17. Star Splinters
Being at work that night was dreadful. Even Bente was at the end of her rope with me.
“Charli,” she hissed, grabbing my elbow and pulling me aside. “Table two are complaining that they’ve been sitting twenty minutes and haven’t even seen a menu.”
I cocked my head, leaning past her to peek at the party in question.
“I’m sorry. I’m a little off my game tonight.”
Bente’s expression softened the instant she smiled. “Honey, I don’t think you have a game. But I’m between a rock and a hard place here. You’re screwing the boss, so I can’t fire you. I’m just trying to work with what I have.”
I couldn’t argue with the truth.
“I need to tell you something,” I said gravely.
“Will baring your soul make you more productive?”
“It’s worth a shot.”
Bente groaned wearily. “Okay, shoot.”
“I’m getting married.” I didn’t say it like a giddy bride. I spoke as if I was about to be dragged to the altar kicking and screaming.
Grabbing my elbow again, she practically dragged me through the kitchen and into Paolo’s office. As usual, no one in the kitchen batted an eyelid.
“Are you freaking kidding me?”
“I love him, Bente.”
Bente sat on Paolo’s chair and buried her face in her hands. “You know something?” she asked, looking up at me. “I actually believe you when you say that. But I think you’re both mad – especially you.”
“Why?”
“A society wedding is a fierce animal. It’s going to take on a life of it’s own, Charli.”
“We’re not having a big wedding. We’re not even planning to tell anyone.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re eloping? His mother will lynch you.”
I shrugged. “His mother hates me anyway.”
“She does,” she agreed. “What are your plans? Tell me everything.”
Clearly, Bente had forgotten about the restaurant she was supposed to be running. Not even the banging and clanging coming from the kitchen alerted her.
“We’re getting married on Christmas Eve.” I said it with meaning, as if we’d chosen the day rather than stumbled upon it by accident. “That’s everything.”
“That’s the day after tomorrow!” she exclaimed. “Charli, how are you going to pull this together in a day and a half?”
“You’re going to help me.” I spoke with absolute certainty.
“I am?”
“Please, Bente. I want it to be perfect.”
She slouched down in the chair, looking up at the ceiling. “You know what I love about you, Charli?”
“My fantastic waitressing skills and sunny disposition?”
“Besides that,” she replied, grinning. “I love your optimism. It hasn’t even entered your head things with your frog might not work out, has it?”
I shook my head. “Nope. I love him with my whole heart.”
“And soul?” she teased. “The transition isn’t complete unless your soul is jacked too.”
“He is my soul. Sometimes I think I only breathe because he does. What do you suppose that means?”
Bente wrinkled her nose. “I guess it means the frog is a keeper.”
I could afford to be smug now. “I should marry him then.”
“And I should help you organise it,” she conceded, albeit begrudgingly. “What do you need?”
“A dress. I need the perfect dress.”
“Fine,” she replied. “Tomorrow, we’ll hit the shops.”
***
Shopping for a wedding dress was an absolute ordeal.
Bente was surprised to learn that I had very specific ideas on what I wanted to wear when I got married. “I thought this would be over in an hour,” she grumbled, raking through yet another rack of dresses. “You’re supposed to be whimsical and spontaneous.”
“Not about this. My dress has to be just right.”
It wasn’t about vanity or fairy tales. It was about covering all bases. Not only was I notoriously whimsical and spontaneous, I was incredibly superstitious. And it was those superstitions that made finding a near perfect dress a few minutes later bittersweet.
I took the dress and held it up, studying it closely.
“Is that the one?” asked Bente, hopefully. “It’s gorgeous.”
It really was. The simple floor length satin gown was strapless. The sash around the waist was tied in a bow at the back that trailed to the floor. No lace. No beads. No diamantes. It was simple and exquisite.
“It’s almost the one,” I said sadly.
