The Grace Kelly Dress

by Brenda Janowitz

  “We didn’t take pictures,” Rocky said, and even though it was the truth, she still felt as if she were holding something back from her beloved grandmother. The whole truth. The only part of the truth that mattered: the fact that she didn’t really want to wear the dress.

  “She didn’t take pictures,” Rocky heard her grandmother say, but not to her. Her face was turned to the side, and she was speaking to someone else. Then, he came into view—her great-uncle.

  “Why not?” he asked her, putting his glasses on so that he could get a better look at the tiny phone screen. He patted his hair down—still a full head of thick hair at eighty-four years old—and turned his head from side to side, as if to offer his grandniece a better view. “Don’t you kids take pictures of everything?”

  It was true. Rocky took pictures of everything. Her Instagram was a Technicolor dream, filled with images of her workplace, her Brooklyn neighborhood, and most of what she ate. There were pictures of her apartment, pictures of her friends, and pictures of her fiancé. But alas, no pictures of the dress.

  “We were afraid that Drew might see it in the cloud,” Rocky said, using Greta’s excuse as her own. Rocky hated being dishonest with her grandmother. But what could she say?

  “My genius petite fille,” her grandmother said, her beautiful face filling the screen again. “Always five steps ahead of the rest of us.”

  “Genie!” Rocky heard her uncle say in his native French in the background, and her face flushed with pride.

  “Thank you, mon oncle,” Rocky said quietly.

  “We cannot wait to see you in the dress,” her grandmother said, positioning her phone so that she and Rocky’s uncle were both in view at the same time. “You are going to look like a dream.”

  “Even more beautiful than your grandmother,” her uncle said. “And she was the most beautiful bride I had ever seen in my life.”

  “She was,” Rocky agreed. After all, she’d seen the pictures. And while she would never say it in front of her mother, Grand-mère was the most beautiful bride she had ever laid eyes on, too. Even more beautiful, she thought, than Grace Kelly herself, whose own wedding dress was the inspiration for the dress her grandmother wore. Even more beautiful than her own mother, when she wore the same dress, years later.

  “And you will be, too,” her great-uncle assured her, his smile warm and open.

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Rocky said.

  “Nonsense,” her grandmother said, bringing the phone closer to her face. “I won’t hear such talk. You will be exquisite. You have a distinct personal style, and you will be a stunning bride.”

  Was this her chance? Here was her grandmother, referencing her personal style. Maybe this was the escape she’d been looking for. This was the opportunity to get out of wearing the dress. Surely her grandmother would understand. Her great-uncle, too. And then Grand-mère would be back in the States in time to help her pick out a different wedding outfit. It didn’t even have to be a dress, did it?

  This was it. This was the moment. She would come clean. She would tell her grandmother that she did not want to wear the dress.

  After all, Grand-mère was the one Rocky could talk to. After her father died, it was Grand-mère who became Rocky’s closest confidante, the one she could speak her truth to. Grand-mère was always there, always listening. Always a source of inspiration and strength. Rocky never bored of her grandmother’s stories of growing up in Paris, how she moved to America to start a new life here. Grand-mère was creative. She was smart. She was totally and completely ahead of her time, always, and she was still the person who Rocky went to when she had something that needed fixing, a problem that needed to be discussed.

  When she was the only girl in the sixth grade not invited to Olivia Redstone’s slumber party, it was her grandmother she called first. Her grandmother arranged for a driver to take them into the city for high tea at the Plaza, seventh-row center seats for Rent, and a sleepover at the Pierre hotel. When Rocky decided that she didn’t want to attend nearby Yale for college, and wanted to accept an offer across the country at Stanford instead, it was her grandmother she talked it out with. (And who softened the blow by coming to dinner the night Rocky was set to break the news to her mother.) When Rocky dreamed of leaving her comfortable job at Google and starting her own company, it was her grandmother who told her to dream big. (She may not have understood the video game app at first, but she had since figured it out and always had a running game with Rocky.)

