Dictatorship of the Dress (9780698168305)
Page 1
PRAISE FOR
Louder Than Love
“An emotional ride with a to-die-for hero and with a sparkling ending. Topper is an author to watch!”
—Laura Drake, author of Nothing Sweeter and Her Road Home
“I was absolutely blown away . . . A wonderful story [and] amazing characters.”
—The Book Pushers
“I can’t begin to say all the reasons that I loved this book . . . I just found myself enraptured and so caught up with the story that I was talking to Adrian and hugging Kat in my mind.”
—Nocturne Romance Reads
“A beautiful and engaging story that will melt your heart . . . Absolutely an emotional whirlwind and well worth the buildup! I don’t want to say too much about the story itself because as I’ve said before, there is such a raw human element to this book that you need to experience it as it happens. My final words would be to read Louder Than Love. Allow yourself to be open to a new experience and reap the rewards! You will not be disappointed.”
—Open Book Society
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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
Copyright © 2015 by Jessica Topper.
Excerpt from Courtship of the Cake by Jessica Topper copyright © 2015 by Jessica Topper.
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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-16830-5
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Topper, Jessica.
Dictatorship of the dress / Jessica Topper.—Berkley Sensation trade paperback edition.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-425-27625-9
1. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 2. Wedding costume—Fiction. 3. Responsibility—Fiction. 4. Domestic fiction. I. Title.
PS3620.O587464D53 2015
813'.6—dc23
2014038153
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation trade paperback edition / January 2015
Cover design by Lesley Worrell.
Cover photo by Ilina Simeonova / ImageBrief.com.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Version_1
For my mother, Helen.
No cape necessary—you are my ultimate superhero.
Acknowledgments
Every dress has a story.
I’ll never forget asking my mother if she still had her wedding dress. I must’ve been in my teens or twenties at the time. “Sure,” my mom had said, and went to fetch it. I don’t know why I wanted to see it; maybe I harbored some illusion that I would someday wear it myself. She came down the stairs, carrying a short, sleeveless dress. It was navy blue worsted wool, with a thick stripe in burnt orange around the bottom of it. I’m sure it was very mod in the late 1960s, back when she and my father tied the knot. I knew the history: It was her second marriage, and his first. But I remembered being shocked and confused. Where was the white? The poufs? The lace? No beads? Not even a veil? Shouldn’t it be preserved in some box, somewhere, for all time?
“Oh, I had a dress like that when I married Mr. G.,” she replied, waving her hand to dismiss all my questions. “I donated it to the Salvation Army.” Then she proceeded, with eyes shining and excitement in her voice, to tell me about the day she married my dad. They got married on his lunch hour, went for coffee in the courthouse cafeteria, and he returned to work.
It’s the perfect, quirky nutshell of a story that I love to tell about my parents and their happily-ever-after, now forty-seven years strong and counting. The dress is just an accessory, sold separately. It’s the love and whom we share it with that is custom, couture-fit, and fabulous. And the memories are the cherished heirlooms, preserved for all time.
Recently, I asked her to tell me the story again. She added more detail this time, recalling their trip to B. Forman’s department store to pick out the dress together. Of putting it on that day, and walking down to meet him at his office, which happened to be in the courthouse. It had been a beautiful, sunny September day, and she remembered how happy she was as she walked back home on her own, the newly minted Mrs. R.
Every dress has a story. And every bride deserves her day in the sun.
As for this story, I’ve dedicated it to my amazing mother, whose superpowers of love, support, strength, and unwavering belief inspire me every single day. Love you, Mom.
I’d also like to express my heartfelt gratitude to those who helped make this novel shine:
My critique partner, Pat O’Dea Rosen, deserves full credit for planting the story seed. Like Laney’s snowflake of a white lie avalanching, Pat’s mention of her daughter once being mistaken for a bride on an airplane snowballed into a series of “what if” questions in my brain that set me on the path to writing Laney and Noah. I owe thanks to Pat and her daughter, Amy, for the kernel of inspiration, and double thanks to Pat and our other critique-partner-in-crime, Kristin Contino, for reading many chapters and versions of this tale!
Kickass kudos to my tireless agent, Nalini Akolekar. When I can’t see the forest for the trees, she’s always there to hand me a compass. Endless thanks to my editor, Leis Pederson, for taking my “Much ‘I Do’ About Nothing” concept to the next level, and to the amazing team at Berkley: production editors Andromeda Macri and Lynsey Griswold for keeping me honest, art director Lesley Worrell for gracing my book with a cover so perfect it brings me to tears, and publicist Jessica Brock for getting the word out.
