There was an immediate response. A gaggle of women’s voices, then a herd of running footsteps.
A large, older woman barreled around the corner, her gray sausage-curled hair bobbing like Cindy’s on The Brady Bunch. She wore a floral muumuu and white pom-pomed mule slippers. “Claire Cavenaugh. I’m so glad to finally be able to show you the second floor.”
“Wedding dresses are on the second floor,” Claire said to Meghann. “Abby had given up on me.”
Before Meghann could respond, two other women hurried into the room. One was short and wore a baggy, waistless dress and white tennis shoes. The other was tall, perhaps too thin, and dressed flawlessly in beige silk.
Two of the Bluesers. Meg recognized the women but couldn’t have matched a name to a face for all the prize money in the world.
Waistless dress, she learned, was Gina, and beige silk was Charlotte.
“Karen couldn’t make it today,” Gina said, eyeing Meghann suspiciously. “Willie had an orthodontist appointment and Dottie sat on her glasses.”
“In other words,” Charlotte said, “an ordinary Karen day.”
They all started talking at once.
Meghann watched Claire fall in beside Charlotte and Abigail. They were talking about lace and beadwork and veils.
All Meg could think was: The perfect accessory is a prenup. It made her feel decades older than these women, and distinctly apart.
“So. Meghann. The last time I saw you, Alison was a newborn.” Gina stood beside a cast-iron statue of a crane. “Now you’re back for the wedding.”
Claire’s friends had always been good at the not-so-subtle reminder than Meghann didn’t belong here. “Hello, Gina. It’s nice to see you again.”
Gina looked at her. “I’m surprised you could get away from the office. I hear you’re the best divorce attorney in Seattle.”
“I wouldn’t miss Claire’s wedding.”
“I know a divorce attorney. She’s good at breaking up families.”
“That’s what we do.”
A look passed through Gina’s eyes. Her voice softened. “Do you ever put them back together?”
“Not often.”
Gina’s face seemed to fall; it crumpled like an old paper bag, and Meghann understood. “You’re going through a divorce.”
Gina tried valiantly to smile. “Just finished it, actually. Tell me it’ll get better.”
“It will,” Meg said softly. “But it may take a while. There are several support groups that might help you.” She started to reach into her purse.
“I’ve got the Bluesers to cry with, but thank you. I appreciate the honesty. Now let’s go upstairs and find your sister the perfect wedding dress.”
“In Hayden?”
Gina laughed at that and led Meg upstairs. By the time they got there, Claire was already wearing the first dress. It had huge leg-of-mutton sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, and a skirt that looked like an upside-down teacup. Meg sat down in an ornate white wicker chair. Gina stood behind her.
“Oh, my. That’s lovely,” Abigail said, “and it’s thirty-three percent off.”
Claire stood in front of a three-paneled full-length mirror, turning this way and that.
“It’s very princesslike,” Charlotte said.
Claire looked at Meg. “What do you think?”
Meghann wasn’t sure what was expected of her. Honesty or support. She took another look at the dress and knew support was impossible. “Of course the dress is on sale. It’s hideous.”
Claire climbed down from the platform and went in search of a different dress.
At her exit, Charlotte and Abigail looked at Meghann. Neither woman was smiling.
She’d been too honest—a common flaw—and now she was suspect. The outsider.
She would not comment on the next dress. She absolutely would not.
“What do you think?” Claire asked a few moments later.
Meg squirmed in her chair. Was this a joke? The dress looked like something you’d wear to a formal hoedown. Maybe the Country Music Awards. The only thing missing was a beaded milking pan. The dress was ugly. Period. And cheap-looking, to boot.
Claire studied herself in the mirror, again turning this way and that. Then she turned to look at Meghann. “You’re awfully quiet.”
“It’s the vomit backing up in my throat. I can’t talk.”
Claire’s smile froze. “I take it that’s a negative.”
“A cheap dress from the Bon Marché is a negative. That piece of lace-festooned shit is a get-me-the-hell-out-of-here-you’ve-lost-your-mind thing.”
“I think you’re being a bit harsh,” Abigail said, puffing up like a colorful blowfish.
“It’s her wedding,” Meg said. “Not a tryout for Little House on the Prairie.”
“My sister is always harsh,” Claire said quietly, walking back into the dressing room.