Bente sat on a nearby chair and groaned, loud enough to gain the attention of the snippy sales assistant. The woman approached us – for the third time – and asked if she could help us with something.
“Well, Charlotte?” asked Bente, matching her haughty tone. “Can she help us?”
I held the dress out to her. “Do you have this in any other fabric?”
The woman squinted at me over the top of her glasses.
“Special orders can be arranged on request.”
“Great. Can it be ready by tomorrow morning?” Bente asked.
The woman let out a strange guffaw. “We’re not magicians.” I wanted to call her out on her false advertising. According to the sign out the front, Elspeth’s Bridal Boutique guaranteed a magical wedding day. By rights, she should have been a magician.
I left the shop feeling dejected. Bente wasted no time in questioning me. “What was wrong with the fabric?”
“It’s satin. You can’t have a satin wedding dress. It’s extremely bad luck.”
She hooked her arm around mine as we wandered out on to the street.
“Oh, good grief,” she uttered. “Ninety percent of wedding dresses are satin.”
“Not mine. It’s bad mojo.”
Bente began to laugh. “Charli, I hate to break it to you but you’re running out of time. Isn’t that bad mojo?”
I stopped walking, yanking her to a stop too. She’d raised a valid point. There might have been some ancient superstition that considered disorganisation to be a bad omen.
“We need to fix this,” I said, sounding alarmingly desperate. “Do you know a dressmaker?”
“That can knock out a designer gown in a few hours? I’m not a magician either.”
“Think, Bente,” I urged, shaking her as if that made a difference.
She stared at me for a long time, trying to come up with a solution. “I might know someone,” she said at last. “My sister Ivy’s pretty handy with a needle and thread. We’ll go to her.”
“Excellent,” I replied, breathing a little easier. “Lead the way.”
***
I loved getting out of the Manhattan bubble for a minute, especially with Bente. My first ever subway trip was the short journey to Ivy’s house in Astoria. The modest two story home on a busy street was a world away from the doorman-attended buildings I was becoming embarrassingly used to.
The tiny front yard was decorated with cheesy Christmas ornaments, including a half deflated snowman that Bente kicked on the way up to the porch.
“Bente!”
She shrugged. “The damned thing has been there since last Christmas.”
We stepped on to the porch. Bente pounded on the door, yelling her sister’s name. After a long minute, the door opened and my eyes drifted down to the tiny girl standing there. Bente sweetened her tone. “Hello, princess. Are you going to let Aunt Bente in?”
The little girl stood on the warm side of the screen door, defiantly shaking her head.
“Now, Fabergé,” growled Bente, abandoning the gentle voice.
“Fabergé?” I whispered. “Like the eggs?”
“Yes, absurd isn’t it?” She rattled the handle on the screen door. “Ivy!”
Fabergé was unperturbed. Her chubby hand dug into the bag of chips she was holding and stuffed a handful into her mouth.
Finally, her mother appeared and unlocked the door “Scoot, Fabergé.” She turned her daughter by the shoulders and nudged her away.
“About time,” grumbled Bente. “We’re freezing out here.”
“Well, hurry up and get inside then. You’re letting all the heat out.”
Ivy looked like a grown-up version of little Fabergé. She was a plump brunette woman in her mid twenties with a cherubic face that didn’t quite match her stern disposition. Once the introductions were out of the way, Ivy got straight down to business, asking me what sort of dress I was looking for and chastising me for leaving it until the last minute.
“Look, can you do it or not?” asked Bente impatiently.
Ivy glared, as if the question was absurd. “Of course I can. Go down to the sewing room. I’ll put Fabergé down for a nap and be right there.”
Hearing that there was a room purely dedicated to sewing made me hopeful that Ivy could come through for me. Seeing the room made me nervous all over again. It looked like the backstage area of a burlesque theatre. Everywhere I looked there were glitzy miniature gowns encrusted with rhinestones, beads, feathers or all three. None of the fairies from my childhood imaginings would have ever been caught wearing dresses like that – except the ones hooked on acid.
