But it was no use. When Rose got to their seats, she found that the Laurents were seated right next to them.
PART THREE:
MAKE THE FIRST CUT
“This step is not for the faint of heart. There is no going back. It is time to make the first cut. Are you sure you have made all the right choices? Are you pleased with your plan? Do not make your first cut until you are absolutely, positively sure.”
—Excerpted from Creating the Illusion by Madame Michel,
Paris, 1954
Thirty-Four
The bride
Brooklyn, 2020
“Mexican?” Rocky asked, holding up the Seamless app on her iPhone.
“Whatever you want,” Drew said, his eyes glued to his own phone. He’d walked into the apartment that way—glued to his phone. Rocky knew not to press; Drew often brought his work home with him, but this seemed different. Usually he could answer emails on his phone while holding a conversation with Rocky, but today, he was distracted.
“Thai?”
“Whatever you want,” Drew said again, agitation rising in his voice.
“I’m sorry, am I bothering you?” Rocky had meant it to sound flirty, the way Amanda could get away with things by smiling and tilting her head just so, but it didn’t work. When Rocky said it, it came out entirely differently. From her lips, it wasn’t flirtatious banter—it was a challenge.
Drew looked up from his phone and regarded Rocky. “No,” he said, his voice even, “you’re not. But would you mind picking what we have for dinner for tonight? I can’t think about that right now.”
“So, we’ll do Mexican,” Rocky said. “Your usual?”
“That’s fine.” Drew’s face already back in his phone. He was sitting right there on the couch, but he was in another place entirely.
Rocky considered what Amanda would do in this situation. Well, that was easy. She’d slink right next to Drew and shower him with kisses until he was interested in another activity altogether.
Bad comparison. What would her mother do? Joan would probably ditch the Seamless app and set about cooking a delicious dinner from scratch, counting on the seductive smells of roasted garlic and browned onions to bring Drew back to the present. Back to her. Back home.
Rocky opened the fridge to see what ingredients they had. But it didn’t matter. Rocky couldn’t cook. What would her Grand-mère do? That one was a little tougher. She wasn’t sure what her grandmother would do here, really. Her grandmother was always filled with surprises. But there was one thing she knew about her grandmother—she always acted with kindness and with honesty. Perhaps that was the right tack here?
Rocky put her phone down on the kitchen counter and slowly walked over to the couch. She perched down next to Drew and took a deep, calming breath. “Is there something you want to talk about?” she asked him.
“I don’t really want to talk.”
Rocky didn’t know how to respond. Without thinking: “But I’m your fiancée.”
“I know that,” he quietly said. He did not look up to meet her eyes.
“Is it the Macdonell deal again?” She tried to keep her voice light, upbeat. “I can take a peek at the memo and give some thoughts.”
“It’s not the Macdonell deal,” Drew said.
“Talk to me.” She took a deep breath in. “Tell me what’s going on with you.”
“Everyone has a different way of dealing with things, you know,” Drew said, his eyes darkening. “Things are not always black and white, like they are in your world. There’s a lot of gray. That’s what you can’t see, Rocky.”
“So tell me.”
“I don’t have to spit everything out to you the second it happens to me. Sometimes I need a second to process things on my own. The entire world does not revolve around you.”
Drew’s words landed on Rocky’s chest like a dagger. She took a deep breath in, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four.
“I just want to help,” Rocky said, putting her hand on Drew’s shoulder. “Let me help.”
“You can’t.”
“Of course I can.” Rocky rubbed small circles on his back. “Just tell me the problem and we’ll fix it.”
“I called the number the agency found for my birth mother,” Drew said. “She’s dead.”
Thirty-Five
The mother of the bride, as a bride herself
Long Island, 1982
It had to be the wrong address. Joanie was sure of it. Why would Mel ask Joanie to meet her at a church? It didn’t make sense.
A guy who looked like David Bowie walked into the church, and Joanie realized. This must be one of those underground clubs. Places where you need a password to get in. She was so happy she’d worn the dress, shoes, and bracelet she’d bought at Trash and Vaudeville. Finally, she’d be out downtown in the right outfit. Joanie slowly ascended the church steps.
Once inside, her new high heels reverberated off the marble floors. A man dressed in a power suit rushed by her, and then a woman who looked like she could be homeless followed closely behind. Where am I? Her feeling of confidence was slowly fading. Maybe she didn’t belong here. There was a sign pointing to the right. It read: Friends of Bill W. and Dr. Bob. Joanie had been sure she’d heard those names before. But where?
“You made it!” Mel said, coming up from behind.
“Where are we?”
“I think it’s better if I just show you.”
Mel led the way through the corridor. They went down a set of steps and Joanie figured she’d been right—underground club. But it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
Mel walked past another sign announcing “Friends of Bill W. and Dr. Bob.” Joanie glanced back. The building seemed empty. Like they were the only ones there. Had it been a mistake to come down to the basement of an abandoned church with someone she’d just met?
Mel reached the door at the end of the hallway and held it open for Joanie to pass through first. Joanie entered slowly.
