I was not still smiling when I arrived at the bridal salon. But I was wearing my newly purchased Spanx, so come what may, less of the conversation would be about my need to drop a few pounds. I hoped.
“Good morning,” I said as I got to Sharon’s group.
“Hey,” Sharon said, jumping up to greet me. She gestured toward the one woman I didn’t know. “Elyse, this is Lily, she was my college roommate. Lily, this is Josh’s sister, Elyse.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said. Then I turned to Sharon’s mother and sister. “And good to see you, Mrs. Meyer. Bethany.”
Mrs. Meyer looked at me appraisingly and I thought I saw a glimmer of approval at my slightly slimmer physique. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
Apparently she had called ahead and asked for the dresses she liked to be pulled into the dressing rooms for us before we got there. And we had three fitting rooms reserved, so we could all try on dresses at the same time and then switch. None of the dresses in my room were black and I felt my spirits rise. Maybe that had only been a suggestion and other colors were on the table after all.
I tried on the first dress—it was one I had tried for Amy already, but it had been rejected as “too old” by Amy and “too matronly” by my mother. But Goldilocks over here thought it was just right age-wise. Which I suppose spoke more to my actual age and what my mother felt my marital status should be, but whatever.
And I had to admit, as I turned this way and that in the dressing room mirror, it looked better with the Spanx under it than it had the last time I put it on.
But this was Mrs. Meyer we were dealing with, so I took a deep, calming breath before I exited the fitting room.
Bethany and Elyse were already out of their rooms.
Mrs. Meyer was walking around the other two girls to view the dresses from all angles. She adjusted the shoulders on her younger daughter’s dress, then held a curled finger to her mouth to take me in as well.
“The one Elyse is wearing is a maybe,” she said. “The rest can go back.”
I looked at Sharon and cocked an eyebrow, trying to silently communicate the question, “Do you like these?” She shrugged her shoulders so faintly that had I not been looking for it, I wouldn’t have detected any motion. But this wasn’t my first rodeo, so I knew how to read her body language and returned silently to my dressing room for the next round.
The next dress was far and away my favorite of all the dresses that I had tried on for any bride. It was fitted to the waist, then had a slight flair, and a neckline that cut straight across, but angled up toward the neck from the edges. Had it been black, I would have felt like Audrey Hepburn, the irony of which was not lost on me. I twirled around for my own benefit and smiled at my reflection. This was a dress that I would actually buy to wear as a guest to a wedding. This was one I would wear again.
The lineup was already underway again when I came out. Apparently the other two girls knew to operate on the same military style of dress time that Mrs. Meyer preferred. She circled us again, a shark examining its prey.
“Lily’s is a possibility. The rest aren’t.”
I caught a glimpse of Bethany’s face before she put her mask up. Her fingers clutched the hem of the dress she was wearing, then she dropped it. Bethany loved the dress she was in. Did I love the dress I was in? Yes. Did I actually care what I wore to Sharon’s wedding as long as it didn’t cost as much as my dress for Caryn’s? Nope.
My mouth opened involuntarily. “I’d love to try on the one Bethany is wearing too.”
Bethany shook her head narrowly at me. Sharon’s eyes were wide, but wary, waiting to see how her mother would respond to this small rebellion when there was a larger one brewing.
“You can do that on your time. I have a hair appointment this afternoon.”
“I—”
“Next dress,” she said resolutely. “Then we’ll trade the good ones.” I started to say something, but she fixed me with a look that stopped me.
Pick your battles, Lily. You told Sharon you would fight one for her, not her sister. I went back into the dressing room, where my next dress was possibly the worst thing I had ever put on. It was sent back, and I was instructed to put on the first dress that Elyse had and give Bethany my favorite to try on.
I was beginning to feel like I was in one of those dating shows that Becca watched, waiting to see which dress got the rose by the end of the whole ordeal, but eventually Mrs. Meyer selected a dress, then paid lip service to Sharon, asking if she agreed. Sharon did. It wasn’t the one I loved, but again, not my wedding, not my say.
“So we’ll be ordering three of these in black,” she said to the saleslady, and Sharon looked at me imploringly.
Crap, I thought. Then I cleared my throat. Mrs. Meyer turned in surprise.
“Actually, Mrs. M., I’m not sure.”
She looked at me wearily, as if this was no surprise. “Of course. You’re pregnant, aren’t you?” She turned to her daughter. “I told you asking someone who wasn’t family to be in the wedding was a mistake.”
“What? No! I’m not pregnant.” I stared at her, horrified.
“Then what’s the matter?”
“I’m just—uh—I’m not a huge fan of black.”
“Since when?” She looked pointedly at me. I hadn’t thought this one out. My shirt, shoes, purse, and coat were all black.
“I meant for weddings. It’s—um—it’s considered bad luck.”
She turned to the saleswoman. “Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“It used to be considered a faux pas, but black bridesmaid dresses are very in fashion right now,” she reassured Mrs. Meyer.
“It’s a bad omen—in my culture.”
Her hand went to her hip. “You’re half Jewish and half what again?”
“Episcopalian,” I said quietly. I wouldn’t quite describe either as a culture though—we had a Christmas tree but also lit Hanukkah candles. The only time I had ever set foot in a church was for a wedding on my mom’s side, and my only times in synagogues were for my dad’s cousins’ bar mitzvahs.
“The Jewish side certainly doesn’t have a taboo against black, and everyone is doing it these days. And,” she enunciated each word of this next part, “it is not your wedding.”
I glanced at Sharon, who was studying her fingernails. Why am I doing this again? Then I went for it.
“It’s not yours either.”
“What did you just say to me?”
“It’s Sharon’s wedding. Did you ask her what color she wanted us to wear?”
“I’m paying for this wedding and Sharon is my daughter, so this certainly is my wedding!” She turned to Sharon. “Are you going to let her speak to me this way?”
“I—”
Mrs. Meyer cut her off. “I understand that Sharon wanted you in her wedding for sentimental value, but this is completely inappropriate.”
“Ask her then,” I said quietly. “If Sharon says she wants black, I’ll wear it and you’ll never hear a peep from me about it.”
Sharon looked at me, aghast, then realized her mother was watching and adjusted her face.
“Well?” Mrs. Meyer asked. “We’re all waiting.”
“I—” Her eyes darted to me, like a frightened animal’s. “They’re all so pale,” she squeaked almost inaudibly. “They’ll look like ghosts in black.”
“So they’ll go tanning.”
“Maybe—maybe we could look at some lighter colors?” I felt a surge of pride. In all of the years we had been friends, I could count on one hand the number of times Sharon had actually stood up to her mom. And the wedding dress was perhaps the first time I had seen her get her own way.
But something changed in Mrs. Meyer’s face. “That’s what you want?” she asked, eyes narrowed.
Sharon nodded.
She turned to the saleslady. “Fine. What other colors does this dress come in?”
I looked to Sharon, who mouthed, “Thank you,” behind her mother’s back. I nodded and gave her a half smile, already mentally drafting a blog post about Mom-zilla.