The Grace Kelly Dress Read online

  She walked over to her jewelry box, sitting on the shelf that he’d lovingly made for her, and retrieved her engagement ring. It sparkled brightly in her hands, two perfect carats that any woman would be proud to wear. As she walked over to Matthew, she saw how it caught the light so beautifully, what a spectacular piece it was. And she was giving it back to him.

  “You can’t possibly mean this,” Matthew said. “I thought we were happy.”

  “We were.”

  Matthew looked at the ring as Joanie placed it in his hand.

  “This is just cold feet,” he said, smiling at her. He pressed the ring back into her hand and kissed her forehead. “You hold on to this, and we’ll postpone the wedding. Indefinitely, if you want. I’ll marry you tomorrow. I’ll marry you a year from now. Five years from now.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Joanie said, tears welling up in her eyes. “It’s not cold feet. I’m so sorry, Matthew, but I’ve done something horrible. The worst thing I could do.”

  “Hey, it’s okay,” Matthew said, wiping the tears off her cheeks. “Whatever happened, it’s okay. We can fix it. You can tell me anything.”

  “I slept with someone else.”

  “What?”

  “Another guy. I slept with another guy.”

  He sat perfectly calm, next to her, brow furrowed. He didn’t yell. He didn’t scream. He didn’t react at all. He looked profoundly confused, as if disappointments weren’t the sort of thing that happened to people like him. And they didn’t. People like Matthew were the presidents of their fraternity. People like him became astronauts. People like him got married and had 2.4 children, a beautiful house in the suburbs.

  “Is this a joke? Or a prank or something? I don’t get it.”

  “It’s not a joke,” Joanie said, tears streaming from her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Are you telling me that you lost your virginity to someone else while you were engaged to me?”

  Joanie nodded her head yes. She was crying so violently now that she couldn’t speak.

  Matthew shook his head, as if he couldn’t process what she was telling him. He looked at her, and she could see it wash over his face. “How could you do this to me? To us?”

  “I don’t know. I’m so sorry.”

  “I was the perfect fiancé to you.”

  “I know. You are perfect. But that’s the thing. I’m not. I don’t even know who I am. What I’m going to be. I didn’t realize it, but I have so much growing up to do. I can’t possibly marry you like this.”

  “I suppose I can understand that you feel that you’re not ready to get married. We’re young. I get it. But why did you have to betray me in the worst possible way? How could you do this to me?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “I will never forgive you.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know how else to say it. I’m just so, so sorry.”

  He stood up from her bed. Without looking at her: “You’re making the biggest mistake of your life.” He walked across the room and paused at the door frame for an instant, and then turned to face Joanie. “You can’t come back, you know. When you change your mind, and you will change your mind, I will not be waiting for you.”

  “Please forgive me.”

  “I will never forgive you,” he said, and walked out the door.

  “I’m so sorry,” Joanie said again, but he was already well down the hallway and could no longer hear her.

  Fifty-Four

  The seamstress

  Paris, 1958

  “My daughter speaks very highly of you,” Madame Laurent said.

  Rose was on edge. Madame Laurent had returned to Paris and had requested a private viewing of Diana’s wedding dress. Rose felt good about the dress—she knew Diana loved the youthfulness that Rose had brought to it—but what would her mother think? Rose feared she might wonder where Madame’s touch was. Would Madame Laurent immediately know that the dress was designed solely by Rose? That she was not Madame Michel’s protégé, but rather, her replacement? A replacement that had not been chosen by the master herself. Rose hoped not. That was certainly not what the Laurents were paying for.

  This was the moment they’d been waiting for—the final step in the ruse. Would Madame Laurent like what she saw? Everything had led up to this.

  Julien sat at his desk, pretending to be busy, but Rose could feel his nerves all the way across the room. She only hoped that Madame Laurent couldn’t sense them, too; Rose hoped that she would be fooled.

  “Thank you,” Rose said. “I think very highly of your daughter. She is lovely.”

  “She is brash,” Madame Laurent said, with laughter in her voice, a sly smile playing on her lips. “Unbridled.”

  “She is ahead of her time,” Rose said.

  “That, my dear,” Madame Laurent said, “is a very nice way of putting things.” She turned to Rose with a smile on her face, and Rose felt her shoulders begin to loosen, her breath return to normal. There was nothing to be afraid of. The dress was impeccably made, and Madame Laurent had no reason in the world to be upset. But Rose couldn’t help but think of the worst thing that could happen: Madame Laurent canceling the dress.

  Madame Laurent turned back to the dress form. “Your workmanship is outstanding. I can see why Madame Michel trusts you.”

  She fingered the delicate rose point lace that covered the bodice, careful not to disturb it. She put her hands on either side of the dress form’s waist to embrace the cummerbund. It lay beautifully between the blouse and the skirt; all of Julien’s direction had been correct. Crafting the dress in four parts made the whole come together perfectly.

