Blue Heart Blessed

by Susan Meissner

  I dated a few guys during my college years. No one particularly special. No one who Harriet really liked, if you know what I mean. And I was kind of counting on meeting a nice Christian guy at college. When you spend the money my parents did for an education at a private Christian college, you tend to expect it. Anyone who doesn’t is not being completely truthful, as Harriet would say. Actually she would say they were lying.

  But I graduated with my marketing and graphic design degree without a ring on my finger. I was a bridesmaid three times over that summer. I pretended this did not bother me but Harriet knew better. After one of the weddings I wrote in my journal: I feel all mixed up inside. I mean, I’m happy for Lindsey. And she looked so beautiful today. I loved her dress. But something’s keeping me from being completely happy for her. It’s like I wanted her to trip down the aisle or wake up with pink eye this morning. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

  And Harriet wrote back… Yes, you do. You’re jealous.

  Tell me I didn’t already know that.

  My Harriet is no different than the voice you have inside of you, telling you the truth even when it hurts.

  And oh, how it does hurt. I have three whole notebooks on loving Daniel and losing him. Writing them killed me. And kept me alive.

  I’m halfway through the fourth.

  I will write in it tonight after my mom and I have closed up Something Blue. After she chides me for lying to Lucille about not seeing her take my dress off its mannequin. After I’ve watched a cheesy chick flick. After I’ve called my best friend Shelby, who is also my ex-maid of honor.

  I will crawl into bed with a cup of tea and I will tell Harriet that I had a chance to sell my wedding dress today and blew it.

  And she will write back… So what else is new?

  Three

  I made my first bride paper doll when I was nine. Her name was Elisabeth with an ‘s’ and she was skinny, ridiculously flat-chested and had my boring brownish-blonde hair—a shade produced by combining burnt sienna and maize Crayola crayons in thick, waxy layers. Elisabeth was cut from white tag board I bought at the drugstore with my own money.

  My limited drawing capabilities produced her scrawny arms that stuck out at forty-five-degree angles. She looked like an informant being frisked. The open arms made it difficult for Elisabeth to hold the many varieties of bridal bouquets I made, but honestly, the attempts to give her arms bent at the elbow were laughable. I nearly ran out of tag board and patience before I realized I had set the bar way too high for myself.

  I made Elisabeth’s wedding gown before any other article of clothing, cutting it from wedding wrapping paper and gluing swirls of glitter onto its massive, lampshade-shaped skirt. Unskilled at that age in spatial relationships, it never occurred to me that the copious amounts of fold-over tabs I included on the skirt would never be anywhere near Elisabeth’s body. The dress had to hang onto Elisabeth with tiny, baby-tooth sized tabs at the shoulders and waist, and so it was forever falling off of her. The veil, bedecked with daisies—what else?—sprouted from Elisabeth’s head like a geyser, but I remember being fairly pleased with the end result and showing Elisabeth to my mother when the ensemble was finished.

  Mom had oohed and ahhed over the dress as well as Elisabeth, who I held stone-still in my hand so that the dress didn’t fall off.

  “You should make her a trousseau,” Mom had said.

  I had responded by asking her what a “true sew” was. I distinctly recall picturing those words in my head just like that. Mom went on to tell me a bride’s trousseau was the collection of new clothes she took on her honeymoon.

  Well, that seemed like a pretty good idea to me. I set to work on a fascinating wardrobe of checked skirts and tops, evening gowns with ruffles and lace and sundresses with matching hats. When I was done with all the clothes, I proudly showed them to my mother.

  “How lovely!” Mom said. “Now all Elisabeth needs is a groom.”

  I clearly remember making a face. “Does she have to have one of those?” I said.

  Mom had laughed. Sweetly, not heartlessly. “It’s kind of hard to get married without one,” she had replied.

  Ain’t that the truth.

  I don’t know when my fascination with everything bridal truly began. My mom has assured me that all little girls are captivated by wedding gowns and beautiful brides and the whole queen-for-a-day idea. It’s the essence of fairy-tale, she has always said. I don’t think she ever found it odd that I when I was a kid, I made a new bride paper doll every six months, sometimes giving one paper doll six or seven different gowns to choose from. Nor that I never drew a groom.

  As I grew older, I gave myself over to dreams of becoming a fashion designer but the truth is, I’ve always had far more vision than talent. I can envision something grand and plan it, but I can’t execute. My dad, God rest him, used to tell me someone has to be the brains behind an operation. Someone has to have the vision, the big picture in mind. I remember telling him once that Michelangelo didn’t just plan the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. He dreamed it and made it happen. And my dad had asked me, How many Michelangelos can the world hold?

  It’s probably a good thing I majored in marketing and graphic design instead of art and fashion. I would have been a lousy designer. But I am an excellent critic. I know how something should look. It is both to my shame and my credit that I spend my evenings watching movies with wedding scenes and critiquing the dresses. It’s to my shame because obviously that’s a pitiful pastime for a jilted bride. But it’s to my credit because I prove to myself every evening that I know what I’m talking about. That I’m no dummy when it comes to what I allow in my store.