  “That’s the thing, Grand-mère,” Rocky said, treading carefully. “The dress isn’t really my style.”

  Her grandmother smiled widely back into the phone. “The dress is utter perfection. It’s everyone’s style.”

  Thirty-Two

  The mother of the bride, as a bride herself

  Long Island, 1982

  She slowly opened the door to the store, so slowly, as if she were afraid to walk in, and a gentle chime rang out. Joanie felt like Dorothy, walking into Oz and seeing things in color for the first time. It was as if the streets of Long Island, where she lived, were sepia tones, and Trash and Vaudeville, a store she’d walked by hundreds of times without noticing, was in full Technicolor. Bright spotlights bounced off the studded belts hanging on the wall and onto the mannequins wearing platform shoes and neon dresses in fluorescent shades of pink, green, and yellow. There were leather, and grommets, and vinyl, oh my!

  “Can I help you?” a man wearing a tartan skirt and Doc Martens asked her. His hair was dyed purple and he had a stud through his bottom lip.

  “No,” Joanie said without thinking, putting her head down into the racks.

  “Okay, well, if you see anything you like,” he said cheerfully, “just let me know.”

  “Actually,” Joanie said, something catching her eye on the back wall, “I’d like to try on these combat boots.”

  “Those are motorcycle boots,” he corrected her. “What size?”

  “Eight.” Joanie wanted to ask what the difference was between motorcycle boots and combat boots—weren’t they the same thing?—but she was too embarrassed.

  “Be right back,” he said, and disappeared into the back of the store.

  She sat down on the couch and slid off her ballet slippers.

  “Do you have a pair of peds?” she asked when the guy came out with the boots.

  “What are peds?”

  “Tiny little stockings you can use to try on shoes?” Joanie phrased it like a question, even though she knew exactly what she was talking about. She felt so unsure of herself here, in this store. NYCU was only a few blocks away, but in some ways, it felt like another world entirely. “You know what, forget it.”

  “I think these might be a little more your speed,” Mel said, walking out from the back room.

  “Mel.”

  “Joanie. Sorry I was so out of it the other night.”

  “I was glad to have found you again.”

  “My brother’s never going to forgive me.” Mel’s words were clear, not jumbled like they’d been the last time she’d seen her. “I shouldn’t have gotten so messed up at his show.”

  “Oh, I’ve seen many a Delta sister much drunker than you were that night,” Joanie said, offering a warm smile. “Anyway, I’m sure he’ll forgive you. Siblings have to forgive each other. It’s, like, a rule or something.”

  “He thinks you’re cute, you know.”

  “He does?” Joanie’s face flushed. She thought of the way Jesse held her hand the first night they’d met. The way he sang to her at the club. How every girl there had wanted him, but he only had eyes for her.

  “He does,” Mel said, pulling a pair of fluorescent pink pointy-toed pumps from the shelf. “You guys should go out.”

  “I’m engaged.” Joanie took a deep breath. She held up her left hand to show Mel her ring.

  “Oh, sorr
y.” Mel handed her the shoes to try on.

  Joanie slid the shoes onto her feet. Perfect fit. “I love them. I’ll take them.”

  “You’ll need something to wear with them,” Mel said, already thumbing through the racks, picking out things for Joanie to try on. “Can’t wear your mother’s dress every time you come out with me, you know.”

  “How did you know that was my mother’s dress?”

  Mel responded with a look. Joanie smiled back.

  “Tell me more about what happened to my sister.”

  “Michele. Oh, Michele. Where would I even begin?”

  “Begin at the beginning.”

  “The beginning,” Mel said, sighing. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if going somewhere else for a moment. Then, opening them: “Okay, well, we all envied her.”

  “Me too.” Joanie smiled. She picked up a belt and put it around her waist. She looked at herself in the mirror and liked the way the white leather with silver grommets caught the light as she moved to and fro.

