“Signorina?”
“Who is it?” I call.
“The seamstress, and me, obviously,” Henna Shaikh says brusquely.
I throw open the door and Henna hurries inside, followed by the seamstress, a young-dark-haired girl, who is carrying my wedding dress in an extralong garment bag folded twice over her arm like a limp mink. It is bigger that she is. She waits patiently while Henna bustles around, setting things to rights that weren’t out of place to begin with.
Henna finally stops moving and eyes me critically. “Claire? Are you all right? You’re pale. You aren’t coming down with something, are you?”
“No, I’m fine. I promise. I sat down for two seconds while Jack went to talk to his mom and fell asleep.”
“Good, you need your rest. So? What do you think? Isn’t the island gorgeous? I told you.”
Her enthusiasm is, as always, contagious, and I feel myself start to relax. “It is. It’s a shame it’s going to rain all weekend.”
“With any luck, the storms won’t be too terrible. They come in waves, anyway, so there should be breaks in the rain. If not, that’s why we have umbrellas. I laid in extra, just in case, rain boots and jackets, too.”
“You think of everything. Talk to me. What’s on my plate?”
Henna flips open her omnipresent planner. “We need to get this last fitting out of the way. I need to run you both through the rehearsal, and of course, there’s the bruncheon tomorrow morning.” Her eyes drift to my throat. “The pearls look divine on you. I knew they would.”
“You knew Jack was gifting me his great-grandmother’s pearls?”
“They’re a family heirloom. Passed from Eliza to May to Ana and now you. Ana wore them for a time, but they’re not really her style. Jack asked Ana’s permission, and she consulted me, of course.”
Of course, she had. There is nothing Henna doesn’t participate in when it comes to Ana Compton. She plans everything for the woman. They are attached at the hip. I should be honored to have Henna loaned to me. Scratch that, I am honored. Henna has planned the wedding for us with ease. I’ve only had to say yes, or no, though I’ve said yes much more. She has exquisite taste, and the Compton checkbook to match.
Henna is wearing a stunning gray wrap dress with tall black boots, her black hair gleaming. She always looks so professional, so damn stylish and put together. I think of my Converse under the bed, wondering. Should I do a wardrobe update once Jack and I are official? I bet Henna would die of happiness if I asked. I’ve upgraded almost everything else about myself. I’ve taken out most of my piercings and had my ill-advised teenage tattoos removed. Why do I resist this last bit of polish? The part that is temporary, changeable, hell, seasonal? I glance down at my torn jeans and decide, yes, I should put in a bit more effort. Jack would like it.
“Claire? Everything okay?”
“Yes, completely. Sorry. Zoned out there for a moment. I hadn’t realized Ana wore them, too. Wow. Four generations of Compton women.”
“Take good care of them. You need to wear pearls regularly. Your skin’s oils will keep them lustrous. They will look lovely with your dress, for starters.”
I’m a little squicked out about the idea of four generations of DNA hanging around my neck, but I smile and nod agreeably.
The seamstress pulls the dress out of the storage bag. My beautiful dress. At the sight of it, a confection of ivory, satin, and tulle, as romantic as any fairy tale, my heart soars.
In it, I feel like Cinderella at the ball. The top is simple ivory, the front and back attaching at my collarbones. I’m not the type for a strapless dress. The skirt is the palest pink, like the blushing inside of a shell. The layers look like petals of a rose, layering one on top of the other, with so much tulle it’s almost stiff and holds me upright. It is demure and elegant, the dress of a fairy-tale princess, the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
I’ve been sketching versions of my wedding dress since I was a child, the drawings getting more sophisticated and precise the older I got. After Jack proposed, I dug out those old drawings from the trunk of precious things that lived in my attic. I lost an entire afternoon leafing through the sketchbooks. So many happy memories were tied up in those dreams. Happy memories, and tragic ones. My father won’t be here to walk me down the aisle, and that stings deeply.
I started work right away on designing my more modern, adult version of the gown, the one I’m going to wear for the ceremony. My sister, Harper, found a woman to make it to my specs, and it’s utterly perfect. I can’t wait to see Jack’s face when he sees the dress. I know he’ll love it. I’ve managed to keep everything about it secret from him.
The seamstress holds the dress open and I duck into it, head and shoulders first. She slides the satin down my body, settles it over my hips, then begins in on the tiny buttons that line the back.
I look at myself in the mirror, the transformation from girl to woman, bride to wife, hitting me. I finger the pearls around my neck, so happy I chose the bateau neckline for the dress. The pearls, nestled against my throat, complete it perfectly. The next time I put on this dress, it will be to walk down the aisle to marry Jack.
Tickled with how I look, I twist and swirl, and as the skirt moves, I hear twin gasps from behind me.
“What is that?” Henna says, and there is horror in her voice.
“What’s what?” I look over my shoulder, trying to see, but by the look on Henna’s face, I know it’s bad.
“Hold still,” Henna commands, and I freeze in place. I feel them pulling at the layers of satin and tulle, the seamstress letting out little mewling gasps like a blind kitten removed from her mother’s side for the first time.
“What is it, Henna?” I twist my neck around and catch a glimpse of something red. That’s not right, my mind helpfully provides. There isn’t anything red in my dress.
“Oh no, my foot must still be bleeding. I stepped on some glass. Is it ruined? Can we get it out?”
“Take it off,” Henna demands. The seamstress unbuttons the few she’s finished, and I step out of the dress.
Henna has a hand to her mouth. She has gone quite pale. “Oh, Claire. No, this isn’t from your foot. I am so sorry. I don’t know what happened. Maybe something leaked in the storage bag?”
She finally lets me see.
There is a wide slash of what looks like dark crimson paint across the back interior fold of my dress.
My heart is hammering, trying to burst from my chest. We lay the dress on the bed reverently, the three of us gentling the fabric like it’s a spooked horse. Pieces of the red fall off onto my hand.
The stain is not paint. It’s putting off a disgusting, musty odor, and bits flake off onto the floor.