As she sipped her wine throughout dinner, she allowed herself to imagine that she was on a date. Surely, she knew that he had only asked her because he probably felt sorry for her—after all, wasn’t that what Diana meant when she told Robert to look in on her?—but Rose didn’t mind.
When Robert helped her on with her coat after supper, Rose allowed herself to imagine that she was his fiancée, that they had a light supper like this all the time, and that it wasn’t just this one time. They walked to the opera house side by side, Robert standing on the outer side of the sidewalk, like a gentleman, and putting his arm around her protectively when they crossed the street.
Rose was overjoyed to find that they had box seats—an entire little section all to themselves—for the performance. By then, she’d completely forgotten to look around to make sure they weren’t spotted. She felt emboldened by the wine, warm and happy, and quickly forgot all of her cares.
Rose felt she was so close to the opera singers, she could see their every emotion played out on their faces. She was utterly captivated. So much so that she almost didn’t notice it when Robert’s knee knocked into hers again during the first act. Almost.
Rose sat through the opera, transfixed by the sights and sounds, overwhelmed by the emotion of it, and the feel of Robert’s knee occasionally bumping into her own. She was hypnotized, under a spell that she hoped never would break.
And then, when it came time to walk home from the opera house, when Robert’s hand brushed against Rose’s, she didn’t pull away. She let their hands touch, ever so slightly, the entire way home.
Forty-Three
The bride
Brooklyn, 2020
“Maybe we should just run away.”
“From this bar? I kind of like it here.”
“For our wedding,” Rocky said, swatting Drew on his arm, leaning into him. “Maybe we run away and get married, just the two of us. No one else.”
“Is this because you don’t like the hashtag?” The bartender set their drinks down on the bar and Drew took a slow sip of his beer.
“First of all, we don’t need a hashtag.”
“I could never do that to my mom,” Drew said.
“Have a wedding without a hashtag?”
“Elope.”
Rocky sipped her beer and set it back down on the bar. She looked at Drew. She grabbed his hand, and he squeezed back.
“I thought it might be easier given what happened to your birth mother.”
Drew looked down for a moment. Then, looking back up: “I appreciate that, but no. I want to have a wedding where we stand up in front of our parents and everyone we’ve ever met and tell them all how much we love each other.”
“The wedding you’ve been dreaming of since you were a boy?”
“Something like that.”
“Is this just to please your mom? Because she wants to see her only child get married?”
“So what if it is? Tradition is important in my family,” Drew said, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s important to me.”
“I have a different relationship with my mother than you do with yours.” Rocky stuck her fingernail under the label of her beer bottle. She pushed it until it gave way, finally coming off in one whole piece, and set it down on the bar.
“I know that,” Drew said. “But don’t you want more?”
Rocky did want more. Finding out about Drew’s birth mother gave her a clarity she hadn’t had before. It made her feel closer to Drew, more understanding, and it made her realize how important her relationship with her mother was. How lucky she was to have her, even if she didn’t always see it. She may have always felt closer to her father, but the fact was: he wasn’t around anymore.
“I want more. I don’t know how,” Rocky said.
“You could tell her how you feel.”
“Every time I try, it always goes wrong.”
“Because you’re not telling her the truth. You’re not letting her in.”
“I try.” Rocky picked up the beer bottle label again, rolling it in her fingers. It was sticky to the touch and after she put it down, the glue remained on her fingers.
“Be honest with your mom. Tell her the truth,” Drew said, his eyes set firmly on Rocky. “Tell her you don’t want to wear the dress.”
Forty-Four
The mother of the bride, as a bride herself
Long Island, 1982
“Do you ever feel like you don’t know who you are?”
A voice shushed Joanie from a few carrels away. She wasn’t sure who it was—the Thetas and Deltas had taken over the third floor of the library for mandatory “Study Hours” before midterms, which was really just another excuse to socialize—and she hadn’t been speaking very loudly. Still, Joanie made a mental note to keep her voice down to a whisper. But she couldn’t help it. Libraries always brought it out in her. The quiet made her feel safe, like she could spill all of her secrets.
“No.”
“I just mean that I think I’m finding myself,” Joanie said quietly, tentatively. “Or that I want to.”
“Because of your sister?” Matthew asked, and Joanie didn’t respond. He continued on in his regular speaking voice: “Joanie, just because you learned the real truth about how your sister died doesn’t mean that you don’t know who you are.” The disembodied voice shushed them once again. Matthew stood up to see who was listening to them.
“Maybe I never did know who I was. Who I am.” Her words came out in a jumble. It felt like the more she tried to explain herself to Matthew, the more her words got lost. Confused.
“You know who you are,” Matthew said, softer. “I mean, you’re you.”
“But what if I don’t know who I am?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper.
Matthew put his hands around her face and looked at Joanie. His thumb glided along the side of her cheek as he leaned in for a gentle kiss. “I know who you are,” he said, firmer this time.
“Who’s that?”
“The girl I’m going to marry, that’s who!” he said, smiling broadly at her. He leaned over and kissed her again.
