Ibby jumped down from the table and ran into the hall. She took the phone and placed her hand over the bottom of the receiver. “Go in there and reason with Fannie,” she urged Doll.
A few minutes later Ibby came back into the room. “Well?”
Doll was flipping through the pattern book again. “What about this one?”
“Don’t like the sleeves,” Fannie said.
Doll flipped a few more pages and held the book up. “This one?”
“I like it. Simple yet elegant,” Fannie said. “That’s the one.”
“Don’t I even get to choose the style of dress I’m wearing?” Ibby came over and stood next to Doll.
“Miss Fannie likes this one.” Doll pointed to a sleeveless empire dress with a sash.
“I told you. I don’t want a long dress.” Ibby stomped her foot on the floor.
“Then sort it out with your grandmother,” Doll said, rolling her eyes.
Ibby and Fannie went back and forth about the dress for a good while until the doorbell rang.
Fannie craned her neck toward the front window. “Who could that be?”
Doll pulled aside the lace curtain. “It’s your chubby friend with the frizzy hair.”
“I don’t have any chubby friends with frizzy hair,” Fannie said.
“It’s Miss Ibby’s friend,” Doll said.
“Winnie Waguespack and I are going downtown to shop for a party dress for her at D. H. Holmes Department Store. Why can’t I just buy one there?” Ibby asked.
“Because Doll can make you a better one,” Fannie snapped.
Ibby answered the door and came back into the front parlor with Winnie.
“How you, Miss Fannie?” Winnie said, smiling way too long.
“Why, just fine,” Fannie said, mocking her. “How you?”
Winnie dropped her smile.
Ibby piped up, “Winnie, what are you wearing to your sweet sixteen party—a long dress, or a cocktail dress?”
Winnie looked from Ibby to Fannie, then back to Ibby. “Why, probably whatever my mother wants me to wear, I’m sure.”
“I told you,” Fannie said.
“Miss Fannie’s always right.” Doll picked up the pattern book and left the room.
“Please, Fannie, let me buy a new dress,” Ibby said. “Just this once.”
“Now, if you girls will excuse me, I have some things to attend to,” Fannie said, making her way toward the hall.
When the girls got to Winnie’s car, Ibby asked, “Why didn’t you tell the truth, Winnie? You’re not wearing a long dress to your party, are you?”
Winnie opened the car door and looked over at Ibby. “Why, Miss Ibby Bell. That was the truth. If Mama had her way, I’d be wearing her old debutante dress from the nineteen-forties. There was an old trunk up in the attic with all her old party dresses. I made sure that trunk disappeared. Now I get to pick out my own dress at D. H. Holmes. You just have to be smart about these things.”
Ibby got into the car, thinking hard about what Winnie had just told her.
Winnie patted her on the knee. “It’ll be fine. Just you wait and see. I’m sure Doll will make you a right pretty dress.”
Ibby spent most of the afternoon watching Winnie wiggle into every dress at D. H. Holmes before she finally settled on five, all of which were to be sent to her house on approval.
“Mama’s probably going to be disappointed I didn’t bring home at least one formal gown,” Winnie explained on the way to the car. “I’ll just tell her they didn’t have my size.” She got into the driver’s seat and checked her watch. “Oh Lord, I told Mama I’d be back by three. It’s almost four.”
Ibby leaned in the window. “You go ahead. I need to run an errand.”
Winnie looked puzzled. “Why didn’t you say something before? I wouldn’t have dillydallied so long. Besides, it looks like rain. Don’t you want a ride home?”
“I can take the bus. Don’t worry about me.”
Winnie gave out an exasperated sigh. “Alrighty. I’ll see you at my party, if not before.” She waved a hand out the window and disappeared down Canal Street.
All afternoon Ibby had been thinking of something other than shopping. The building on Ursulines Street where the photo of Vidrine had been taken was only a few blocks away, in the French Quarter. And even though Birdelia had tried on several occasions to convince Ibby that Mr. Rainold had been mistaken, she couldn’t get the image of the woman in the photograph out of her mind.
Ibby hurried down Royal Street with the photo in her hand. The image was blurry, as if the woman had been fleeing from the photographer. Her head was turned to the side, leaving only a small portion of her face exposed to the camera, but something about the manic expression in the eyes reminded Ibby of her mother. Could it be her? And if it was, what exactly was Ibby going to say to her if she did find her?
Why did you leave me? Don’t you love me?