Over the moon to have Jazz and me crowded into her small vinyl covered kitchen, Mrs. Weaton fussed about as Jazz probed her with questions. “Well if you must know, I dated Montgomery Clift in the early fifties,” she declared and looked at us expectantly.
Jazz glanced at me. “Name rings a bell,” she tried and searched him on her phone. “Wow, so you also dated an actor. He was hot!”
I looked over and admired his dark hair and sonnet-worthy cheekbones.
“Oooh. Let me look,” Mrs. Weaton implored.
Jazz turned the phone around to her. She sighed with a touch of sadness, reaching a shaky finger out, and then dropping it at the last moment. “Yes, he was. So beautiful and so tortured. Reminds me a lot of your Jack. Oh, he was so dreamy. Broke my heart, of course, when he started dating Elizabeth Taylor. Although he said it was all for show. What a beautiful couple they made.” She sniffed. “Anyway, a sad soul he was. A brilliant actor, the likes of which I’ve never seen. He lived in those characters, taking them all on board.” Her eyes took on a far away look. “He had a terrible car accident and never was fully himself again. Both his looks and his mind were forever altered.” She eased her thin frame into a chair and placed a plate of cookies down in front of us.
Jazz glared at the plate and gave in immediately. It was hard not to eat anything Mrs. Weaton made.
“I still thought he was beautiful,” she went on in her trembly voice. “I saw him once before the end, at a party in New York City. ‘Iris,’ he said, ‘you were always too good for me,’ and he kissed the knuckles on my left hand.” She rubbed her bony fingers softly over them, her eyes glistening. “I never saw him again. He died a few months later. Heart attack, they say, but I think he was addicted to the pain medication after his accident. I think … he couldn’t deal with living such a public life and feeling like … less.”
My eyes filled, and Jazz swiped a quick finger across her cheek.
“Maybe he died of a broken heart because he couldn’t be with the love of his life,” Jazz said, always the romantic.
“So very, very tragic,” Mrs. Weaton finished with a watery smile at Jazz’s words. “Anyway, I have something that may work. I wore it to that party in New York, actually. It was my mother’s from the twenties. Come help me.”
Jazz and I helped Mrs. Weaton pull open the large cedar trunk at the foot of her bed. “I should have hung these all up, but I’d rather they stay in the trunk and not be moth eaten.”
We took turns pulling out layer after layer of tissue paper and plastic wrap and laying them on the bed, their contents indiscernible but for a hint of color here and there. Barely disturbing the packaging, Mrs. Weaton peeked in each one. Finally, I gingerly lifted a heavier feeling package out, and she nodded.
We unwrapped it to find a gorgeous sheer flapper dress, completely see-through, made of thin tabard netting with hundreds of thousands of tiny jet beads intricately embroidered all over it down to a beaded fringe. “It was hand beaded. Everything was in those days,” Mrs. Weaton said. “You can wear any color slip underneath. I wore a skin color one. I might still have it or something similar.” She winked. “That sure did turn a few heads.”
Jazz cackled. “You hussy!”
“It’s perfect,” I said, in awe.
Mrs. Weaton went to a drawer and pulled out a champagne colored slip. I took my shorts and tank off and tried the slip and then the dress on, with Jazz carefully lowering it over my head. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Wow!” said Jazz.
“Honey, I hope it brings you all the love and glamour in the world. I couldn’t imagine it going to a better home. This dress was meant for you.”
I hugged her sweet-smelling, bony frame as hard as I dared, my chest filling with emotion. “Now, I just have to get over my fear of having Jack there as well as feeling like an imposter who tricked people into thinking I have a talent.”
“Yes, you do have to get over that, honey,” said Mrs. Weaton into my hair, patting me fondly. “You are extremely talented.”
Jazz pursed her lips and raised her eyes at me. Told ya her expression said.
After getting changed again, we said our goodbyes and carefully carried the beautiful dress over to my place. I was relieved to have one less thing to worry about before the event the next evening.
My phone buzzed with a text from Jack just as we got into my house. A lump formed in my throat.
Late Night Visitor: Hope you got back safe.
God, we hadn’t spoken all day. He’d barely looked at me and hadn’t once touched me since we found out about the article. Now his short emotionless text left me swinging out in the cold.
Me: We did. How did it go?
There was a long pause before my phone beeped again.
Late Night Visitor: I was mostly unsuccessful talking him out of it. But he may keep your name out for now …
Me: That’s great. Wait, for now?