  I don’t accept every gown that is brought to me. Nor even every gown I inquire about. I don’t take yellowed gowns or hopelessly outdated gowns or gowns that are just plain ugly. And yes, there is such a thing as an ugly wedding dress.

  I take gowns that have character, style and a uniqueness about them. I buy them from people who come in off the street and from estate sales and Internet sites and thrift stores. Most of the time I know the story behind the dress. I know why a dress isn’t being kept in a snug box in the attic or the spare bedroom closet. It’s not always because the marriage didn’t work out, or that the couple needs money, although that happens a lot. Sometimes a spouse will die and the widow, after time has passed, wants to date again but the dress she has kept holds her back. Sometimes, and this happens more often than not, a woman will bring her dress to me because she loves it and wants to share it. I had a gal tell me once, “Why should this enchanting gown be worn only once? It’s a masterpiece. It’s meant to be worn, not boxed up.” I took her picture and her testimony and put both on my website. Her comment is practically my motto.

  And yes, there are the dresses that find their way to my boutique because the bride never got the chance to wear the gown but she couldn’t bring herself to take it back to the store where she bought it.

  Yes, that’s how my dress got here.

  And yes, I really do want to sell it.

  And no, I didn’t already own Something Blue when Daniel broke up with me.

  Something Blue was what I created for myself at my mother and Aunt L’Raine’s suggestion after my world fell apart. After I had cancelled the photographer, the cake, the flowers, the reception hall, and the caterer. After I realized I needed to reinvent myself, start fresh and get myself out of the company where I was working.

  Where Daniel worked.

  There is no price tag on my wedding dress at the moment. There was one when I first opened Something Blue six months ago. But I began to hyperventilate the first time someone tried on my dress. As soon as the woman in the dressing room handed the gown back to me I ripped the tag off. I put it back on again a few weeks later. And took it off. And so on and so on.

  I took the tag off again on the first day of June, two days before Vanessa came to the boutique.

  On the day that should have been my one-year
anniversary.

  Four

  Afternoon sunlight begs to flood the floor of Something Blue but my window awnings keep it off my inventory—and off the woman in front of me, who, doused in shadow, begins to cry.

  This happens sometimes.

  I’m not the only one who has a hard time parting with her wedding dress.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman whispers.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I whisper back. I hand her a tissue.

  “You’re not the first to cry coming in here,” my Aunt L’Raine says. L’Raine was my mom’s best friend all through high school and was married to my father’s twin brother. I have known her all my life. She and my mother are my only other weekday employees. Monday through Friday it’s just the three of us at Something Blue: One ditched bride and two seventy-four-year-old widows.

  “And you won’t be the last,” my mother coos, laying an arm across the woman’s shoulders.

  The woman dabs at her eyes. “I told myself I was ready for this.”

  My mom pats her gently.

  I reach out to touch the woman on her arm. “You don’t have to do this, you know.” My marketing professors would never approve of such a line. In theory, it totally kills the sale. But I’ve held a wedding dress in my arms that I absolutely love. I’ll say what I want. Besides, it’s my store.

  “No, I do.” The woman straightens her frame, inhaling deeply.

  “You don’t have to do it today.” I keep my voice soft, reassuring.

  “That’s right, dear. You can come back another day,” L’Raine’s eyes are bright and misted over. She simply can’t be around a crying person and not join them. She and I have had some wonderfully pathetic times together the last few months.

  “I’ll be all right. Really.” The woman breathes in deeply again and raises her eyes to me. They are still glassy with pain.

  “Why don’t we just chat for a few minutes,” I offer. “My name is Daisy Murien. This is my mom, Chloe. And my aunt L’Raine. And you are…?”

  “Darlene Talcott,” she answers, and a tiny smile frames her mouth.

  “Darlene, it’s wonderful to meet you.” I employ my lightest, yet sympathetic tone. “Would you like some flavored water? I’ve got lemon, peach and raspberry. Sorry we don’t have coffee or tea but those are a bit of a hazard around white fabrics.”

  Darlene’s smile widens. “I’m fine, thank you. Really.” She unzips the garment bag in her arms and there is silence in the room except for the rustle of material. The gown is now out, exposed and glistening under my track lighting. She lays the dress on the table in front of us. It’s an exquisite gown. Studded with tiny, iridescent beads and pearls. Sweetheart neckline. Empire waist. A full skirt with flounced edges. Cathedral-length train. It fills the surface of the oak table; cascades across it like a river of white foam.

  “Oh, my!” My mother is enthralled. “How absolutely divine!”

  “Lovely, lovely,” L’Raine whispers.

  Darlene is smiling but fresh tears ring her lids. She reaches up a free hand and whisks them away.

  The gown looks like it’s in perfect condition but I do what I must. I lift it and inspect its zipper, check its seams and scrutinize it for tiny tears and stains. I catch a faint whiff of perfume. I lean down to inhale. The bride wore Beautiful by Esteé Lauder.

  “She was going to have it professionally cleaned, but things got hectic.” Darlene is apologetic “And then she just… I ran out of time.”

  “She?” I raise my eyes just as Darlene lowers hers. She is staring at the dress.

