by Jean Stone
Pizzazz was an old-fashioned, Elaine kind of term, like French twist, Andrew supposed. “Well,” he replied, because despite months of working to untangle the puzzle, he remained quite clueless about how a woman's mind worked.
Elaine paid no attention to his hesitation. She merely nodded with seeming resolve. “What I want is a makeover. Inside and out.”
“A makeover?” His laugh seemed too quick, even to him. “You're going on TV? A reality show?”
But Elaine didn't laugh in return. She took a deep breath, touched her hand to her heart, and said, “The only reality is going to happen right here. Elaine McNulty Thomas is finally going to be like someone else.”
Andrew fell silent. Then his eyes followed hers toward Lily, Sarah, and Jo, who stood twenty feet, yet light-years, away. “You want to be like one of them?”
Elaine shook her head. “I want to be like them all.”
Andrew slowly smiled. He felt new material building on the gossip horizon, juicy new fodder for the magazine column he secretly wrote. “That would be a tall order for anyone.”
Elaine nodded yes. “But I'm going to do it,” she said. “What's more, I'll do it in time for the Benson wedding on New Year's Eve.”
Andrew's right eyebrow cocked. “In less than twelve weeks?”
Her gaze still didn't waver. “I can do it. I will.”
He patted her hand. “I'll tell you what, Lainey. If you succeed in your quest, I give you the first dance at the Bensons' reception.”
“And if I don't?”
He smiled and looked back toward Lily, Sarah, and Jo. “Something tells me you will.” There was no need to add that he had a goal of his own set for New Year's Eve, if he could just hold out that long.
She was born in Saratoga Springs, New York, where the elite once went for mineral baths and the horses still ran in August. Elaine's father owned a restaurant—the restaurant, McNulty's—where reservations were required in season unless you were a Blakely or a Swanson, in which case your table was available any night at any time.
Elaine had been happy to wait on all of them, to remember their names and take their fussy orders and practically curtsy, because that was her job and her fat tips ultimately sent her to Winston College, where she'd been the first in her family to earn a degree.
It hadn't been a bad life.
When she'd been fifteen or sixteen she'd tried to emulate the ladies who wore subtle, chic dresses and stately, wide-brimmed hats, not plain, unimportant clothes like her mother's had been. But once racing season ended, Elaine's mother convinced her she looked out of place. It had been Elaine's last girlhood attempt to spiff, her father called it, to buff, her kids would have said.
“To look ele-ghhhant,” would have been Lily's term.
Lily, of course, could have been any of the thoroughbred ladies. She'd always known what to wear and what to do to look perfect all the time.
But the truth was, Elaine had always felt more comfortable, more Elaine, in the bright colors and splash that her mother said were too gaudy but Elaine thought were simply cheerful. Once out of the house, once she was an “adult,” Elaine had dressed as she had pleased.
So, maybe she'd been wrong.
She stared at her bedroom ceiling now, eyes wide open despite the fact that it was two a.m. She thought about Lily: she would ask her to serve as her fashion and beauty coordinator. Because no matter what Elaine wanted to believe, what the magazine articles touted, or what the Ph.D.'s said on Oprah, Elaine suspected that a makeover must begin on the outside, not on the in.
“How you look is who you'll be.” It was a line Lily used often, but it could have come from any of the ladies at the Saratoga restaurant thirty years ago.
She rolled onto her side and snapped on the bedside lamp, her adrenaline softly pumping with anticipation, just enough to prevent sleep, her thoughts awhirl with what changes she'd make and where on earth she would start.
She thought about the chic dresses and the wide-brimmed hats, Lily's kind of clothes. Then she thought about her walk-in closet packed with polyester in every color of the rainbow and some colors in between. She thought about the high-heeled ladies of Saratoga, and about her sensible sneakers and square-heeled pumps lined up according to shades of spring green and magenta and goldenrod for summer.
Tasteless, she sensed, but could not help herself.
She thought about the red patent leathers that matched the red-and-mandarin-striped dress she'd worn last Easter. Lily would have been horrified. It didn't matter that Martin had liked the outfit; she wouldn't think of Martin right now. Or Lloyd, either, damn him.
Out with the old, her adrenaline commanded. You'll dance with Andrew on New Year's Eve, and you'll be the belle of the Benson ball.
Bolstered by the voices of her imagination, Elaine flung back the comforter. There was only one place to begin this romp, and it was directly across the room.
One polyester, two polyesters. She yanked them from their hangers and dumped them onto the floor. With every yank and every clatter of every hanger, she felt absolved somehow, unburdened, free.
“Out, out, damn spot!” she shouted at a purple polka-dotted shirt that she'd worn with purple pants.
“Off with your head!” That to a bright pink hoodie that her son said made her look like Peter Rabbit in drag.
