by Lexie Ray
“Not really,” I said. “I guess something that’ll work well outdoors. Something spring related, maybe?”
“We’ll get it figured out,” Jane assured me, grabbing her phone out of her bag and poking at it. “Ah, here she is.”
The attendant approached us with a huge stack of dresses in her arms.
“Right this way to the fitting room,” she grunted.
“Let me help you,” I said, setting my champagne aside and reaching out to lighten her burden.
“No, no, no,” the attendant chanted. “I’ve got it. Just follow me, please.”
I just couldn’t understand the idea of people refusing my help. I was more than capable of hauling a few dresses across a store, especially seeing how overburdened the poor attendant was. But somehow, I wasn’t supposed to offer, and others were never supposed to accept. I would probably never get used to this part of becoming a Wharton.
The attendant hung all the gowns in the fitting room and waited expectantly. I stared at her until I realized she was waiting for me to take off my clothes.
“Oh, um, aren’t you going to wait outside?” I asked.
“Sure, whatever you want, Ms. Smith,” the attendant said, leaving the dressing room.
That was another thing about this life that confused me. Was there no privacy at all? I had noticed it during the afternoon spent with Rowan and her team of assistants, trying on dresses for the Wharton dinner. I was expected to comply as they dressed and undressed me, hunting for the perfect look.
Well, I could get into my own wedding gown, thank you very much.
Except that I couldn’t. The first one I tried on had approximately a million tiny buttons going up the back.
“Miss?” I called weakly, and the fitting room door burst open. She must have been listening to me struggle.
“Here,” she said, brandishing several enormous clips. “It would take too long to button and unbutton you into every one of them, so I’ll just clip it together. It’ll also give us a better idea about alterations.”
“Sounds good,” I said as she secured the back of the dress.
The one I’d picked first was more traditional. It was an ivory satin gown with a lacy overlay over my chest, shoulders, and arms, effectively giving me long sleeves. We could only guess at the weather—springtime in Chicago—and it could be cold. Even though they were lacy, the sleeves could give me some protection from the elements.
“Okay,” I said. “Next.”
“Next?” the attendant repeated. “Don’t you want to show Ms. Wharton?”
“Do I?” I asked. “Is that how this works?”
“Usually,” the attendant said. “The bride to be has her whole wedding party—all her bridesmaids, and usually all of her female relatives—out there and waiting, and then it’s like a fashion show. She gets all of their opinions.”
“There’s not going to be a huge wedding party,” I bluffed, horrified that I hadn’t even considered a bridal party. Would Jane stand for me, or would she want to stand for Jonathan? Who else did I have? I felt a sudden, warm rush for Lucy. Lucy would stand for me. I wouldn’t be all alone.
“You ready to go out there?” the attendant asked. “Here. I’ll hold your train.”
I stepped out into the main area of the boutique, looking expectantly at Jane. She looked up from her phone and applauded.
“Very Grace Kelly,” she said. “So traditional, Michelle! Are you going for throwback, or are you really that scared of baring those shoulders?”
“Just trying different things,” I said, feeling skewered and insecure.
“Keep showing me,” Jane chirped, going back to her phone.
The next dress was something of a chiffon nightmare, strapless with a huge, puffed out skirt. I felt like I was walking in a cloud—and not in a romantic way.
“Disney!” Jane cackled. “Next!”
“It would’ve looked nice with a tiara,” the attendant said softly, releasing me from the dress.
“I’m no princess,” I said, staring at myself in the reflection of the mirror in the fitting room. Now that I was actually trying on dresses, the wedding seemed even less probable. We had been through so much. Was this really going to happen for us? It seemed to me like the universe—our circumstances, our differences, and the challenges we still faced—wasn’t going to let us.
The next dress was a mermaid—fitted tightly until just above the knee, then flaring out into a foamy train.
