Celeste laughed. “It’s unique, I’ll agree. If I may suggest a way to tackle this, let’s find your dress for Saturday first. Then we can play a little bit for your Friday-night outfit. Do you have a budget?”
Hannah named a figure, and Celeste nodded. “Excellent. We can work with that. Now, I have a basic black for you to try, but I want to show you a couple of others too, dresses that are perfect for a summer lakeside wedding. The styles are quite different, one classic, one more romantic, but I think they’ll look fabulous on you. If you’ll follow me?”
Celeste led her into a large showroom with a dozen or so racks. “For the sake of space, we display one of each item. Let me show you what I have in mind for you.”
She removed a simple black fit-and-flare style dress from the rack. It was similar to one Hannah had given to Goodwill during the purge of her belongings following the funerals. Hannah held it up against her and turned toward one of the full-length mirrors in the shop. “That should do fine.”
“It’s totally appropriate, but…” Celeste pursed her lips and studied Hannah for a long moment before she nodded. “That dress reminds me of a column I’m writing for our local historical society. Are you familiar with the mourning practices of the Victorian age, Hannah?”
Hannah drew back. Now, that was a question out of left field. “Um, not really, no.”
“I know that it is perfectly acceptable to wear black to weddings these days, but I’ll admit to being a little old-fashioned about it. I’m originally from the South, and I still won’t wear white shoes before Easter or after Labor Day. I became interested in the custom of wearing black for mourning from books I read. Historical romance novels set in that era.” Smiling sheepishly, she added, “They’re a guilty pleasure of mine.”
“Personally, I like the Scottish Highlander stories,” Hannah replied. The two women shared an understanding smile.
“Anyway,” Celeste continued, “I did some research into mourning fashion for my column. In Victorian times, women were considered to be vessels of grief, and as such, they had strict etiquette rules to follow after the loss of a family member. Different rules for the mourning of a spouse, children, a parent, a cousin, or an aunt or uncle. The custom got a kick start after Queen Victoria’s beloved Prince Albert died.”
“I recall that she mourned him until she died.”
“She did. Theirs was a true, tragic love story. But back to fashion. Family members and only family members wore black—and it had to be a dull black, by the way. Nothing shiny or pretty or rich like this little black dress. I found it interesting that the color of full mourning was seen to shield wearers from society, allowing them time to grieve and come to terms with loss.”
“What does come to terms mean?” Hannah asked, bitterness in her tone. “Forgetting? Getting used to it?”
“Oh, heavens, no. If I may speak from a personal perspective here for a moment, I’ve lived a long time. I’ve lost many loved ones, and I’ve never gotten used to it. I hope I never do. When someone I love passes, it rips my heart in two. As well it should. The death of a loved one needs to matter. You need to bleed. That emotion honors both you and your loved one, and the relationship that you shared.”
Hannah considered it. Celeste had a point. A good point. “That’s right. That’s exactly right. No one ever says that.”
“Well, some people can’t think when they’re engulfed in emotion. And if it’s a new experience, that’s understandable, but the truth is that one should be proud of one’s scar tissue. It’s a testament to life. If one is blessed, one will reach the end of one’s life bearing the scars of many loves and losses.”
“That’s a lot of pain.”
“And joy. Don’t forget the joy. Love brings joy. One tends to appreciate joy more deeply when one has lived through intense pain.”
Hannah knew the truth of that from her studies and professional practice. She had yet to experience it herself.
Celeste clicked her tongue. “Oh, dear. I’ve gone off on one of my flights of fancy again. I tend to do that. But back to my historical society column—”
Or perhaps, getting on with selling me a dress?
“—in the Victorian Age, full mourning eventually gave way to half mourning, and women put away their black for grays, dark blue, and…” She shot Hannah a significant look. Then she selected a second gown from the rack—an off-the-shoulder silk sheath dress. “Purples.”
Hannah’s heart gave a little lurch of yearning as Celeste gave the purple dress a fluff.
“The black is fine, but I hope you will consider this dress. The color compliments your beautiful eyes. A dear friend of mine has violet-blue eyes similar to yours—Sarah Murphy.”
“The cookie lady,” Hannah murmured.
Celeste laughed. “Cookie, cakes, and bread. She’s quite the temptress. You’ll likely meet her at the wedding.”
“Hmm.” Hannah’s gaze remained locked on the dress. Purple. A color. A dark color, but still a color. It’s not red or blue or white, though.
What was it Celeste had called it? Half mourning? Silly term. Like being half pregnant.
And yet, no way would she choose something, say, yellow, to wear. Yellow used to be her favorite color, but it was way too bright to suit her now. Hannah studied the purple dress. The style was something she’d have chosen once upon a time. “It’s pretty.”
“Feel the fabric. It’s luxurious.”
Hannah pursed her lips. Her wardrobe now consisted of jeans, shorts, T-shirts, and a single cotton pullover dress. When was the last time she had worn silk?
When was the last time she’d worn color?
She knew the answer to that question. She’d worn bright pink to the girls’ funeral, but that was the last time she’d donned any sort of color. Three years ago, when she left what had been her home, she’d kept only a handful of items from that life. She bought new clothes as she needed them, and while she hadn’t consciously decided to wear only black, that’s all she bought.
What was it Celeste had said? Did black shield mourners from society? That wasn’t really how Hannah had looked at it. Black wasn’t a shield. It’s the color you get when you combine the girls’ favorite pink and her favorite yellow and the orange pumpkins they carried to collect treats on Halloween and the red dresses they wore to church on Christmas Eve. Add in the bright white of the snow where they made snow angels, and the green of grass stains on their knees, and the brilliant blue of the backyard swimming pool where the girls played every chance they got, and purple Easter egg dye on the kitchen table. The color you got when you mixed all those colors together—all the colors of life—and poured them into a grave? Black.
Black wasn’t a shield. It was all she had left of life.
“It’s a lovely dress, but—”
“My other suggestion for you is this,” Celeste interrupted. She crossed to another rack of dresses and pulled out a chiffon froth of spring. A print of yellow roses against green leaves. It was wispy and romantic, and nothing Hannah would have selected to try, even in her other life, back when she’d worn yellow.