“Shhh!” the voice called out, and Joanie leaned back in her chair. Matthew stood up again and looked around before sinking back into his own chair.
“Right.” Joanie smiled back broadly at her fiancé, but smiling felt like work. Unnatural. “Have you ever done it? Tried drugs?”
“Pot, sure,” Matthew admitted. “But real drugs? Like cocaine? No.”
“Me neither.”
“Do you want to now?” He furrowed his brow and examined her face. He looked at her closely, as if he were trying to solve a puzzle.
“No, of course not.”
“See that,” he said, grabbing her hand in his. “You already know yourself a little more than you’re giving yourself credit for.”
Joanie considered his words. Maybe she did know herself more than she thought. But then her mother’s words flooded her mind: Was she still a child? “Maybe.”
“Have you given any thought to this summer?”
“Are we planning to get any studying done?” Joanie made a big show of opening her Psych 204 textbook and grabbing a highlighter from her knapsack.
“We’ll study later,” Matthew said, closing Joanie’s textbook. “So, have you thought about the summer?”
The truth was, Joanie had not. She hadn’t given much thought to anything lately besides her sister. “Of course.”
“And, what do you think? I’ll have a single room, all to myself.” Matthew’s face lit up whenever he spoke about their future. Joanie wished she could be as excited about it as he was. But whenever she thought about it for too long, it gave her a bellyache.
“My mother would flip if I went down to Florida to stay with you. She’d say we were living in sin, right before the wedding.” Joanie bit t
he cap of her highlighter.
“It’s only an eight-week internship.”
“See? You’ll be back before you know it. Then, we’ll get married and start our lives together.”
Matthew took the highlighter from Joanie’s grip. “You can go two months without seeing me?”
“It’s too hot down there, anyway. You know how much the humidity kills my hair.” She shook her head from side to side, for effect. Her curls fell in front of her face, and she drew them back behind her ears with a finger.
“Don’t you want to start the next phase of our lives together?”
“Of course I do!” Joanie didn’t want to talk about this anymore. She felt the undeniable ache in the pit of her belly. She realized she hadn’t given much thought to living together. Not just yet. Of course, after they got married, they’d live together. Wouldn’t they? Joanie hadn’t really thought much beyond that. That was “after” and Joanie was still stuck in “before.”
Matthew challenged her with his eyes. He did not seem convinced of her words. Joanie leaned over and gave him a kiss. Not a peck, a real kiss. A lean-back-and-enjoy-it sort of kiss. He murmured: “This conversation’s not over, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” Joanie said, as she planted kisses all over his face, down his neck. Matthew kissed her back and Joanie remembered what a good kisser he was. How much she loved being in his arms.
“Keep it PG in here!” a Theta brother called out from a few carrels away. Joanie and Matthew laughed.
Why was she being so skittish about moving down to Florida with him for the summer? This was the man she wanted to marry. This was the life she wanted to have. And if her mother wasn’t happy about it? So what. Her mother still thought of her as a child, but she was a twenty-year-old woman, and she would do as she pleased.
Matthew kissed her again and she hopped into his lap. She pressed her body to him, and his arms wrapped tightly around her back.
“Yes,” Joanie said, her voice a murmur. “Let’s do it. Yes.”
Matthew’s eyes brightened. “Should we go to my dorm room or the stacks? My room would be more special, but the stacks might be more fun.” Matthew quickly threw his books back into his knapsack.
In an instant, Joanie realized it: Matthew thought that when she said let’s do it, she meant sex. Did he really think she was going to lose her virginity randomly one night in the library stacks? How ridiculous! But then, an unwelcome thought passed through her mind. At the thought of sex, she couldn’t help but think of Jesse. In fact, thoughts of Jesse had been coming to her more and more frequently as of late. When she got dressed in the morning, when she was in the shower, and sometimes when she woke up. Joanie shook her head, as if to dislodge him from her mind. She was with Matthew. She was engaged to Matthew. She would lose her virginity to Matthew.
“No, not yes to that,” Joanie said with a nervous laugh. “Yes to Florida. I’ll come down with you for the summer.”
Matthew threw his bag back down onto the ground and let out a deep breath. “Right. I knew that.”
Forty-Five
The seamstress
Paris, 1958
“I revealed a secret to you, but you are keeping one from me.”
Rose froze. Diana was newly back from her adventure—they had not been able to recover the exact swath of rose point lace that was used on Grace Kelly’s wedding shoes, but not for lack of trying. They’d been out of the country for three weeks. Three glorious weeks where Robert visited the atelier nine times. They’d gone to the opera together, an informal supper, and a visit to the Petit Palais to see a new exhibit. He had walked her home from the atelier six times, and twice they walked through the Tuileries Garden on their way. Their hands had touched countless times, and on the last night that he walked her home, Rose had been sure that Robert was about to kiss her. Really kiss her. Not just an informal kiss on the cheek. They stood on her doorstep, face-to-face, and he took her hands in his.
“I’ve very much enjoyed getting to know you, Rose,” he’d said.