She stopped when she reached the royal blue suit that she'd worn for her justice-of-the-peace wedding to Lloyd over twenty-years before. She stared at the tiny pinholes where her corsage had been: three tiny white roses, tied with a pink ribbon. She'd worn a hat, though they'd long since gone out of style. It was a small red pillbox with matching red netting that scooped across her forehead and was torn years later when her daughters were playing dress-up.
She wondered why the suit still hung there, as if the wedding had been yesterday, as if Lloyd had never left her.
The wedding hadn't been like Marion and Ted's. It hadn't been like the one Elaine and Martin would have had today if she hadn't broken the engagement because she'd realized in time that Martin was merely a Band-Aid, that even kind, kindly Martin could not ease the pain deep in her heart. She simply hadn't dared to let herself love him enough.
Her marriage to Lloyd had not been elaborate. It had been a simple town hall ceremony, with only Lloyd's brother, Russell, and his sister, Celia, as witnesses. Elaine's parents hadn't come down from Saratoga, because she hadn't told them. They thought she was in the middle of her final exams. They didn't know that she and Lloyd were getting married because they didn't know she was pregnant.
She reached inside the suit jacket and touched the waistband of the skirt. She remembered it had been too tight that day—her belly had swelled above average.
Throw it out, the new voice inside her urged.
Her eyes widened, her mouth dropped open. “Out!” she commanded, then pulled the suit off the hanger and hurled it past the closet door.
“Mother! What are you doing?” Karen, her youngest, had always been a light sleeper. Like her mother, she was the one always on alert, waiting to be sure no one in the house needed anything, because serving others was what she gladly did. Karen was just like Elaine in all those selfless,
get-you-nothing-but-headaches and nowhere-but-miserable ways.
“Sorry, honey,” Elaine said. “Did I wake you?”
“Wake me? Of course you woke me. Who are you shouting at?” Her head rotated around the haphazard piles of polyester. “Good grief. What are you doing?”
“I'm starting my new life.” Elaine stopped her purge for a moment. Karen was sixteen, the last child at home: Kandie and Kory were at college. Karen was also the most like Elaine, dressed now in a flannel nightgown and knee socks, her face shiny with night cream from the supermarket health and beauty aids section because it was more economical than the department store kind. Karen had watched Elaine shop economically long before Elaine's checkbook was reduced to a modest alimony: the girl now hoarded babysitting money the way Elaine hoa
rded coupons and re-used plastic baggies.
Karen stooped down and retrieved the purple polka dots. “But Mom, you love this shirt.” She clutched it to her breast as if it were her firstborn.
Elaine laughed. “You're right, honey, I did. And I loved your father once, too.” As soon as she'd said those words, she wished she could take them back. She wished she could rewind the moment and erase the sting now visible on her daughter's face.
“I hate it when you're mean to Daddy,” Karen said.
Elaine sighed. She returned to her hangers, some of the fun now gone from her energy burst. “I'm not mean to your father, honey. I'm sorry I said that. It's just that my clothes are out of style and so am I. It's time for a change.”
Karen disregarded her mother's apology and continued to rummage another pile. “Your wedding suit,” she said. “You're throwing out your wedding suit?” Elaine might have chosen to toss the family jewels for the pain in her daughter's voice.
“Honey . . .” she began.
Karen's eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to be like her?” She did not have to elaborate on whom she meant by her. Her was Beatrix—Trix—as Lloyd had called her, a county judge, who happened to be pretty and smart and rich, and who happened to have stolen Lloyd from Elaine.
And married him.
And left him after a year and eight months, right after Elaine and Martin got engaged.
“No,” Elaine said. “I'm not trying to be her.” Elaine didn't know if Karen would think that was a good or a bad thing; the issue was simply too sensitive to ask. The divorce, after all, had been hardest on Karen. Kandie, who was as much like Lloyd as Karen was like Elaine, had not hidden her approval of the new Mrs. Thomas. Then again, Kandie and Elaine hadn't gotten along well since the girl had turned twelve. Kory, Elaine's son, had tried to stay in the middle, not wanting estrangement from his mom or his dad. Karen, who'd been only thirteen the night Lloyd walked out, still believed her parents would get back together, still tried to encourage Elaine to wait for him.
Especially after Elaine broke up with Martin, and the second Mrs. Thomas broke up with Lloyd.
Especially now that it looked like Elaine might have a chance with her ex-husband, as if she wanted one.
“Life changes,” Elaine said quietly. “Sometimes we need to move on.”
Karen threw the suit back on the floor and quickly left the room.
Of course, she slammed the door.
ONCE UPON A BRIDE
A Bantam Book / February 2005
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2005 by Jean Stone
Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Published simultaneously in Canada
www.bantamdell.com
eISBN: 978-0-553-90119-1
v3.0
