Time of My Life_ A Novel - Allison Winn Scotch [72]
“Thanks again for coming, you guys,” I say for the tenth time that afternoon. Vivian had tried to insert herself into the plans, but I wouldn’t have it. Somehow it was as if now that I’d committed to marrying Jack, she was willing to embrace me as her own, and in doing so, I was expected to forgive all of her previous affronts and sins. And though I tried to do so in many ways—answering her daily phone calls, humoring her grotesque wedding plans—mostly, I did this for Jack or, more honestly, mostly I did this so that Jack and I could move forward rather than explode in the way that we did the last time around. But regardless, while I greatly understood the irony that now I had two women who longed to be my mother, neither of them was welcome to accompany me in search of the perfect gown. In fact, I’d shuttered any last thought of my own mom out of my mind; thinking of her on a day such as today gave her more weight than she deserved.
“Let’s try on a veil,” suggests Deidre, the polished brunette salesgirl. “That will help complete the look.”
Ainsley and I nod, as she darts to the back, and as Meg flips listlessly through a look book.
“Meg, you okay, sweetie?” I hike up the gown and step down from the pedestal.
“Fine,” she nods, then arranges her face into what I suppose is a smile, though she shows no teeth, nor any happiness. “You look beautiful, J, just beautiful.”
I sit on the ivory love seat next to her. My gown poufs on both sides of me.
“You sure?” Is she pregnant? Is this when it happens again? I try to shake a memory free, but nothing comes. The truth is that seven years ago, I was so lost in the haze of mending my wounds from my breakup with Jack and falling into the heady swirl of love with Henry that I lost track of Meg. We would meet for the occasional drink and swap e-mails peppered with relevant details of our lives, but time got away from me, and in fairness, I suppose from her, too. And so, I have no recollection of the exact date she lost her second baby. I knew back then, but it isn’t permanently embedded in me the way that, as her closest friend, it certainly should have been.
“I’m fine,” Meg says, then flaps her hands in front of her face, as if that can stop an onslaught of tears. “I just got my period this morning, that’s all.”
“Oh, Meg.” I pull her into me, and the dress crinkles.
She shakes her head and moves back. “No, no, come on, this is a big day for you. I don’t want to ruin it. I’ve waited twenty-seven years to go wedding dress shopping with you!” She grins compassionately, selflessly, and I can see the truth within it.
I squeeze her hand, just as Deidre returns, holding forth a fluttering floor-length veil. I step back on to the pedestal, and she expertly combs it into the crest of my neck.
“Oooh,” Ainsley claps. “It’s perfect.”
“It is,” Meg says. “You look exactly how I’d pictured you would when you walk down the aisle.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Really,” they both say simultaneously, as Deidre nods her elegant head behind them with vigor.
For my wedding to Henry, I’d dress shopped alone. Not intentionally but because I stumbled upon what would become my wedding gown in a vintage store in Sag Harbor where Henry and I were weekending. He had gone to the farmers’ market two streets over—this was back when he still had the time to grill—and I ambled through the quaint streets, in and out of kitschy shops that sold tackle and kites and handmade blankets. Eventually, I wandered into Rock of Ages, and as I filtered through the racks, I uncovered a simple, timeless sheath. I ducked behind the Asian divider that served as a dressing area, slid it over my head, and emerged to size myself up in the mirror.
It was, as Ainsley and Meg said today, perfect. The spaghetti straps curved against my collarbone, and the silk clung to my breasts and glided over my stomach. I looked at myself and knew, just knew, as they say. It was, in retrospect, one of the last things I had a