“I’m not sure this is going to work out,” I said, making Bente giggle.
“Relax, Kemosabe. These are all Fabergé’s. Ivy hand-made every one of these creepy dresses.” She waved her arms around. “Every few months she dolls Fabergé up with fake eyelashes and a spray tan, dresses her in one of these creations and enters her in a pageant.”
It was unfathomable. The little girl couldn’t have been more than four years old. “Who would do that?” I whispered in disbelief.
“Look, you have to at least appreciate the talent. Some of these dresses take her weeks to make.”
I turned my attention to the iridescent lime green creation hanging on the wall behind me. The jewel-encrusted bodice looked like it weighed more than Fabergé did.
“Does she ever win?” Bente led me across the hall to the lounge. The cluttered room was crammed full of two-foot tall trophies, sashes and shelves of princess crowns. “Promise me something, Bente?” I grabbed the cuff of her sleeve. “Don’t let your sister anywhere near my dress with a glue gun.”
“I promise,” she replied, dissolving into a fit of giggles.
“Although I would kill to have a tiara,” I said, eyeing off the display of crowns. “Maybe I’ll borrow one of these.”
“Take your pick,” encouraged Bente, waving her hands around the room.
“I was joking.”
“Go ahead and pick one. Ivy won’t mind.” She cocked her head back and yelled upstairs. “Ivy! Can Charli borrow one of Fabergé’s tiaras for her wedding?” I cringed, more at the screeching than the request. Ivy’s affirmative reply came quickly, and equally as loudly. “See, I told you,” Bente said smugly. She picked up a huge over-the-top crown and placed it on my head. It was so big I had to hold it with both hands to keep it steady.
“I had something a little less showy in mind.” I handed the crown back and reached for a small pave crystal tiara. “What about this one?” I asked, securing it in my hair with the combed edges.
Bente turned around to read the accompanying sash. “You look beautiful, Little Miss Pork Belly.”
“Pardon?”
“That was her title. First place at the Little Miss Pork Belly Pageant.” I read the sash. Sure enough, she was telling the truth.
A quick glance around the room showed that Fabergé had won many other dubious titles. Miss Top Pup was my laugh-out-loud favourite.
“Are you sure this is appropriate?” I asked, readjusting my small crown.
“Of course it is. It only becomes questionable if you decide to wear the sash too.”
I needn’t have wasted so much energy doubting Ivy’s talent. Bente had had the good sense to snap a picture of the almost-right dress with her phone while the sales assistant had her back turned. Using that as a guide, Ivy created a flawless replica – in ivory silk. The whole process took less than five hours, including the trip to buy the fabric. By four o’clock, I was trying it on for the final time.
“I think it’s prettier than the one in the store,” beamed Bente.
“It’s too plain,” volunteered Ivy. “I can glitz it up.”
“No!” Bente and I said in unison.
“To each her own,” Ivy muttered, fussing with the bow at the back.
“I can’t thank you enough for this,” I told her. “I can’t wait for Adam to see it.”
“Let’s hope he’s easier to impress than his brother.” Bente scolded her sister, telling her to shut up. “What? I’m just saying that I hope he’s a nice guy.”
“He’s lovely. Ryan’s not a bad guy either, once you get to know him,” I added.
Ivy tugged so hard on the hem of my dress that I nearly tumbled off the chair I was standing on. “Ryan’s not nice. He strung Bente along for weeks. I don’t know why she tortured herself by keeping her job. I would have told him to shove it.”
I looked across at Bente, seeing a mix of embarrassment and awkwardness in her expression. I realised that she’d seriously downplayed the story of the romp in the cloakroom with Ryan.
“Well, Adam is the best person I know. I can’t wait to marry him.” My comment wasn’t an honest declaration of love; I was attempting to steer the discussion away from the subject of his brother. That conversation could wait.