It was a small room, with chairs set up in a circle. It looked like a classroom. Or perhaps a room for Bible study—there were Bible verses written on a portable blackboard. There was an old table set up against the back wall, filled with coffee and doughnuts, but most of the people were already seated. Waiting.
Across the room, Joanie saw Jesse, sitting behind the circle. Mel motioned for Joanie to sit down next to him. She folded herself into the chair, careful not to let her leg touch Jesse’s. He awkwardly tried to hug her, and their heads crashed into each other.
“Sorry,” Joanie said. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“No. What is this place?”
“Maybe it’s better if you just experience it.”
Mel walked into the center of the circle. “Hi, my name is Melinda. And I’m an alcoholic and a drug addict.”
* * *
“That was really brave,” Joanie told Mel, as the meeting broke an hour later.
“Thank you for coming,” Mel said, stirring three teaspoons of sugar into her coffee. In the corner, Jesse talked to the guy who had been leading the meeting. They clearly knew each other—Jesse had accompanied his sister to these meetings before.
“But I don’t understand, why did you bring me here?” Joanie asked Mel.
“I wanted you to know the truth.”
“So, when I saw you at Jesse’s show, you were high?”
“Yeah.” Mel’s eyes were fixed on the floor.
“When you said you were messed up, I thought you meant that you were drunk.”
“I know. And I was. I was really drunk, and when I went to the bathroom, someone offered me a bump. I’d just found out that I’d been passed up for this group show I really wanted, and I just figured, why not, you know?”
“I’m so sorry.�
��
“Oh, you don’t have to be sorry. It means a lot. You coming here with me.”
“Of course.”
“Your sister used to come with me to a lot of these.”
Joanie smiled. That was the sort of person her sister was. A good friend. Someone you could trust. Supportive, just like Mel’s brother, Jesse. All the Deltas still talked about how she would go out of her way to help a fellow sister. “I’m glad she helped you.”
“She didn’t just help me.”
“Oh, right. I mean, I’m glad she could help everyone here. Be a good influence.”
Mel looked down at her feet again. She stirred her coffee slowly, methodically. “Joanie, I have to tell you something about your sister.”
“That’s why I’m here. I want to know more.”
“Even if you won’t like it?” Mel’s eyes began to tear up, and she used the cuff of her jean jacket to wipe them away.
“Anything.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Mel said.
“You won’t,” Joanie said, putting her hand on Mel’s arm. “Just tell me.”
“Your sister didn’t die of a heart attack. She died of an overdose.”
Thirty-Six
The seamstress
Paris, 1958
“Tell me everything,” Diana said. She smiled and giggled like a schoolgirl.
“Well, this lace is handcrafted by—” Rose said, but she was cut off.
“Not about the lace, silly girl.” Diana pushed the fabric swatches aside. “About the beau.”
“The beau?” Rose asked, before realizing her error and righting herself. “Yes, of course, my new beau. Well, he’s very handsome.”
“I noticed,” Diana said. “I don’t think there was a girl in the movie theater who didn’t notice that.”
“And he’s a physician.” Rose carefully picked up a piece of lace, trying to draw Diana’s attention back to the reason she was there. To pick out fabrics for her wedding gown.
“Very impressive,” Diana said, eyes focused on Rose, ignoring the beautiful fabrics draped all over the worktable. “But tell me about the good stuff. What is he really like? Is he kind? Funny? A good kisser?”
“Oh,” Rose said as she struggled to formulate a thought. “Goodness.”
“Now, don’t be modest.”
Rose didn’t know how to respond. She certainly couldn’t tell Diana that she didn’t consider her a friend, but instead merely a client, and she wasn’t sure how to speak about a kiss that had never happened. She looked up to Julien for guidance, but he simply shook his head. You can do this, he telegraphed with a nod of his head.
“Well, he’s very kind. And very funny,” Rose said. “And, ahem, a very good kisser.”
“You don’t seem convinced.” Diana furrowed her brow, and Rose felt as if Diana could see inside her mind, could tell that she was fibbing. “Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes,” Rose said, trying to command the same confidence that Julien had when he was telling a lie. “I’m very sure. I’m also sure that this alençon lace is very special.” Rose passed the fabric swatch of needlepoint lace to Diana.
“I know exactly what this is. I’ve seen it before,” Diana said, putting the lace back down on the table. Rose could not tell whether she was talking about the lace or the man. “There’s nothing wrong with him.” Of course. She was still talking about the man.
“Nothing!” Rose picked up a swatch of Chantilly lace and handed it to Diana. “There’s nothing wrong with him, I assure you.” Diana didn’t take the swatch of lace. Her eyes stayed focused on Rose.
“But there’s nothing quite right, either,” Diana said, shaking her head, as if she already knew the answer to her question. “Are you in love with someone else?”
Across the room, Julien dropped his cup of tea. The sound punctured the quiet buzz of the atelier, reverberated off its walls, and it seemed as if time stood still as everyone stared at Julien. The sewing machines stopped running, and the seamstresses up in the workroom remained perfectly quiet. Even Robert, from across the room, put his newspaper down and looked up.
