by Nora Roberts
Its lines, its style, would, unquestionably, suit her. But that wasn’t what blurred her vision.
“It’s my mother’s wedding gown. It’s Mom’s.”
“Mrs. G got it out of storage.” As she spoke, Emma rubbed her hand up and down Parker’s back.
“She was slim like you, and she was nearly as tall.” Mrs. Grady dabbed at her eyes. “You may want to pick out your own, something new, but we thought—”
Parker shook her head, unable to speak, and simply turned to wrap her arms around Mrs. Grady.
“I can’t take pictures if I’m crying.” Mac grabbed at the tissues always on hand in the room.
“Here, everybody, drink some champagne, and suck it up.” Laurel swiped a hand over her damp cheek before she poured.
“Thank you.” Parker kissed both Mrs. Grady’s cheeks.“Thanks, all of you. Yes, God, give me that.” Parker took a flute of champagne from Laurel, a tissue from Emma.
“It’s beautiful,” she managed. “Absolutely beautiful. I’ve only seen it in pictures, only seen how wonderful she looked in it, how happy she and Dad looked. She married my father in that dress, and now I’ll have both of them with me when I marry Malcolm. It’s the best gift you could give me.The best.”
“Well, for God’s sake, try it on. Strip down, Brown,” Laurel ordered.
“Okay. Here goes.”
“Back to the mirror,” Emma reminded her.“No looking until you’re done.”
They helped her into the gown, as she had helped each of them.
“Turn around, but close your eyes. I want to fuss with the skirt and train.” Already thinking bouquets, Emma spread out the hem, swept the train. She glanced at Mac, got the nod as Mac positioned herself and her camera. “Okay, take a look.”
In the mirror Parker saw on her face what she’d seen on so many other brides’.The thrill, the wonder, the glow.
“This was my mother’s wedding gown,” she murmured. “And now it’s mine.”
“Parks.” Mac repositioned, pressed the shutter again.“You look spectacular.”
“Happy’s what you look.” Mrs. Grady beamed at her. “Happy and in love. Nothing fits a bride more truly.”
“I’m a bride. I’m happy and in love, and I look spectacular.”
“Put that camera down, Mackensie.” Mrs. Grady lifted her own. “I want my shot of the four of you. Don’t step on the train! There. Now, think Wedding Day.”
When they laughed, she snapped.
“Let’s have a toast. Everybody get their glasses. Emma, you lush,” Laurel accused. “Yours is empty.”
“It helped me stop crying.”
Refilled, Emma lifted her glass with the others.
“To a monumental year,” Laurel began.
“Oh boy, howdy,” Mac put in.
“To our men,” she continued, “who are lucky to have us. To our mom.”
Mrs. Grady teared up again. “Don’t start.”
“To friendship.”
“And to Vows,” Parker added.“And the women who run it.We marry you with love, with style, and with exquisite attention to detail. Especially when we marry us.”
They laughed, clinked.As they drank, Mrs. Grady stepped back and took another picture. They began to talk of headpieces, of flowers, colors for the gowns the other girls would wear.
Her girls, she thought, all happy and in love, and all spectacular.
To my girls, she thought, lifting her glass in a solo toast.To the Brides of Vows, and their happy ever afters.
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