Letting go of the rope, he grabbed the tire and pulled it back as far as he could, then he lifted me even higher. When he let go of the tire, I closed my eyes and focused on the way the air felt crashing across my face. On the way it felt breaking through my hair. I focused on how something so invisible to the eye and so taken for granted could become such a powerful thing.
When the tire swung back Boone’s way, my smile widened as my hair whipped across my face, tangling in my eyes and darting into my mouth. Life seemed so simple from the seat of this swing. So clear that it was more simple than it was complex, more good than it was bad. Why things got so muddied when I climbed off of it, I didn’t know, but maybe that was the price of gravity.
“How is it, Clara Belle?” my mom asked for the tenth time in the past thirty seconds, rapping on the outside of my dressing room door. “How is the fit? Not too big, I hope. When I called in the size your sister had down for you, I figured that had to be a mistake, and you know how frumpy a too-large dress will look on your frame, sweetheart. If it’s too big, I’m sure I’ll be able to talk Pearl into squeezing in a quick tailoring job. The wedding pictures will be forever, and we don’t want to shudder whenever we look back at the past.”
After that, I tuned her out. She’d been going on and on ever since we’d rolled out of the driveway with my sisters and a couple of second cousins stuffed into her new Rolls. My mother had been a head-turner in her youth, according to my dad and her, but now that age had waved its wand of scorn her way, she had to get her head-turning in other ways. Driving a few-hundred-thousand-dollar car down the streets of Charleston included.
The guys had been set for a day of golfing and drinking at the country club while us girls, lucky us, got to endure a final dress fitting. Then we were having lunch at the spa my mom was an emeritus member of and an afternoon of “pampering.” The other girls might have been getting hot stone massages and paraffin dips, but I’d already seen what I was scheduled for, and a full body waxing followed by a couple of seaweed-and-pineapple wraps weren’t my idea of pampering.
“Come on out. Let us see it on you.” My mom went from rapping on the door to twisting the doorknob. Thank God I’d triple-checked to make sure it was locked after I sojourned in here. “I’ve seen your sisters in their dresses already, but I’m dying to see you in yours, sweetheart. Open up already.”
I couldn’t stop staring at the mirror and shaking my head. This had been going on for the past five minutes, ever since I’d wriggled into this sham of a bridesmaid dress and sucked and wrestled more pieces of flesh than I’d known I had to get the zipper mostly up. I’d always known Charlotte had it out for me, but I hadn’t known until right now that she was going in for the kill.
There was one color my mom used to forbid me to wear upon penalty of public humiliation when people saw just how pasty and yellow my skin was contrasted against aforementioned outlawed color: peach. It was sinister. Even I’d come to recognize that fact, despite my desire to never agree with my mother.
Something having to do with having light hair, combined with ivory skin with yellow undertones, just made me look ever so wrong when peach was laid across my frame. It was a masterpiece of epic disaster. The atom bomb of atrocious. The coux de good god.
Banning peach from my wardrobe was one of the few things my mom had gotten right when it came to me.
So why was I stuffed in it now, from head to toe, covered in a sheen-y, sickening shade of peach? Why was my mom acting like she was on pins and needles to see me in it? Why hadn’t she vetoed Charlotte’s color choice when she saw what colors she’d selected for the big day?
Why was I still standing here shaking my head at my reflection and not clawing out of this thing like a feral cat stuffed in a strait jacket?
“Clara Belle. Right this minute. I’m dying out here,” Mom practically squealed, her hands clapping in her excitement.
“It’s to die for. I promise you that,” I said flatly, unable to stop my shaking head.
It wasn’t just the color, though that was unforgivable on its own; it was also the shape. Unlike my sisters, Charlotte, I hadn’t been graced with a tall, lean body but a shorter, softer one. The boxy, sharp cuts the dress was styled around would have looked banging on a runway model whose hipbones would have popped through the chemise, but it made someone with my curvy frame look like someone had just tried squeezing a family of pigs into a cocktail dress.
Unflattering didn’t even begin to sum it up.
Rip the bandage off . . .
“Coming out,” I announced, flipping off my reflection that continued to mock me. “Brace yourselves.”
My mom did the giddy clap again. “I’ve got my camera ready.”
“That really isn’t necessary,” I said as I opened the dressing room door slowly and stepped out . . . even more slowly. If she’d heard my comment about the camera, she hadn’t heeded it. A flash fired off in my face, blinding me. “Mom, put that thing away before you blind someone.”
There was no shortage of lights in the bridal store, so why her trusty old camera deemed the lighting appropriate for flash was an indication of just how archaic that sucker really was. Let’s just say her camera had been old before camera phones were around.
“I’m not sure Aunt Estelle’s going to be the one responsible for blinding anyone today . . .” my cousin Cynthia said. She and Charlotte had been best friends growing up. That was enough to sum her up.
It took me a few moments to blink away my blindness, and when I did, I found every mouth in view dropping open. My mom looked closer to dismay than shock though. Tears could just be made out welling in the corners of her eyes.
“Oh no, Clara Belle, what went wrong?” She looked around the room like she was trying to locate an emergency responder to come save the day.