“You just love a fairy tale wedding, don’t you?” Jane asked critically when I showed her that one.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I really don’t have a clue what I want. None of these working, then?”
“I mean, they’re nice dresses,” Jane said. “But I haven’t seen it yet, have you?”
I shrugged, but I was more puzzled than anything else. Would I know “it” when I saw “it?” Would the right dress glow when I put it on? I wished I had some closer female friends. Maybe if Lucy could’ve come, or Rowan. Maybe I could ask for Rowan’s help, even if she wasn’t my close friend. Jane was great, and it was fun running around with her, but I just didn’t feel that close to her.
Not for the first time, I wished my mother were there. Wishing, though, changed nothing, and I tried to turn my mind away from such sadness.
I tried on a few more dresses, but none of them had that magical moment of recognition for me—or Jane.
“Let’s try somewhere else,” she said, draining her champagne glass.
“Are you sure?” I asked, feeling doubtful. Maybe there just wasn’t the right dress for me. I definitely wasn’t feeling very positive about the whole thing.
“Like I said, sometimes it takes a while to find the dress,” Jane said. “You don’t want to settle.”
We paused before we walked outside—there was a group of people standing outside with video cameras and digital cameras, pressed up against the glass.
“What is this?” I wondered. “Is there someone famous outside?”
“I told you no press,” Jane said crossly to the attendant as we looked at the swarm of cameras outside.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Wharton,” the attendant babbled. “I didn’t—I mean, I’ve been —”
“Never mind,” Jane said, waving her hand. “We’ll just have to go through them. Welcome to the life of a Wharton, Michelle.” It was then that I realized we were the famous ones. The thought made me a little sick.
She hooked her arm in mine and marched us out into the crowd of paparazzi, flashes blinding me and video cameras blocking my path to the car. Questions peppered me from all sides.
“Are you really going to marry Jonathan Wharton?”
“Where’d you get that scar?”
“Is it true you kicked his former fiancée to the curb?”
“Does Jonathan Wharton know who he is?”
“Does Jonathan Wharton know you have that terrible scar?”
“No comment,” Jane said laconically, elbowing her way through the crowd. Mortified, all I could do was follow her and tumble into the car.
“What a rush,” she laughed, and I realized that the champagne at the boutique had done the trick—Jane had her midday buzz. “Oh, sweetie, are you all right?”
“That was really my first paparazzi experience,” I admitted. I was shaking as badly as the boutique attendant had been when she realized who we were. All those questions, especially the pointed ones, stung me. Of course Jonathan knew I had a scar. Had they just been trying to get a rise out of me?
“You’ll get used to it,” Jane said dismissively. “Now, let’s hit the next boutique. I know just the place.”
“All right,” I said dully, slouching in the seat.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” Jane asked.
“The attendant mentioned a wedding party,” I said. “I just hadn’t given much thought to any bridesmaids. Would you—”
“Yes!” she screamed, throwing her arms around me. “Of course I’ll be your maid of
honor.”
Well, that was a lot easier than I thought it’d be.
“Who else are you thinking about for your bridal party?” Jane asked. “Any sisters or cousins or best friends?”
I shook my head. “I kind of cut ties with everyone,” I said. “I don’t have any close friends—well, except for Lucy. I’d like to ask her.”
“Who?” Jane asked, distracted by her phone lighting up.
“You know, Lucy,” I said. “She works at the house.”
Jane’s mouth dropped open and she stared at me, aghast. “That Lucy?”
“Yeah,” I said. “She’s been such a good friend to me. Such a help.”
“That’s because she is the help,” Jane said. “Oh, Michelle. There is so much you need to learn. You absolutely cannot ask the help to be in the bridal party. You don’t know how much criticism that would invite. The last thing you want is people judging you on your wedding day. So no Lucy. Who else?”
“There’s no one else,” I said, feeling a little faint. Would it really have been so terrible to have Lucy up there with me?