“Well, you have the perfect dress to do it in,” announced Bente, stepping aside so I could see my reflection in the full-length mirror behind her.
I had to agree. It was exactly what I wanted.
Finding a dress had been my only mission for the day. Adam’s task was to organise the rings. The look on his face when I arrived home suggested it hadn’t been a simple one.
I draped my dress bag over the couch and fell into his welcoming arms. He kissed my forehead and I lifted my head to look at him. “Are you alright?”
“It’s been a long day,” he admitted. “I’ve spent the entire afternoon shopping for a ring.”
“Can I see it?”
“I’m not sure.”
His response made me nervous. I’d never told Adam about the fate of the black opal necklace he’d given me. But I had told Ryan. I wondered if he’d sold me out.
“I promise I’ll never sell my wedding ring to African gangsters, no matter how desperate I am,” I blurted, holding my hand to my heart.
“Charlotte, what are you talking about?”
“Nothing,” I replied, cursing my big mouth. “I’ll tell you another day. Please, can I see it?”
“I want to tell you about it first,” he said, rather glumly.
“Are you going to give me a lesson in gemmology, Adam?” I asked, delighted.
“I should at least try.”
I snuggled in close to him, listening attentively. Poor Adam, so desperate to make the right decision had become overwhelmed by the endless options on offer. “I knew I couldn’t just buy a big fat diamond. It wouldn’t hold any meaning, would it?”
“Sure it would. It would mean I married well. I’d probably be able to swing a country club membership with a rock on my finger.”
“Probably,” he agreed, almost smiling. “I spent the best part of the day researching. The problem is, just about every stone signifies something.”
I was amused that he’d overanalysed it to the point of confusion.
“So what did you finally settle on?”
Displacing me, he reached in his pocket. “If you don’t like it, just say the word,” he said, placing a ring box on my lap.
He’d talked it down so much, I wasn’t sure if I should open it. “Before I look at it, tell me what it means.”
Adam looked as if the conversation was causing him unbearable pain. “Well, I made a few mistakes today. Looking for a meaningful ring after telling the sales assistant that you’ll pay whatever it takes to get the right one isn’t such a bright idea. They kept showing me huge solitaires. On your hand, they would look like a baseball.” He placed his hand against mine, palm to palm. “After looking at ten million rings I ended up in a place on Fifth Avenue. I changed my approach and told the sales assistant that I wanted a ring with a legend behind it weightier than the stone in it.”
“And how did that work out for you?”
“Better, I think. She told me a few clichéd stories that didn’t mean much, but one sounded interesting. She told me that the Romans believed that diamonds were the splinters of stars.”
My eyes drifted down to the small velvet box sitting in my lap. “I didn’t know that.”
“Have I just given you a lesson in stars, Charlotte?”
“Oh, trust me, Boy Wonder. I know about stars.”
His smile broadened. “Educate me.”
“You’d already be educated if you’d read Peter Pan.”
Adam leaned over and picked his iPad up off the floor. “I’ll download it and read it now,” he said, tapping the screen. “Maybe I’ll download the French version and read it out loud to you. Who knows, if I put a seductive spin on the accent, I might get lucky tonight.”
I giggled, more at his Machiavellian expression than his silly words.
“I am a sure thing, monsieur Décarie,” I declared, still sniggering. “I am the surest thing you’ve ever had.”
The download finished and he and placed the iPad on my lap.
“Tell me about stars, Charlotte,” he ordered.
I swiped through the pages of the book, quickly finding the quote I was looking for. I cleared my throat. “Stars are beautiful, but they may not take an active part in anything, they must just look on forever. It is a punishment put on them for something they did so long ago that no star now knows what it is.”
He lunged toward me. “You are so lovely,” he moaned.
I put my free hand on his chest, holding him at bay while I continued reading. “So the older ones have become glassy-eyed and seldom speak, winking is the star language. But the little ones still wonder. They are not very friendly to Peter, who had a mischievous way of stealing up behind them and trying to blow them out.”
