The women running the boutique were starstruck by my mother but extremely helpful. They pulled gown after gown out of storage and used fitting clips to show the potential in each one.
I had shown Cammi and Wanda a photo of my grandmother’s dress, but my mother dismissed each gown they brought out. “You cannot wear long sleeves in June, Elise,” she said repeatedly.
“We can make any alterations in-house. Including removing sleeves or adding embellishments,” Cammi explained.
“No, thank you. We have our own seamstress,” my mom, who can be as cold as she can be charming, snipped back.
“Vintage-inspired works too. Long transparent lace for the sleeves would give you the silhouette you’re looking for, but with a tight, trendy bodice. Train or no train? Satin was very much the fabric of the day, but lace works too. Or we can go with something more modern,” offered Wanda, the older of the two women, a pincushion on her wrist and pencil tucked into the expanse of her graying hair.
All the dresses were beautiful and had intricate details, buttons, embroidery, beading. But when I looked at my reflection wearing white, off-white, or even ivory, the bride staring back didn’t look like me.
“Veil or no veil?” Cammi asked, holding a floor-length veil the same ivory as the dress.
“Veil. Must have a veil,” my mom said from her seat on one of the green velvet couches in the fitting room. “But a simple one like the Pronovias veil that went with the Dean dress.”
My mother is not an evil woman; she’s not cruel, and usually I believe she’s not calculating. But saying Dean’s name in the fitting room of the bridal boutique was a step too far, and despite her intentions, I lost the slowly slipping grip I’ve kept on my grief during this whole process.
Warm, heavy tears dripped off my chin and onto the lace collar of the gown.
“The bride gets the final say in these things,” Cammi said to my mother, which I found brave as Gracelyn Branson’s superstar status usually mutes even the strongest personalities.
“I think the bride could use some privacy,” Wanda said solemnly, seeing my tears, like a nurse asking visitors to leave a patient’s room when visiting hours end.
It took some doing, but Wanda and Cammi cleared the room and helped me take off the dress, passing me tissue after tissue as I continued to cry the tears I’d bottled up for months, maybe years.
“I really do love Hunter,” I said to Cammi as I sat on the elevated platform where I’d been showing off my dresses.
“I’m sure you do. This is very normal, I promise,” she said, hanging the gown.
“Nothing about this is normal,” I said, gesturing to the tripods and can lights.
“I guess that’s not normal, but your tears are.” She handed me another tissue. “Weddings are stressful, and throw in an opinionated parent or two, and something little girls dream of their whole lives becomes a big ole nightmare.”
“I guess,” I said, but what I thought was, But it didn’t feel like this with Dean. My mom was still my mom back then, so what’s the difference?
“The advice I give to every girl going through ‘mamma drama’ is—this is your wedding and your marriage. This is your story—you have to live with what you write. So don’t let nobody take your pen away.”
It was a deep moment from Cammi, who I doubt was more than a year or two out of high school, but it’s what I needed to hear. I wiped my tears away and had Wanda call Lisa back in to redo my full face of makeup. Within an hour, I’d chosen a dress, and we took the ninety-minute drive back to Edinburgh in silence.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
My phone explodes again on the bedside table.
“Ugh.” I blindly grab for it, keeping my eyes closed for a minute longer.
I squint at the screen. It’s full of notifications. Texts, social media tags, emails. I scroll through, searching for one that clearly explains whatever media disaster we’ve somehow stumbled into. Did one of my clients tweet a sexist comment? Forget to wear panties to a club? Have a total meltdown? Die?
Oh God, I hope not.
Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s something we’ve seen before at Toffee Co. Usually I’m insulated from it, the news filtering through one of my associates or assistants. But clearly, I’ve been gone too long, and someone has dropped the ball. Which I can only partially blame on my team because I’m spending most of my days in a one-gas-station town, planning a wedding, worrying about dates on headstones, and accidentally stalking the local priest. Who am I?
I tap on a random notification. As the social media app opens, my phone rings. It’s Marla, my VP. Damn. This must be big.
“Hey, Mar, what’s up?” I ask, trying not to sound groggy, which is pretty much impossible.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her voice sounding as tired as mine.
“Uh, yeah. Long day but I’m fine. Why? What’s going on?”
Dead air.
“You haven’t heard?”
“Uh, no. I’ve been . . .” I try to think of a better excuse than napping. “On set. What should I have heard?” I put the phone on speaker, curiosity growing, going back to my list of notifications as Marla hems and haws. I’ve never heard Marla like this. She’s a no-nonsense businesswoman who tells it like it is. Whatever the disaster, it must be huge, and it must affect our company directly.
“Marla, give it to me straight. What’s the lowdown?”
“I don’t know what happened. I thought Terry at ZTM was our inside guy.”
“Marla. Stop. I can’t be any help if I don’t know what happened. You know what—hold on. I’ll brief myself.”
I tap on the blue-and-white Twitter logo with a shocking number of notifications in a red circle in the corner. The app pops open, and so does a grainy picture of two figures sitting in a car in an intimate conversation. Another photo of the figures standing outside a hotel, looking as though they’re holding hands. I zoom in on it to get a better look.
It’s me and Patrick.
My stomach drops, and I click on the link.
The headline pops up: ELISE BRANSON CAUGHT WITH PRIEST LOVER!
I read the first few lines.
Our sources say Elise Branson, former fiancée of deceased star Dean Graham, and currently engaged to business icon Hunter Garrot, showed she has more in common with her famous grandmother Vivian Snow than her smile when she was discovered outside a hotel in a compromising position with a local religious leader, Father Patrick Kelly. Mac Dorman’s newest documentary on the early life of icon Vivian Snow reveals a similar love triangle in the actress’s early life. Like grandmother like granddaughter, it seems . . .
“Shit,” I say into the phone. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.”
Marla lets me have my moment of panic. It’s a normal response; I’ve seen it countless times with my clients.
All the things that I roll my eyes at when other people say them pop into my mind. I want to tell off every single one of my contacts at ZTM. I want to sue everyone who picked up the story after the picture was leaked. I want to write a comment on every post to rebut the claims. I want to send out my own statement ASAP, correcting every assumption made in this stupid article.