Hugs and high fives to fellow authors Amanda Usen, Alison Stone, and Natasha Moore, and the entire WNY chapter of RWA for their wisdom, guidance, good humor, and the amazing words they put down, page after page. You remind me that this brass ring dream of writing is within reach, but it’s more fun having others on the merry-go-round with you! Long-distance shout-outs to my cousin Liz for her flight attendant’s knowledge, my sister-in-law Dawn for her nursing expertise, and to Mindy Reznik for her Chicago street smarts.
A double fist-bump to both my mom and dad for their unconditional love, kisses to Selma and Wes for their encouragement . . . and an endless supply of comic books to Jon and Millie, from their biggest fan.
And last but not least, virtual hugs to all the readers out there who decided to jump on the plane with Laney and Noah for their grand adventure.
; Contents
Praise for Louder Than Love
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Terminal C Departures
East Concourse, Gate C15
Noah: CHOOSE YOUR BATTLES
Boarding and Departure
Noah: BEHIND THE EIGHT BALL
In Flight
Delayed
Noah: ROLL WITH THE PUNCHES
Standby
Noah: TARMAC
Cold Feet
Noah: RAISING THE BAR
Two Sides to Every Coin
Ghosts and Whiskey
Noah: LAST CALL AT THE MINIBAR
Burst Bubbles
Noah: STUCK IN THE MIDDLE WITH YOU
The Dress Dictatorship
Noah: CROSSING THE LINE
Noah: WAKE UP AND SMELL REALITY
Dashboard Confessional
Noah: GOTOHAIL
Noah: CANDY GIRL
Noah: MAGNIFICENT MILE
Head in the Clouds
Noah: COINS IN THE FOUNTAIN
Cut and Run
Noah: WAKE-UP CALL
In Reverse
Two Hearts Pound as One
Noah: HOME, HEART, HEAT
City to Ourselves
Noah: WHERE LOYALTY LIES
Three Little Words
The Scary Truth
Noah: HELPLESSLY HOPING
There Goes Tokyo
Noah: WITS AND GUTS
I Sat by the Ocean
Noah: LET IT DIE
Set it Free
Noah: ONE MORE DAY
Aloha, Mahalo
Noah: LOVE REMOVAL MACHINE
Girl Talk
Noah: T.C.B.
Full Circle
Noah: HOME
Special Preview of Courtship of the Cake
Terminal C Departures
Really, LaGuardia? One of the busiest airports in the country, and you couldn’t come up with a better name? You could’ve skipped C altogether, like some hotels do when they omit the unlucky thirteenth floor. You know, Terminals A, B, D, E . . .
I’m sure there would still be some clueless tourists in life, scratching their heads, consulting their maps. Pointing and asking, Whatever happened to Terminal C? Where’s Terminal C?
“It’s in my bones, Laney Jane.” I could still hear Allen’s throaty whisper and feel his long, strong drummer’s fingers tangle through my hair. “It’s not going away this time.”
If I were an airport architect, I would’ve come up with something better. Because only 25 percent of people make it five years through Allen’s type of Terminal C.
I pushed on, eager to check my luggage: the crappy soft-sided Samsonite I’d had since college, and the invisible, matched “his and hers” mental baggage I had solely inherited two years back. Perhaps Hawaii would be good for something.
The lame heel on my favorite pair of boots finally gave out, sending me sprawling right foot over left. The heavy garment bag I carried twirled with me as I pirouetted like a demented ballerina across the concourse to the closest bench.
Freakin’ A, talk about adding insult to injury. I rubbed my ankle in quick consolation before yanking the boot zipper down the length of my entire calf. They were cheap 8th Street boots, not even worth the fix if it could be made. But they had been my first Big-Girl Paycheck purchase when I moved to the city, and their soles had carried not only me, but also miles of memories. Va-va-voom boots, Allen had christened them upon first sight.
There was no time to mourn them; into the trash they went. I plucked my flip-flops from my carry-on and slipped my freshly pedicured feet into them. Onward.
“Hi, one bag to check, two carry-on items.”
The Windwest Airways desk attendant threw a skeptical glance at the bulky garment bag as she reached for my license and boarding pass. “Are you sure you don’t want to check that now?”
I could hear my mother’s words echoing in my head louder than the PA speakers booming last call for Flight 105 to Miami. Whatever you do, do not let them check it, Laney. Do not hand it off.
“No, thanks.”
Rebel on the outside, mouse on the inside, Allen always used to say. Do you always do what your mother tells you to do, Laney Jane? Only Allen Burnside had the cojones to call me out on that.
“We can’t guarantee there will be room in the overhead. You may have to gate-check it anyway.” The attendant slapped a tag onto my Samsonite and sent it hurling onto the rolling belt, where it was quickly swallowed by two rubber flaps in the wall. She fixed a stare on me that made me wonder whether she got paid a commission per checked bag.