“Besides how much weight she gained since giving me her measurements three months ago?” Charlotte sashayed up to my mom, crossing her arms and inspecting me like she wasn’t sure if she felt more like laughing or gloating—clearly a tough decision for her.
“I didn’t gain any weight, but thanks for your concern. And sympathy.” I circled my hand at her face. Her eyes were practically dancing inside her skull.
“And the dress didn’t just cinch up a couple of sizes overnight,” she replied.
Avalee joined my mom, Charlotte, and cousins in the inspection line-up. She was the only one of the bunch who looked like she felt sorry for me.
“Yeah, and something tells me by the way the sleeves feel like they’re about to cut off the circulation in my arms that this isn’t the way this lovely gown is supposed to fit.” That was just the most noticeable place on my body tingling from decreased blood supply at the moment. Back in the changing room, I’d had to suck in my waist so much to get the zipper up the side, I almost passed out. I’d gotten used to the vacuum-packed feeling there now though, and I’d adjusted to breathing shallowly.
“I ordered it based on the measurements you gave me.”
When I tried crossing my arms in Charlotte’s direction, I could only get them to the halfway mark before I stopped trusting the integrity of the seams holding this thing together. “In case you’re blind, Charlotte, this dress is not based on my measurements.” I smacked my hips in proof, where the seams were pulling the most. “Nor is it based on just about any other average American woman’s measurements.”
My mom lifted her pointer finger and continued looking just over my shoulder. It was the only way she could “look” at me without getting to the cusp of bursting into tears. “We’re not average, dear. We’re Abbotts.”
Charlotte arched a narrow brow at me like that summed it up. Game over.
“I can’t wear this. Sorry.” I had to shuffle to the three-way mirror because taking normal-sized strides was impossible.
“The wedding is four days away. I can’t exactly just order you a new one from London and hope it makes it here in time,” Charlotte said.
I continued sh
uffling. “Then what do you suggest, dear sister?”
“Stop eating,” she popped off. “And shapewear.”
My cousins cackled beside her.
“God, Charlotte,” Avalee said, “you can’t seriously expect her to wear that. It’s hideous.” Avalee threw me an apologetic smile. “No offense, Clara Belle, it just, you know . . .”
“Should be burned after we draw a ring of salt around it?” I suggested, pinching at the fabric.
“Better make it two rings. Just to be safe,” Avalee said as I shuffled the last few inches to the mirrors.
I didn’t know why I was expecting anything to look different or to have loosened up—silk chemise didn’t stretch—but somehow, out here under all of the shop’s overhead lights, I looked even worse. This dress was birthed in the inner circle of hell.
I resisted the urge to rip it apart, piece by piece, and instead turned around so everyone could get another good look . . . because it wasn’t like they’d already been gaping at me without blinking since I’d popped out of the dressing room.
“Unless you gave the shop my measurements as being 32-22-32, this was ordered in the wrong size, Charlotte. It would be nice if you could check to see if they can get the correct size here in time for the wedding.”
My mom was bobbing her head, already reaching for her American Express.
“And don’t take this as me questioning your sanity or anything, but can I ask why you picked such a long dress with long sleeves in heavy fabric for your afternoon summer wedding in Charleston?” The air conditioning was blasting in here and I could already feel sweat dripping down my back—and a few other places I didn’t want to be dripping sweat from all day and night long.
“My dress isn’t like that. It’s much lighter and breezier,” Cynthia said, like she’d just defended Charlotte instead of incriminating her.
“Yeah, neither is mine. It’s strapless and mid-calf length,” my other cousin, Harper, added.
When I turned to Avalee, the only one who would be on my side, and all she could do was bite her lip and look away, I knew what had happened.
Charlotte had happened.
“What do they mean their dresses are different than this beauty I have on now?” I heard the venom in my voice as I started in Charlotte’s direction. If it weren’t for the dress, I would have been tempted to wrap my fingers around her neck and squeeze until the amusement drained out of her eyeballs.
She lifted a shoulder like none of this was a big deal. Like me about to sweat myself into dehydration and have my limbs amputated thanks to lack of circulation was no big. “I decided I wanted all of my bridesmaids to wear different dresses.”
Of course she did. Why the hell not? When it came to Charlotte’s attempts to put me in my place—according to her, directly below her heel—she leapt at any and every opportunity.
“And I’m going to assume, because I know you wouldn’t single me out like this, that everyone else’s dress is still the same lovely shade?” Out here in the brighter lights, my skin looked yellow. I’d look like a jaundiced sausage in front of five hundred of Charleston’s finest. Couldn’t wait.
“Mine’s mint.” Cynthia grimaced when she inspected my dress again, like she couldn’t decide what was more offensive: the color or the style.
“Mine’s periwinkle,” Harper said next.
When Avalee stayed quiet, I stared at her and waited. She was back to biting her lip, though this time she was looking over her shoulder at the door.
“Hers is lilac,” Charlotte said for Avalee.
I shook my head, giving myself another internal flogging for getting on that airplane yesterday when I knew the same three-ringed circus would be waiting for me down here. Charlotte would still be out to get me. Mom would still be looking to remake me. Dad would still treat me like a child. And everyone else would still have their own personal agenda when it came to Charleston versus Clara Abbott.
