the whole room who I am, Grant," I told him, my hand cold on the metal latch. "Don't ask me to pretend I didn't hear her."
"Don't push her, Mara," Grant growled, leaning down until his teeth were inches from my ear. "Don't you dare make that girl choose between you and Celeste."
I looked up at his mouth, at the little line between his eyebrows that had been there since we were thirty.
"Why not, Grant?"
Grant let out a short, mean laugh.
"Because you won't like the answer."