I contemplated the huge midnight blue bag with Bichonné Bridal Couture emblazoned across the front in frosty silver lettering. The metal hook of the hanger was cutting into the skin between my thumb and index finger. It would be so easy just to let it go. I imagined it getting chewed up through the luggage shoot, mangled in the greasy, mechanical gears. Stepped on by the handlers’ dirty boots. Run over on the tarmac by a baggage cart. Left behind in the dust.
I smiled.
“My mother called ahead. The airline told her a wedding dress could be carried on if the bag was under fifty-one inches.”
I watched as the attendant’s demeanor did a complete one-eighty; I’m talking ollie-on-the-half-pipe-at-the skate-park one-eighty. “Oh, true!” Her left hand fluttered up near her name tag—April R.—and a lone carat of promise on her ring finger glittered in solidarity. Apparently I had said the two magic words. “I would die if anything happened to my dress. I’m June.”
“I’m Laney,” I said slowly. “But your name tag says April.”
She laughed. “I mean my wedding! I’m a June bride.”
And you’re an oversharer, but that’s okay. “Cool, congrats.” I hefted the bag’s bulk to my shoulder and used my free, noncrippled hand to grab my carry-on. Out of available limbs, I had no choice but to pop my boarding pass between my lips. April the June bride was still smiling at me expectantly, so I offered my raised brow as valediction and lumbered on.
People talk about a monkey on your back; well, mine was eggshell white silk and taffeta, beaded and sequined and weighing in around ten pounds. About as heavy as my regret, but nowhere near as heavy as my grief.
And it belonged to my mother, the blushing bride.
Third time’s the charm, or so they say.
• • •
“Shoes in a separate bin, handbags, too. Any metal, loose change . . . take laptops out of their carrying cases,” droned the TSA worker. “Separate bins for everything, keep moving.”
Strangers around me in various stages of undress—belts whipped off, shoes untied and loosened—shuffled toward security. Oh, crap. I instantly regretted my sock and boot toss as I was forced to kick my flip-flops off. Think happy thoughts. Clean thoughts. Sanitary thoughts. My toes curled as my bare feet touched the cold airport floor. In less than twelve hours, I could buff my feet in Kauai sand and let the Pacific wash away the East Coast grime. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts . . .
“Is that yours?”
“Yep, that’s one of my two allowed personal items.” Personally, though, I wouldn’t be caught dead in it.
“Ain’t no bin big enough for that, girl.” TSA and I both watched as the garment bag went down the conveyor belt, followed by my bag and my cell phone, chirping happily. It was probably Danica texting, loopy on the time change. I wasn’t going to need an alarm clock in Hawaii, not when I had a best friend who was an extreme morning person under normal circumstances. I couldn’t imagine Dani on Hawaii-Aleutian Standard Time. I was going to have to slip an Ambien into her mai tai.
Although as heavy as chain mail, the dress made it
through the X-ray and metal detector with flying colors. Me, on the other hand . . .
“Anything in your pockets, miss? Belt on?” I shook my head. “Jewelry?”
Allen’s class ring.
I hadn’t removed the chunky platinum band with its peridot stone since the weekend of our ten-year high school reunion, except to replace the string knotted on the back keeping it snug.
“But it’s so small.” And LaGuardia Airport was so, so big.
My heart vibrated in my chest like Allen’s sticks on the snare drum when he sound-checked to an empty room.
Mr. TSA wasn’t backing down. And there was a pileup of travelers in their stocking feet, holding up their trousers and grumbling, behind me. “All right, all right.” I plunked the ring into the little gray dog dish, held my breath, and crossed over to the other side.
East Concourse, Gate C15
Nothing a grande latte and a lemon poppy seed muffin wouldn’t fix. Ring? Check. Dress? Check. Phone? Useless, but I had time to power up before boarding. Boarding pass: nowhere to be found.
Are you kidding me?
I could practically hear my mother’s voice as I retraced my steps, back through Starbucks and over to the newsstand. “I swear, Laney, you’d lose your tuchus if it wasn’t stamped on the back of you!” No boarding pass tucked between the trashy novels I had contemplated buying for a beach read. I checked the perfume counter where I had impulse-purchased Aquolina Pink Sugar because no one was around to judge me . . . no sign of it. Nor was it in the restroom, first stall on the right.
I was a ticketed passenger without a ticket.
“Not a problem, we can certainly print a new one up for you, Ms. Hudson.” The attendant at the gate clacked manically at her keyboard. “I may even have an upgrade for you. That way you’ll be closer to your gown if there’s room for it in the first-class closet.”
“It’s my—” I paused. If I had to be the dress bearer while my mother globe-trotted around with her sugar daddy fiancé, shouldn’t I at least milk it for all it was worth? I had lost a boot heel and a boarding pass, but gaining a first-class seat would more than make up for it. “It’s my first time on a plane,” I finished, flashing pearly whites to go along with my little white lie. “That would be terrific, thank you.”