“And I, you.” She felt the weight of his hands in her own. They felt strong and assured.
“I am glad we had this time together.” Robert squeezed Rose’s hands. He brought them to his chest and kissed them gently.
“I, too, am glad.” Her heart felt so full, did his feel full as well? When Robert looked back up at her, she felt as though her heart might burst. This was the moment. She knew it in her skin. He was about to kiss her.
But how could she kiss a man who was promised to another? She simply could not. How could she start a relationship like this? Rose didn’t have much experience when it came to relationships, but she felt one thing was sure: it was not a good idea to start one when the man you loved was engaged to another woman.
“Thank you for walking me home.” Rose gently pulled her hands away from Robert’s. She knew that if she didn’t do it quickly, she would lose her nerve. She spun on her heel and put her key in the door. Rose turned back to look at Robert one more time. He smiled warmly at her, and she returned his smile with one of her own. “I do hope I will see you again soon.”
“You will,” he said, still smiling. “Good night, Rose.”
And now Diana was back in Paris. Rose knew that Robert would not be by the atelier to check in on her again. And she knew that he would be walking his fiancée through the Tuileries now, not her.
So, why did Diana say that Rose was hiding a secret? Had Diana’s friends seen her with Robert? Did Diana know about Rose’s inappropriate feelings towards her brother? She hoped not. The fate of the atelier depended on it.
“A secret?” Rose asked Diana. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Madame,” she said, her voice measured and low. “I know about Madame.”
“I don’t understand,” Rose whispered back. She took deep, even breaths, and tried to keep her nerves under control. Her hands betrayed her—they showed the slightest tremble, and Rose brought them under the table and into her lap to hide her guilt.
“I know that Madame is gone,” Diana said. “And not just for another one of her work trips. On my travels, I met with many vendors who work with Madame. Not one has seen her in months. Not one has even spoken to her. They all seem to think she went back to America. Back to the moving pictures.”
“America?” Rose said, stalling for time.
“You don’t have to lie to me,” Diana said. “I know that Madame went back to America. And what’s more? I don’t care. I love the work you are doing on my wedding dress. Your sketches are better than Madame’s. Your eye is younger, fresher. Your work is impeccable, and you catered to what I wanted. Madame would not have done that for me.”
Rose kept her face still, but she couldn’t help a tear from forming at the corner of her eye. She didn’t want to lie anymore. Not about the dress, not about Robert, not about any of it. But what to say?
“You don’t have to say anything,” Diana said. “I know that I am right.”
Rose looked up at Diana and their eyes met. Slow tears fell from Rose’s eyes and she quickly brushed them away.
“Your secret is safe with me. I have grown quite fond of you, and I would never do anything to bring you harm.”
“Thank you,” Rose said, and the moment the words escaped her mouth, she knew that they were as good as a confession.
“Now,” Diana said. “I have a proposition for you.”
Forty-Six
The bride
Brooklyn, 2020
“You want me to use a wedding tuxedo on a wedding dress?” Greta asked.
Rocky looked down at her hands. “It was a stupid idea,” she said under her breath.
“It’s a wonderful idea,” Joan said, bursting with pride. And then, to Greta: “Rocky would really like to honor her father on her special day. And since his wedding tuxedo was so perfectly preserved, we thought this
could be a great way to make him part of things. Perhaps we use part of the lapel on the cummerbund? Or the silk ribbon running down the pants leg could be a bow? But I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, of course.”
Greta eyed Rocky carefully. “You don’t like the dress?” the older woman asked, and Rocky froze. She stared back at Greta wide-eyed, unsure of how to respond. Could Greta see it on her face?
“Of course she likes the dress,” Joan answered for her daughter, as if she’d never heard something so crazy before in her life. “Who wouldn’t like this dress? We’re just trying to add another layer of meaning to it. And since we’re updating it anyway...”
“I’ve never done something like this before,” Greta said, partially to Joan, but mostly to herself. She picked up the tuxedo jacket, and turned it carefully in her hands.
“You can’t do it?” Joan said, her patience suddenly gone.
“Don’t rush me. I didn’t say can’t.” Greta quietly, thoughtfully, fingered the lines of the jacket, putting her fingernail into the seams to see how it was made. “Give me a minute to think.”
“We’ll make it work,” Joan said to Rocky, grasping her hands in her own. “It’s going to be great.”
Rocky smiled at her mother, but it wasn’t genuine. Rocky did not, in fact, think it was going to be great.
“Maybe I should just wear the tuxedo.” This wasn’t Rocky’s usual style, using a joke to get at the real truth of things—she liked to think of herself as a straight shooter. Someone who didn’t play games. But dealing with her mother was different. This wasn’t just anyone. And she couldn’t just speak her mind when it came to Joan.
Drew’s words rang out in Rocky’s ears: Tell your mother the truth.
She could hear her father, too: You can tell your mother anything, Kitten. She’ll understand.
“What on earth are you talking about?” A look of mild distaste crossed Joan’s face. She quickly caught herself, and tried to hide it, but Rocky had seen.
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