“Nonsense,” Jane said. “I’ll talk to some of my friends. We’ll have you bristling with bridesmaids before this is through.”
Jane was being so helpful that I couldn’t bear to tell her that having bridesmaids who were strangers to me sounded like a pathetic hell.
“And the bachelorette party will be one to remember,” Jane said, lighting up. “Or forget, if you drink too much.”
By the time we hit the fourth boutique of the day, I was tired and frustrated. Jane kept telling me to be patient, and I was trying. I understood that it could take some time to find the perfect dress, and this was only my first day of looking. But the more dresses I tried on, the more I sweated, and the more my makeup rubbed off. I tried on a dress, looked in the mirror, and paled. My scar was so vivid that it was a wonder the attendant wasn’t staring at it right alongside me.
I didn’t look like a bride. I wasn’t sure I ever would.
“Uh, could you excuse me for a few moments?” I asked, my eyes filling with tears.
“Of course,” the attendant said, ducking out without making eye contact with me. She was probably too disgusted to look me in the face. How could I think that I could do this? How could I think that I could ever be pretty enough for this new life, for Jonathan?
If my mother were only here with me, everything would be different.
“Michelle, sweetie?” Jane knocked on the fitting room door. “The attendant told me you were a little upset. Can I come in?”
“I’m fine,” I said, even though I wept while I said it, tears falling onto the bodice of the gown I was wearing.
“You don’t sound fine,” Jane said. “Now, don’t get me wrong. Brides deserve some tears. But I’m coming in.”
Jane’s eyes widened when she saw me, and I turned away. I knew that crying made my scar even more livid. I knew I looked ugly.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” she said, putting her arm around my shoulder and offering me some tissues.
“Everything,” I said, shrugging.
“You don’t want to marry my brother?” Jane asked, raising her eyebrows.
“No, it’s not that,” I said, shaking my head vehemently. “I love him so much. It’s just that … I wish I could be prettier for him.”
“Is this about your scar?” Jane whispered.
I glanced up at my reflection. It looked like a seething mass of accordion folds and blotchy skin. I sobbed and nodded.
“Sweetie, we have modern medicine,” she said. “I could give you the names of a dozen plastic surgeons in the city who would jump at the chance to get you all pretty again before the big day.”
“I’ve never really considered it,” I said. I hadn’t. I’d been planning on spending the rest of my days in seclusion in the woods. There wasn’t any need to be pretty out there among the trees.
“Well, consider it,” Jane said, giving me a hug. “I’m going to put you in touch with Ash Martin. He’s part of the partnership of doctors who gave me these lovely ladies.” Jane hefted her breasts in her hands and laughed. “Ash is the face guy. You’d be right up his alley. He’s given half the girls in this city their good looks. Here. I’m texting you his number.”
My phone vibrated in my purse, and I sighed. Plastic surgery was something I hadn’t considered because I never thought I’d be in public. Maybe it was time to give it a chance.
“I’ll make an appointment,” I said, trying to smile. “Thanks, Jane. I think I’d like to be done with dress shopping today.”
“On to the drinks, then!” she whooped. “And tapas!”
I could use a couple stiff ones right about now.
Chapter Twenty Seven
It took about a month to get an appointment with Ash. He was evidently in high demand.
As I sat in the waiting room alone—Jane had offered to go with me, but I’d declined, feeling like it was more of a personal thing—I was floored by the number of beautiful women sitting with me. Were these products of the doctor’s good works, or were they convinced that the reflection that stared back at them in the mirror was in need of such drastic measures? I felt like I was the only one who really needed to be in there. Everyone else was perfectly normal—and didn’t hide their fascination with my scar.
“Don’t you worry, Miss Smith,” the nurse told me as she led me back to consultation room. “Ash is fantastic. He’ll have you looking fabulous in no time.”
I knew she meant well, but it only made me more self-conscious. I was left waiting for so long in the consultation room that my nerves almost got the better of me. I was gathering up my purse to make my escape when the door swung open.
