“I don’t want to say this twice, Claire, so please listen and believe me. I work eighty-five hours a week, and my clients pay almost four hundred dollars an hour. I’m not showing off. It’s a fact: Money is something I have. It would mean a lot to me to buy you this wedding gown. You don’t belong in the dresses we saw this morning. I’m sorry if you think I’m a bitch and a snob, but that’s how I feel. Please. Let me do this for you.”
Before Claire had come up with her answer, a woman cried out, “Meghann Dontess. In a wedding shop. Who would ever believe it?”
A tall, rail-thin woman in a navy blue sheath dress strode forward, her impossibly high heels clacking on the marble floor. Her hair, a perfect combination of white-blond and silver, stood out from her face in a Meg Ryan–type cut.
“Hello, Risa,” Meg said, extending her hand. The women shook hands, then Risa looked at Claire.
“This is the great one’s baby sister, yes?”
Claire heard the barest hint of an Eastern European accent. Maybe even Russian. “I’m Claire.”
“And Meghann is letting you marry.”
“She’s advised against it, actually.”
Risa threw back her head and laughed. “Of course she advised against it. I have heard such advice from her twice. Both times I should have listened, yes, but love will have its way.” She took a step back, studying Claire from head to toe.
Claire fisted her left hand, hiding the tinfoil ring.
Risa tapped a long, dark fingernail against her front teeth. “This is not what I expected,” she said, glancing pointedly at Meghann. “You said your sister was a country girl. Getting married in the middle of nowhere.”
Claire didn’t know whether to smile or smack Meghann in the head. “I am a small-town girl. Meghann used to be.”
“Ah. That must be where she left her heart, yes?” Risa tapped her teeth again. “You are beautiful,” she said at last. “Size ten or twelve, I expect. We won’t need to pad your bra.” She turned to Meghann. “Can she get an appointment with Renaldo? The hair …”
“I can try.”
“We must accentuate those beautiful eyes. So blue. It makes me think of Brad Pitt’s wife. The nervous one from Friends. Yes. This is who your sister looks like. For her, I think the classics. Prada. Valentino. Armani. Wang. Maybe a vintage Azzaro. Come.” She turned and began marching away. Her hand snaked out now and then to grab a dress.
Claire looked at Meghann. “Armani? Vera Wang?” She shook her head, unable to say, You can’t do this. They were the right words, the thing she should say, but the denial of this moment caught in her throat. What little girl hadn’t dreamed of this? Especially a girl who had believed in love even after so many broken promises.
“We can always leave without buying anything,” Meghann said. “Try them on. Just for fun.”
“Just for fun.”
“Hurry up, you two! I haven’t the whole day.” Risa’s voice rang out, startling Claire, who hurried forward.
Meghann hung back as Risa went from rack to rack, piling one dress after another into her arms.
A few minutes later, Claire stepped into a dressing area that was bigger than her bedroom. Three floor-to-ceiling mirrors fanned out in front of her. A small wooden platform stood in the center.
“Go on. The dresses are in there. Try one on,” Risa gave her a gentle shove.
Claire went into the dressing room, where several gowns hung waiting. The first one was a stunning white silk Ralph Lauren with an intricate lace-and-beadwork patterned bodice. Another was a romantic peach-tinged ivory Prada with ruffled, capped sleeves and a slightly asymmetrical hemline. There was a white silk Armani sheath: simplicity itself with a plunging V neck and a draped, sexy back.
Claire didn’t allow herself to look at the prices. This was her make-believe moment. She could afford anything. She peeled out of her wrinkled jeans and work T-shirt and tossed them on the floor. (She did not look at her faded, overwashed JCPenney bra and Jockey-for-Her underwear.)
The Ralph Lauren gown floated over her shoulders like a cloud and fell down her nearly naked body. From the neck down, she looked like Kim Basinger in L.A. Confidential.
“Come on, honey. Let’s see,” Risa said.
She opened the door and stepped into the dressing area.
There was a gasp at her entrance. Then Risa shouted, “Shoes!” and ran off.
Meg stood there, holding an armful of dresses. Her lips parted in a soft sigh.
Claire couldn’t help smiling. At the same time, she had the oddest urge to cry. “That Ralph Lauren is no slouch. Of course, my car cost less than this dress.” She stepped up onto the platform and looked at herself in the mirror. No wonder Meghann had hated the gowns this morning.
Risa came back, brandishing a pair of strappy high-heeled sandals.
Claire laughed. “Who do you think I am—Carrie Bradshaw? My nose would bleed if I wore heels that high. Not to mention the fact that I’d break a hip when I fell.”
“Hush. Put them on.”
Claire did as she was told, then stood very still. Every breath threatened to send her toppling off the block.
“Aagh. Your mother, she did not teach you to stand in heels. A crime. I get you pumps.” Her mouth twisted slightly at the last word.
When Risa disappeared, Meghann laughed. “The only thing Mama taught us was how to walk in shoes you’d outgrown.”
“She always had a new pair.”