Why I’d found myself hoping things would be different, why I’d expected change to even be possible in the first place, I didn’t know, but this was the last time. The last time.
“Why did I wind up with peach then?” I asked. “Since you were clearly going with the pastel-themed color scheme, why not marigold or petal pink or eggshell? Why peach?”
My mom turned her own accusation my sister’s way. She must not have had a hand in or known what dress the bride had selected for her older sister. Had she, I knew my mom well enough to know she would have gone to great lengths—a.k.a. her pocketbook—to prevent Charlotte from doing this to her . . . I mean to me.
“You know what peach does to your sister’s complexion, how it washes out her hair.” Mom motioned at me, waiting for Charlotte’s answer.
“Technically, the stylist called the color—”
“The stylist can call it whatever she wants. You can call it whatever you want. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s peach. And ugly in every last way a dress can be repulsive.”
Charlotte’s face fell, her eyes going glossy. And the Academy Award goes to . . .
“I picked it out myself,” she said softly, still in character.
Cynthia and Harper rushed to her sides, patting her and throwing me looks.
“Yeah, that’s obvious,” I said.
Charlotte slid her hair over her shoulder. “Meaning?”
“Meaning you picked this out with exactly me in mind.”
Charlotte’s phone rang before she could reply. Not that she had any defense, because she could plead innocence all she wanted, but I knew what this was about: payback. For whatever fouls I didn’t know I’d done her.
After she answered her phone and walked away, I turned to Mom. “I can’t wear this.”
Mom patted the air in my direction, like she was trying to calm me down when I was surprisingly calm given the circumstances. “We’ll figure something out, but you’re right, you can’t wear that. What would the guests think? I mean, what was Charlotte thinking, knowing you would be in a good handful of the wedding photos wearing that?”
I tried crossing my arms again. The stiches whined in protest, but held, before I gave up and dropped my arms back at my sides. “Not to be forgotten is how I would feel standing up there by that altar thing right before I passed out from heat exhaustion or lack of oxygen.”
Avalee took a few steps my way, tilting her head as she inspected the dress. “It’s really not so bad. With a few modifications, I think we can make it much better.”
“Avalee, I love you, but the only modification that would make this dress better is total dress replacement therapy.”
Mom nodded in obvious agreement. Mom being on my side instead of Charlotte’s was a rare occasion.
“No, really, I think if we could get the seamstress to let a little out here, and tighten it there . . .” Avalee pinched at a few areas on the dress like she was making mental notes.
“Everything genetics has cursed me with is only further sabotaged by this frock.” When I took another look in the mirrors, this time I cringed. “Just help me out of this thing, okay? The sooner, the better. I’ll figure out what to do about this disaster later.”
Cynthia and Harper followed Charlotte while Avalee and my mom stayed with me.
“I’m sorry about this, darling. I should have asked to see what dress Charlotte had picked out for you.” Mom fingered the pearls around her neck, rubbing them like they were a strand of worry stones.
“I don’t think you could have changed her mind if you had.” I lifted my arm as high as it could go so Avalee could get to the zipper.
“Probably not. Charlotte’s always been competitive with you, Clara Belle, and sometimes she likes to take her shots whenever and however she can get them in. I’m sorry.” Mom shot me a small smile, continuing to pull on her pearls.
I tried not to act startled by my mom’s apology. I tried to pretend I was used to hearing them, but I wasn’t. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time she’d apologized to me fo
r anything, forgetting the name of the city I lived in every time she asked me how I was doing included.
So I cleared my throat and mirrored her smile. “It’s okay. I think I’ll survive. It’s just utter and total public humiliation. Nothing I haven’t achieved a few times in my lifetime.”
Mom let go of her pearls and cleared her throat. “That reminds me, dear, now that we’re alone, I was hoping to talk to you about Boone . . .”
My neck stiffened. Of course the topic of public humiliation would remind her of her firstborn daughter dating the boy who’d grown up in the double-wide that everyone knew about for a number of reasons.
“I was hoping we’d talked the subject to death by now, after last night and this morning at breakfast.” I checked to see how Avalee was getting along with the zipper. Just thinking about talking about Boone with my mom was making me sweat. Sweat more.
“Yes, but with your father being the way he is, feeling the way he does . . . I was hoping we could discuss you two in a bit more civilized manner. Minus the testosterone.”
Avalee grumbled beneath my armpit, tugging at the zipper but making no progress.
“I don’t remember any of the conversations you and I have had about Boone being civilized, Mom.”
“They weren’t,” she replied, her expression as unapologetic as her tone. “But you were a girl then and living under our roof and under our responsibility. You’re a woman now and have proven yourself capable of making your own decisions.” She waved at me, like me standing in front of her looking like a peach pumpkin was proving her point.
I felt at a loss, again, for how to reply. Was my mom talking to me like an adult? Was she talking to me instead of at me? Was she saying I was capable and accomplished and had proven myself?
“What do you want to know?” I found myself replying. Years ago, I would have marched off in a huff and slammed my bedroom door. I supposed, looking back, they hadn’t been the only unreasonable ones.
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