  “We all wanted to be her.”

  “Me too.”

  “And I loved her.”

  “Me too.”

  Mel stopped flipping through the racks and looked up at Joanie. Slowly: “No, I mean, I was in love with her.”

  “I didn’t know she was—”

  “She wasn’t,” Mel said. “I am.”

  “Did she know that you were in love with her?”

  “Yeah.”

  Joanie didn’t know what to say.

  “Try this on.” Mel held out a bracelet for Joanie—a white leather cuff, covered with silver grommets and pyramid studs. Joanie slipped it onto her wrist. The leather was stiff, it barely moved on her arm, but Joanie knew that with wear, it would loosen up. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror and was surprised to see that the bracelet was a perfect match to the belt she’d just picked out. In fact, with their matching silver studs and grommets, they looked like they’d been made for each other. A matched set.

  “I love it. I’ll take it.”

  “On the house.”

  “I couldn’t possibly. Please let me pay for it.”

  “Actually, it was on hold for your sister when she died. I think she already paid for it. So, think of it as a gift to you from your sister.”

  Joanie looked down at the bracelet. She tried to summon a vision of her sister in her mind, but she couldn’t. “Why did you say that she didn’t die of a heart attack?”

  Mel regarded her. She took a deep breath. “Are you free next Tuesday?”

  Thirty-Three

  The seamstress

  Paris, 1958

  Rose pressed her palms to the sides of her skirt, but it was no use. Her hands were damp and hot and entirely unbecoming of a lady. She checked her watch for the fourth time. He was late.

  Rose wasn’t accustomed to going to the movie theater with a date. Going to see a film was her one indulgence, something she treated herself to once a month, and she liked doing it alone. (Or was used to it that way, she would hasten to correct.) Would Julien talk to her during the film, the way she’d seen other couples do? Why, she would hate that. Rose liked to take in the full experience of seeing a moving picture—the scenery, the dialogue, and the costumes. Oh, the costumes! If Julien had an opinion on any of it, she hoped that he would save it for after the film. They were planning on an early supper after the matinee, so the movie would give them plenty of things to talk about. Even though they’d never run out of conversation before. But today might be different. Of course it would. Because it wasn’t just Julien who was accompanying her on this date. He was bringing a date for himself as well.

  Rose checked her watch—they only had fifteen minutes until the film would begin. This was not how Rose usually did things. When she was on her own, she’d arrive a full half hour before the start. That way, she could settle into her seat and enjoy the newsreel before the main show.

  She felt a set of hands around her waist, and let out a scream. She spun around to hit her assailant with her purse, but found herself face-to-face with Julien. He held his hands up, as if in surrender, and Rose couldn’t help but laugh.

  Outside of the atelier, Julien looked different. His face was more relaxed. More joyful. He wore his usual uniform of dress pants, dress shirt, and a vest, but he didn’t have on a tie. And the top two buttons of his shirt were undone.

  “Julien!” she cried. “You startled me.”

  “Sorry we’re late.” Julien introduced his date—well, they’d be pretending that he was Rose’s date, but he was really there for Julien—and he took her hand.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Charles,” Rose said. “I’ve heard so much about you.” And she had—since revealing his secret to her, Julien talked about him all the time. He was a physician from a wealthy family. He loved cats, loathed dogs, and dreamed of one day running off to America. What Julien hadn’t said was this: he was handsome, so very handsome. Movie star handsome. He was taller than Julien, and broader, too. His eyes sparkled and his teeth gleamed. He was dressed smartly in a three-piece suit. It was easy to see why Julien had fallen for him. He exuded warmth.

  “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted while I get tickets,” Julien said.

  Before Rose could even answer Charles’s first question about the atelier (“So, what is Julien like at work?”), she heard her name being called from across the street. Rose had few friends to speak of, so she searched the crowd, wondering whose voice it could possibly be.

