Between Sisters - Kristin Hannah [66]
The Ralph Lauren gown floated over her shoulders like a cloud and fell down her nearly naked body. From the neck down, she looked like Kim Basinger in L.A. Confidential.
“Come on, honey. Let's see,” Risa said.
She opened the door and stepped into the dressing area.
There was a gasp at her entrance. Then Risa shouted, “Shoes!” and ran off.
Meg stood there, holding an armful of dresses. Her lips parted in a soft sigh.
Claire couldn't help smiling. At the same time, she had the oddest urge to cry. “That Ralph Lauren is no slouch. Of course, my car cost less than this dress.” She stepped up onto the platform and looked at herself in the mirror. No wonder Meghann had hated the gowns this morning.
Risa came back, brandishing a pair of strappy high-heeled sandals.
Claire laughed. “Who do you think I am—Carrie Bradshaw? My nose would bleed if I wore heels that high. Not to mention the fact that I'd break a hip when I fell.”
“Hush. Put them on.”
Claire did as she was told, then stood very still. Every breath threatened to send her toppling off the block.
“Aagh. Your mother, she did not teach you to stand in heels. A crime. I get you pumps.” Her mouth twisted slightly at the last word.
When Risa disappeared, Meghann laughed. “The only thing Mama taught us was how to walk in shoes you'd outgrown.”
“She always had a new pair.”
“Funny thing.”
A look passed between them, a moment of perfect understanding; when it passed, and they were back in ordinary time, Claire felt a tug of regret.
“I think the fabric is too flimsy, don't you?” Claire said. Her job was to find a flaw in each dress, a reason her sister shouldn't spend this much money.
Meghann frowned. “Too flimsy? You look gorgeous.”
“It hangs on every bulge. I'd have to wear undergarments made by Boeing.”
“Claire. It's a size ten. One more comment like that and you'll qualify for the Hollywood Wives Eating Disorder League.”
After that, Claire tried on a succession of dresses, each one more beautiful than the last. She felt like a princess, and it didn't ruin the day at all that she had to decline each one. She could always find one tiny thing that made the dress less than perfect. The sleeves are too short, too wide, too ruffled. . . . The neckline is too sweet, too sexy, too traditional. . . . The feel of this one isn't right.
She could tell that Meghann was getting frustrated. She kept delivering armfuls of gowns. “Here, try these,” she said every time. Meg and patience had never known each other well.
Risa had long ago gone on to other customers.
Finally, Claire came to the last dress of the day. Meghann had chosen it. An elegant white gown with a heavily beaded tank bodice and a flowing taffeta silk skirt.
Claire unhooked her bra and stepped into the dress. She was still fastening the back as she stepped out of the dressing room.
Meghann was completely silent.
Claire frowned. She heard Risa in another part of the store, chattering loudly to another customer.
Claire looked at her sister. “You're uncharacteristically quiet. Should I begin the Heimlich?”
“Look.”
Claire lifted the heavy skirt off the ground and stepped up onto the platform. Slowly, she faced the trifold mirror.
The woman who stared back at her wasn't Claire Cavenaugh. No. This woman hadn't partied her way out of a state college and decided that cosmetology was a viable career choice, only to quit attending those classes as well . . . she hadn't borne a child out of wedlock because her lover refused to marry her . . . and she certainly didn't manage a campground that pretended it was a resort.
This woman arrived in limousines and drank champagne from fluted glasses. She slept on high-thread-count sheets and always had a current passport.
This was the woman she could have been, if she'd gone to college in New York and done graduate work in Paris. Maybe it was the woman she could still become.
How could a dress highlight everything that