  “This was my sister’s dress. She wore it eighteen months ago when she got married. She, um… she died just before Christmas this past year. Ovarian cancer.”

  L’Raine needs no prompting. She collapses onto a viewing sofa to our right and makes concerted but unsuccessful efforts to silence her sobs.

  My mother and I are both struggling to find adequate words. There are none to be found, of course. “Darlene, I’m so sorry,” I finally eke out.

  “I am too.” Darlene’s voice takes on a childlike timbre. Mom turns and joins L’Raine on the couch, both of them covering their eyes with tissues. I could throttle them both.

  “Darlene. Really.” I blink madly as if I’m wearing contact lenses for the first time. “You don’t have to do this today.”

  Darlene shakes her head ever so slightly. “It’s not like it’s going to be any easier next month. Or even next year. I have to do this for Matthew.”

  “Matthew?”

  “Her husband. Lacey was adamant that he marry again someday. But this has all been so hard for him. Lacey found out she was sick a month after she and Matthew got married. Just a month. She hadn’t even finished writing all her thank-you notes.”

  Fresh and only half-suppressed sobs erupt from the couch. Mom and L’Raine may as well go upstairs to their apartments and switch on a soap. They are completely useless to me at the moment.

  “Matthew told me a few weeks ago he just can’t move on knowing this dress is in his house.” Darlene sighs. “He asked me to please find someone who could use it. Someone who could be as beautiful and happy as Lacey was when she wore it.”

  The sofa-sobbers grab two new tissues each.

  “You don’t think you might want to hang onto it?” I ask. “There might be someone in the family who could wear it.”

  “Even if there was, it would kill Matthew to see it again on someone else. We all know that. This is the best way. I’m so glad you have this shop. I drove all the way from Prairie du Chien to bring it to you.”

  “And I’m so glad you did.” The stray tears I’ve held in slide free. “I assure you I’ll find someone who will adore this dress.” I grab a tissue myself.

  For a moment there is only the sound of quiet sniffling.

  “I saw from your website that you like to record the story behind each dress that you sell,” Darlene says a minute later.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Do you think that’s wise in this case? I mean, I don’t want people to think for a moment that what happened to Lacey will happen to them.”

  “Well, we like to focus on what drew a couple together, not what, if anything, separated them,” I explain. “Besides. That’s why I sew in the little blue hearts in the underside of all my dresses. Each heart has been blessed by an Episcopal priest.”

  “That’s kind of a whimsical thought, isn’t it?” Darlene laughs the slightest bit. There is a faint layer of cynicism in her voice. “That a priest can bless a dress and everything will turn out just fine. That everyone will live happily ever after?”

  Nothing like a spoonful of disenchantment to help the medicine go down.

  “What can I say?” I shrug, feigning a laissez-faire attitude. “If you can’t be whimsical at your wedding when can you be?”

  Darlene cocks her head and rewards me with another half-smile. This one, however, is genuine. “When, indeed?”

  I pull out a bill of sale and begin to fill it out.

  Darlene looks around the boutique floor. “You have a lovely boutique.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Been here a while?”

  No. Just since I crawled out of the abyss known as rejection. This is what I am thinking. But it is not what I say.

  “Just six months. We opened the first week in January.”

  Darlene continues to let her eyes rove over the boutique. “I take it those three dresses aren’t for sale?”

  I look up from my paperwork and follow her gaze. In my front window where I usually display just two not-for-sale wedding dresses—my mother’s and Aunt L’Raine’s —there is now a third. Mine.

  I look over at my mother and my aunt and they jump up from the sofa as if they must suddenly attend to something terribly important.

  “Sometimes the one in the middle is.” My answer is short and to the point.

  Darlene swivels her head back to me and blinks.

  I explain nothing.

&nbs
p; Five

  Dear Harriet:

  I took in a dress today from a woman who lost her sister to cancer. It was the saddest story I’d ever heard.

  Saddest in a while, anyway.

  The dress is breathtakingly gorgeous. It retailed two years ago for $1,500 and I bet I could still get $800 for it. I started out offering her $300. I just assumed we’d work out a price like I do with all my customers, but she didn’t haggle with me. I should’ve guessed grieving people don’t haggle over anything. They’ve already tried bargaining and lost.

  My mother and L’Raine moved my dress into the front window with theirs. Like I wouldn’t notice. The three mannequins are practically tripping over each other. Arms are flailing everywhere. There isn’t enough room for all three of them. You can’t even see the hydrangeas and forget-me-nots on the sides.

  And when I confronted L’Raine about it all she said was, “For pity’s sake, Daisy. When are you going to get us mannequins with heads! I feel like I’m the bride of Ichabod Crane.” I snippily reminded her Ichabod Crane wasn’t the one without a head in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

  Mom was only slightly apologetic. “Face it, Daisy. You’re not ready to sell it. Why torture yourself—and your customers?” She means lovely Vanessa of course.

  The thing that kills me is I left it. I left the dress there.

  I can’t believe I’m such a coward. Mom says I’m a romantic and that there’s nothing wrong with that. Romantic people are fanciful, they’re dreamers. They’re whimsical.