  “I didn’t realize you had a beau,” Diana said, breathlessly, as she and her fiancé crossed the street. Diana’s hair was perfect, as if she’d just visited the salon, and she was wearing a stunning trapeze dress, one that Rose immediately recognized as being from Yves Saint Laurent’s first collection for Christian Dior, following the master’s death.

  “Yes,” Rose said, quickly grabbing Charles’s hand. He smiled brightly at her and she at him. “My beau.”

  Rose knew that she had to convince Diana. Julien had entrusted her with his most guarded secret—that he preferred men to women—and there was no way she would reveal it. Pretending Charles was her date was a breeze. She simply pretended that she was with Robert. When Charles held her hand, she imagined that it was Robert’s strong hand in hers. When he looked at her and smiled, she was smiling back at Robert.

  “Shall we?” Julien said, spinning around with tickets.

  “Look who’s here, Julien,” Rose said. “It’s Diana Laurent and her fiancé.”

  Julien startled, and then quickly regained his composure. “Why, Mademoiselle Laurent, what a lovely surprise.” He took her hand and gently kissed it, and then waited to be introduced to her fiancé.

  “Julien is your chaperone,” Diana said. “I could tell you two were good friends even outside of the atelier.”

  “Diana!” a throaty voice called out, and Rose looked up to see an impossibly sexy woman crossing the street, holding hands with Robert. As startled as she was to see Robert appear, Rose was even more taken with the woman. She was beautiful, with hair as black as Liz Taylor’s, and a figure to match. She wore a sheath dress that closely followed the dangerous curves of her figure, and when she walked it looked like she was on a tightrope, her feet carefully following each other in a line, her hips swaying to and fro.

  “Elisabeth! Robert!” Diana called out.

  Introductions were made and Rose could barely look Elisabeth in the eye. Shame overwhelmed her. Here she’d been, lusting over this woman’s fiancé, and all the while, he was perfectly matched with his soul mate. Elisabeth was gorgeous, rich, and sexy. Rose never had a chance.

  “Robert simply cannot stop talking about you,” Elisabeth said, breathlessly.

  “Me?” Rose asked, her hand instinctively flying to her chest.

  “You.” Elisabeth pointed a red lacquered fing
er in Rose’s direction. “The famous Rose, protégé of the esteemed Madame Michel. He said that you are simply the most talented dressmaker he’s ever seen.”

  Rose looked to Julien and he smiled blankly back. Keep your composure, he telegraphed to Rose. She rubbed her hands on the sides of her dress. They were drenched in sweat.

  “It’s easy when you work at the foot of a master,” Rose said.

  “Perhaps I should have Madame Michel design my wedding dress, too,” Elisabeth said. “But I’ve heard it’s nearly impossible to secure an appointment with Madame.” Elisabeth’s ruby-red lips curved into a pout.

  All eyes were on Julien. Rose had no idea what he would say—how could he possibly offer her an appointment with Madame when Madame was no longer alive?

  “I think you should have Rose do it,” Robert suggested. “When everyone sees the work that Rose did on my sister’s wedding gown, people will be clamoring for an appointment with Madame’s protégé.”

  “It was all done under Madame’s guidance,” Rose quickly covered.

  “Then it’s settled,” Elisabeth said.

  “How wonderful,” Julien said. His mouth smiled at Elisabeth, but his eyes did not follow.

  “We should probably go inside,” Diana’s fiancé said. “The show’s about to begin.”

  “Indeed.” Julien held the door open for both couples to enter.

  Rose let Diana and Elisabeth pass through the door first. She was trying to create as much distance between them as she could, without letting them know. Rose took Julien’s words to heart—she was not Diana’s friend, she was merely a client. And she must not fall in love with Robert Laurent. Especially since Elisabeth would soon become a client, as well. Those worlds must be kept separate so that nothing might threaten the fate of the atelier.