I placed the iPad down on my lap and dropped my hand. Adam didn’t seem to notice that I’d stopped reading. He didn’t move.
“How much of your childhood was spent trying to blow out the stars, Charli?” he asked.
I dropped my head, a little embarrassed by the admission I was about to make. “I used to try all the time. When I was little, Alex used to put me on his shoulders, telling me I’d have a better chance if I were closer to the sky. When there were no stars on overcast nights, he’d tell me that was because he’d already blown them out.”
Adam frowned slightly. “Do you wish you’d known the truth back then?”
“About stars on cloudy nights?”
“No, that Alex is your dad.”
I barely had to think about my answer. “Alex was always my dad, even before I knew it. Nothing changed once I found out the truth.”
His hand moved to the side of my face, cradling my cheek. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call him and confess that I’m about to permanently steal his only daughter away?”
As brave as his offer was, it bordered on insanity. Alex wouldn’t give us his blessing in a million years.
“No. In my experience, confessing to crimes is better done after the event. He’ll try and talk me out of it.”
Adam leaned across, pressing me into the cushion, ignoring the fact that the ring box and iPad had fallen to the floor.
“Do you think he could?” He sounded worried.
“No.” I quickly kissed him. “I never have second thoughts. I always go with the first. Can I see my ring now?”
He groaned a long sigh into my shoulder. “Yes, of course.” I wriggled beneath him, making a grab for the box. “If you don’t like them, I’ll take them back.”
“Them?”
He sat up, releasing me. “There are two rings,” he murmured. “If I’m going to give you stars, I’m going to give you as many as I can.”
I’d never worn a ring in my life. The prospect of wearing two on one finger was a little daunting.
I flipped open the lid of the box and stared.
“Do you like them?”
He took them out and slipped them on my finger. In a terribly clichéd pose, I held my hand out, wiggling my fingers to enhance the twinkling.
There was nothing not to like. Pieced together, the rings looked like a delicate string of jewels wound around my finger over and over. When separated, they looked like little diamond curly fries. They’d match my Miss Pork Belly tiara perfectly.
“I adore them,” I told him, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him back to me.
***
Adam wasn’t thrilled by the idea of spending the night before our wedding apart. He was even less thrilled when I told him Ryan had agreed to put him up for the night – providing he promised not to steal anything while he was there.
I had it all worked out. Ryan would pick me up from our apartment in the morning, and Bente would make sure Adam was at the marriage bureau by ten.
The plan was flawless but hard to execute. The gorgeous boy with the cerulean eyes just didn’t want to go. I gripped both of his hands, keeping him at a distance while I pushed him toward the door.
“I can’t just leave you here,” he complained, dipping his head to murmur the words so close to my mouth that his lips brushed mine.
“I managed just fine for a month before you got here.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Of course it’s not.” I waved behind me. “I have furniture now.”
“Let me stay.”
His voice was so smooth and persuasive that it took effort to say no, but I managed to hold my ground. “The day after tomorrow, when you wake up, I’m going to be right beside you.”
He took my face in his hands for the final time that night. “Yes, Charlotte,” he breathed. “And you’ll be legally obligated to be there.”
My ensuing laugh was cut short. It was the most divine of kisses – desperate, deep and expectant. He was the one who ended it, as if leaving me gasping for air was revenge for making him leave.
I stood at the doorway, waiting until he reached the elevator before calling out to him. He turned, granting me a knee-weakening half-dimpled smile.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.
Ignoring the fact that the elevator doors had just opened, he stalked back toward me. Claiming the win, I stepped inside and quickly closed the door.
Seconds later, a note appeared by my feet.
For a boy who’d mastered three languages, his note was remarkably simple. There weren’t even any words. The little hand-drawn love heart was the most precious message I’d ever received.