“We could ask her,” Ruby said. “I bet she’d tell us.”
“We could,” I said. “And she might, but it still wouldn’t be any of our business. The only past you have a right to know about is your own.”
“And the people you have to study for history class. You’re being so boring,” Ruby said. “I’m going to google it.” Ruby picked up her phone. “Frances—what’s her last name?”
“Lincoln,” I said.
“It’s too common,” Ruby said. “Is Franny from Allison Springs, or somewhere else?”
“Hey, Nancy Drew! Seriously, it’s none of our business,” I said. “Somewhere else, I think.”
“We could go on her Facebook,” Ruby suggested. “See who she knows.”
“You sound like a stalker or a mobster.”
“Fine,” Ruby said. She plugged in her phone. “I bet she had an eating disorder and she was in a mental hospital.”
“That’s not nice,” I said.
“I’m just, like, imagining what it might be,” Ruby said. “She’s very skinny.”
“Really?” I said. “I hadn’t noticed.” Of course I had noticed. At the dress store, the shopgirl had needed multiple clamps to get the sample size to stay up. Franny’s shoulder blades were as sharp as knives. When I kissed or hugged her, I felt as if I might break her. But Franny could have been naturally that way, who knew? It is foolish to speculate what is happening inside another human’s shell. In any case, I wanted my daughter to think that her mother didn’t notice the size of other women’s bodies because I wanted my daughter not to notice the size of other women’s bodies. I believed a mother must act like the woman she wanted her daughter to become.
“You seriously didn’t notice?” Ruby said.
“I seriously did not,” I said. “I’m not that interested in other women’s bodies.”
“You are seriously blind.” Ruby sighed. “Who’s Nancy Drew?”
NINE
He’s not that bad,” Franny said to me on the plane ride back. I was in the middle seat, and Franny and Ruby were on either side of me. Ruby had on her headphones and she was doing her schoolwork. “He can be very kind,” Franny said, “and he cares so much about the community. Like, the animal shelter in town was going to have to close, and he went to every person he’d ever sold a house to or for, and he raised enough money for the shelter to stay open. That’s what attracts me to him. He’s civic-minded and he’s very industrious.”
“He’s fine,” I said. “Weddings are stressful.”
“Hmm,” she said. “But you still don’t like him.”
“I like him fine,” I said. “I’m not the one marrying him.”
“Okay,” she said. “Would you marry him?”
“No, because he isn’t my type,” I said.
“I meant, would you marry him if you were me?”
The truth was, I wouldn’t, but she wasn’t my daughter or even my friend. I liked her, but she was my client. “I could guess, but I don’t know what it means to be you,” I said. “So I can’t answer that.” I paused. “Do you love him?”
“I love you,” Franny said.
“No,” I said, “I don’t think so.”
“It’s too bright in here. I feel like I’m getting sunburnt. Can you get sunburn through glass?” Franny lowered the shade. “I mean, I love you like a friend. I love how honest you are about things,” Franny said.
TEN
The night before Franny’s wedding, I had another dream about Aviva Grossman. Aviva was still young, maybe twenty, and I was her wedding planner. “If I blow out my hair,” she said, “I’ll feel like a liar.”
“You should do what makes you feel the most comfortable,” I said.
“Aaron doesn’t like my hair curly,” she said.
“Whatever you decide, it’ll be right,” I said.
“That’s what people say when they aren’t listening or they don’t want to take any responsibility. Can you help me zip this?” she said. She turned around, and there was a great plane of skin between the two sides of her dress’s zipper.
“What is it?” she said. “It’s not too tight, is it?”
“Hold on.” I wrenched the two sides of the dress, using all my strength, and I somehow forced the zipper up.
“Can you sit?” I asked. “Can you breathe?”
“Who needs to breathe?” She sat very slowly. I heard the creak of the dress’s internal boning and I braced myself for the shredding that was surely to come. “Breathing is for real girls.” She smiled up at me. “I never thought you would become a wedding planner.”
I woke up in a sweat. I checked the weather report on my phone: 66 percent chance of flurries.
It did not snow. The weather was cold and clear. The roads were not icy. No flights were delayed. All who said they would attend, attended. But the whole day, despite the meteorological blessing of this union, I was filled with the memory of the prior night’s dream, and I felt restless.
Wes’s sisters were congenial enough, but they were incredibly close, and they had the kind of intimacy that excluded other people. Audra, the despised best friend of Wes, came on strong, but it was obvious to me—and probably everyone else—that she was in love with him. Today was a tragedy for her, so I cut her some slack and tried to be as kind to her as I could. I knew what it was to be in love with someone who did not love you back.
Schiele checked in with me after he had set up the floral centerpieces. “All orchids present and accounted for, ma’am. Would you like to see them before I leave?”
I followed Schiele into the ballroom. The orchids looked odd to my eye—the blooms were lonely and eerie, almost extraterrestrial, and the pots and the roots seemed awkward and out of place. But that was a good thing. No one wanted a wedding that looked like everyone else’s, and the orchids suited Franny, what I knew of her.
“What do you think?” Schiele said proudly.
“You do good work,” I said.
“I wish every bride would ask for orchids. It’s a lot more fun for me,” Schiele said. “This might be my favorite wedding I’ve ever done.” Schiele took out his phone and began snapping pictures. “Would you send me some of the professional photos when you have them? Do you think Franny would mind?”
“I think she’d be delighted,” I said.
“Franny’s a special woman.”
“Yes,” I said.
“What? You don’t agree.”
“I said yes.”
“But there was something in your tone,” he said.
I didn’t think there had been anything in my tone, but I looked around the room to see if we were alone. “This isn’t about Franny specifically,” I said. “More a thought I have had over the years. These details—the flowers, the dress, the room—all of them seem very important. It’s my job to make people believe that the details are important. But ultimately, no matter what they choose, it’s still flowers, a dress, and a room.”
“But what flowers!” Schiele said. “What a room!”
“Sometimes I feel like the wedding is a Trojan horse. The dream I peddle to distract from the reality of a marriage. They choose these things to distinguish themselves from everyone else. They choose these things to make themselves feel less ordinary. But is there anything more ordinary than choosing to get married?”