“Miss Smith, I’m so sorry it took me so long to get here,” Ash said. “My schedule is overfull today, I’m afraid.”
Ash Martin had silver hair and an impossible tan—it was winter in Chicago, after all. He was flamboyant, with a ruby earring in one ear and the faintest of eyeliners making his blue eyes pop.
What really impressed me, though, was how he looked at me full in the face and didn’t so much as wince.
“Please,” I said. “It’s Michelle.”
“As long as you call me Ash,” he teased. “Now. I’m not going to insult you by asking why you’re here. You have an extensive burn scar on your face. Why have you waited so long to get it seen about?”
His straightforwardness was refreshing and not at all offensive. He was professional and honest, and I didn’t want to lie to him.
“I sort of thought I was going to bear it like a cross for the rest of my life,” I said. “Where I was going, no one was going to see it.”
“Like to Antarctica?” Ash said skeptically, sitting down beside me.
“Sort of,” I said. “But circumstances changed. Circumstances changed big time, and I hope it’s not going to be too late for me.”
“Michelle, it is never too late for anyone,” Ash said, patting my knee like we were old friends. “I’m talking about plastic surgery, life changes, revelations, everything.”
“You’re making me feel better about coming here,” I said, smiling at him. I was so comfortable with this man that I wasn’t even doing my usual duck and cover that I did with strangers in close quarters. I was beginning to realize that turning to the right to get my scar away from people was only drawing more attention to me.
“Do you have something against plastic surgery?” he asked.
“Not really anything specific,” I said. “There were just a lot of beautiful girls out in the waiting room. It’s been a while since I’ve felt beautiful.”
“People get plastic surgery for lots of reasons,” Ash said. “Some people are insecure about something. Others want moles removed, or wrinkles concealed. What you and I are doing right now is pre-counseling that I require of all my potential patients. We want to make sure this is what you really want before you go under the knife.”
“I’m getting mar
ried,” I blurted out. “I’m getting married and I want to be beautiful for my husband.”
Ash smiled. “Congratulations,” he said. “But why have you never wanted to be beautiful for yourself?”
The question practically knocked me right on my ass. I’d never considered plastic surgery before because I had reached a point out in the woods where I couldn’t even bear to look at myself in the mirror. That didn’t seem like the right answer to give him.
“I received this burn in a traumatic situation,” I said, forcing my eyes to meet his. “It was in a car wreck—I survived, but my parents did not.”
“I am so sorry,” he said simply. “I am very, very sorry.”
“I guess it’s stupid to say it aloud,” I began, “but it had always made so much sense in my head. In a way, I kept the scar as a way to hold on to my parents … and to punish myself.
“Punish yourself?” Ash repeated. “Why? For surviving?”
No. Not for surviving. But I couldn’t push myself to go any further with this than I already had. This was the extent of my honesty with Ash.
“Lots of people have survivor’s guilt,” he said when I didn’t answer him. “It’s a natural thing, Michelle. I think it’s healthy that you’re looking to move forward with your life. Surely you can honor your parents in a better way than bearing a scar in their memory. Do you think they would want that?”
“No,” I said faintly. “No, they wouldn’t want that at all.”
“I think you’re an excellent candidate for surgery,” Ash said, patting my knee again. “It’s been, what, five years, six years since the incident?”
“Yes,” I said, dumbfounded. “How did you know?”
“You haven’t had any procedures done to lessen the scar,” Ash said. “My bet is you haven’t even rubbed cocoa butter or lotion or anything on it. Am I right?”
“I hate touching it,” I admitted. “The only thing I rub on it these days is makeup to cover it up.”
“Well, if everything goes according to plan, you won’t have to be worrying about that anymore,” Ash said. “I’ve dealt with burns before, and I’m happy to take on another case. I find them to be much more rewarding than a nose job an eighteen-year-old gets for her birthday.”