“My goodness!” Rose exclaimed as she rushed across the room to his aid. “Are you all right? You didn’t burn yourself, did you?”
“I’m fine,” Julien said, under his breath, as he wiped hot tea off his pants with a handkerchief. “It seemed as though you could use a little help, though.”
“I’m fine, too,” Rose fibbed. She made a show of picking up the broken pieces of fine china and depositing them into a nearby trash can.
“Can I be of assistance?” Robert said, and Rose didn’t look up from where she was kneeling on the ground.
“Please do not trouble yourself,” Julien said.
“It’s no trouble.” Robert kneeled next to Rose to help her pick up the broken pieces of Julien’s teacup.
“Please, let me,” Rose said, without looking Robert’s way. She could feel the heat coming off Robert’s body.
“This is my mess. I can take care of it myself,” Julien said, shooing both Rose and Robert away. And then, to Rose: “You just take care of our client.”
Robert extended his hand for Rose to take, and he guided her up from the floor.
“Thank you,” Rose said quietly, her eyes trained on her feet.
“I know what we need,” Diana said, once Rose had settled herself back at the table. “The rose point lace used on Princess Grace’s gown.”
“I have a sample of that right here,” Rose said, her fingers recalling exactly where the swatch was. “It’s beautiful.”
“No,” Diana said, mischief in her eyes, “I mean the actual rose point lace.”
“I don’t understand.” Worry filled Rose’s head—had she made her first mistake? Were the lace samples she’d collected insufficient? She had been so careful. She’d presented Diana with a number of choices, but not too many. She found rose point lace, the same type of lace used on Grace Kelly’s dress, and then she found other varieties, samples that would reference the famous gown they’d be using as an influence, but not directly copy it.
“My brother’s fiancée has a friend who knows the lace maker who procured the actual rose point lace that was used on Princess Grace’s gown.”
“The lace that was used on her gown was one hundred and twenty-five years old,” Rose said carefully. “How will you get the exact same lace?”
“The lace you are looking for no longer exists,” Julien said, getting up from his desk. “The bolt of fabric was completely used. There is none left.”
“Elisabeth knows someone who says otherwise,” Diana said gleefully. “When I told her about my inspiration for the dress, she said she’d help me find it.”
“Mademoiselle, she must be mistaken,” Julien said. “There is no more of the actual lace that was used on the Grace Kelly wedding gown. The only remaining piece had been sent to the shoemaker, David Evins. When it was stretched over the shoes, it ripped. He used a matching antique lace on Princess Grace’s wedding shoes.”
“Then that must have been what she was referring to,” Diana quickly said. “We will find the matching antique lace that was used.”
“Why don’t you allow me to make some phone calls on your behalf?” Julien pled. “I’m sure that if the matching lace can be found, we will be able to find it.”
“I wouldn’t want to waste Madame’s time with silly telephone calls. Especially with how much she’s been traveling lately, on my behalf. I know how hard she is working on my dress.”
“That she is,” he said.
“Don’t you think Madame would prefer to have the correct lace for the gown?” Was Diana challenging Julien?
“I do,” Julien said, his voice measured. “Madame wants your dress to be the most special dress she’s ever created. And it will be.”
�
��Then it’s decided,” Diana announced. “I will get hold of the rose point lace.”
“You wouldn’t mind if I left you on your own, would you?” Diana asked Rose.
“Of course not. But we—”
“And, Robert,” Diana called across the atelier, “you wouldn’t mind if I borrowed your fiancée for a little while? Just to make the dress perfect. It won’t take long at all, I promise.”
“I suppose—” Robert began.
“Then it’s settled! I will travel to New York with Elisabeth and bring back the rose point lace.”
“Mademoiselle Laurent,” Julien said. “I urge you to reconsider.”
“My mind is made up. It must be done.”
It had all happened so quickly that Rose hadn’t had time to think. Time to speak.
“Whatever you like, Mademoiselle,” Julien said. “I only want you to be happy.”
“This is what will make me happy,” Diana said. And then, turning to Robert: “While I’m away, I’ll need you to bring over the progress payment for the dress and to make sure the dress is progressing on schedule. Can I leave the two of you on your own?”
Thirty-Seven
The bride
Brooklyn, 2020
Drew stood up and ripped his shirt.
Rocky didn’t know what he was doing, or why he was doing it. First, he told her that his birth mother was dead, and then next, he got up from the couch, looked at himself in the mirror, and tore the shirt he was wearing.
“Drew?” Rocky said tentatively. She stood behind him at the mirror. Softly, she put her hand on his shoulder. A show of support. “What can I do?”
“In the Jewish faith,” Drew explained, still looking in the mirror, “mourners rip their clothing when a loved one dies.”
Rocky immediately thought of the one Jewish funeral she’d attended—the grandmother of a friend from college—and how the mourners wore torn bits of fabric attached to their clothing.
She stood next to Drew and pulled at the fabric of her shirt. But it had no give. She tried again, and then again. “Dammit.”
The Grace Kelly Dress Page 14