  Madame Laurent’s eyes traveled down to the bottom of the smooth skirt, where Rose had hand-sewn flowers that she’d painstakingly cut from the lace onto the silk faille. They created a delicate border traveling around the bottom of the dress. Rose loved the way it danced—the way the roses would move with the bride as she walked down the aisle.

  “The way you’ve cut these roses out from the rose point lace is exquisite,” Madame Laurent said.

  “Each rose was done by hand,” Julien said. “One at a time, by Rose herself.”

  “Roses made by Rose.” Madame Laurent looked at the embroidery. “It was meant to be. What a beautiful touch.”

  “Thank you,” Rose said, her hands folded carefully at her waist.

  “You’ve truly made this dress your own.”

  Rose loved the dress—she’d tried it on herself more times than she’d cared to admit, more times than she’d even confessed to Julien—but she knew it belonged to Diana. She knew that she would soon give it over to her bride, just like she’d done every other wedding dress she’d worked on. This one felt different, though, because she’d designed Diana’s dress herself. Had worked on each individual piece of it herself.

  “Every great designer has a signature, and I think you’ve found yours. Madame Michel has certainly chosen her protégé wisely.”

  “Thank you,” Rose said, looking down at her feet.

  “Clients are just mad about our Rose,” Julien said, slowly rising from his desk. He walked over to Rose and put his arm around her shoulders. “She is a genius. And she has created something very special for your daughter.”

  “I agree,” Madame Laurent said. “I only wish Madame Michel were here to see it.”

  “She has been checking in with us in between her travels,” Julien said. “In fact, she was just here the day before you arrived. She gave her seal of approval on this final design. But then she left for Tangiers just before you came, unfortunately.”

  “That is unfortunate,” Madame Laurent said, looking directly into Julien’s eyes. “I’m sure you’re aware that there are whispers.”

  “Whispers?”

  “About where Madame really is,” Madame Laurent said, as i
f it were the most natural thing in the world. “People are saying that she’s abandoned her atelier and moved back to America.”

  “Why, that’s just ridiculous. I can assure you, she did not go to America.”

  Rose felt her back getting hot. Yes, what Julien said was the truth: Madame Michel was not in America. But the actual truth was far worse. And Rose felt like she wanted to crawl out of her skin, out of the office, and out of the atelier.

  “Well, then,” Madame Laurent said, “I suppose it was just a silly rumor, then.”

  She and Julien both laughed. Silly rumors. Yes. There were quite a lot of them going around town.

  As Rose looked at Madame Laurent, she tried to find Robert’s face in hers. He’d inherited his deep smile from her—when she laughed, Rose was buoyed, as if she felt the happiness she projected inside of her own chest. And the hair. They had the same shade of dark blond hair, the same thickness and unruliness. Madame Laurent had hers up in a chignon.

  “Thank you for being so kind to my Diana in my absence,” Madame Laurent said, and clasped Rose’s hands in her own. She felt the weight of Madame Laurent’s ring—an enormous ruby surrounded by small diamonds. Rose hoped that her hands weren’t too hot. She did not want to embarrass herself in front of a lady like Madame Laurent.

  “It is my pleasure,” Rose said back. “I adore your daughter.”

  “It has been difficult for her these past few months, with my husband and me traveling. I have been comforted in the knowledge that she was taken care of by you.”

  “She is not just a client,” Rose said to Madame Laurent. “She has come to be a friend.”

  Rose could feel Julien’s eyes on her, but she refused to turn his way. What she was saying was the truth. She knew that she wasn’t supposed to fall for her, wasn’t supposed to become her friend, but Rose simply could not help herself. Diana had become a friend. She had shared confidences, and Rose felt that Diana truly cared for her, reciprocated her feelings.

  Madame Laurent eyed Rose slowly, with an expression that Rose could not quite decipher. Eyes narrowed, head slightly tilted. And then, quickly finding herself: “The dress is perfect. I have never seen a more beautiful wedding gown in my life.”

  “I created a dress that I, myself, would be proud to wear.”

  “That’s sweet of you to say,” Madame Laurent said. She smiled at Rose, and for a fleeting moment, Rose imagined what it would be like to have her as a mother-in-law. Afternoon tea, just the two of them, sprawling family dinners, a confidante to talk to. So many of her brides confessed that they hated their fiancés’ mothers, but she knew that Robert’s fiancée was lucky. Madame Laurent was a special woman. Kindhearted and generous. Rose imagined herself wearing the dress, getting ready to walk down the aisle with Robert. Happiness flooded her heart.

  But then she thought of what would really happen: Madame Laurent would never accept a poor, orphaned seamstress as her daughter-in-law. She would expect her son to marry someone of the same social standing as the Laurents, not the help. Rose’s dream of marrying Robert was just that: a mere dream. It could never become a reality. Rose hung her head and chastised herself for dreaming so big.

  Julien made an appointment for Diana’s final fitting, and then walked Madame Laurent out of the atelier. They didn’t speak much that afternoon, and Rose knew that she should not have told Madame Laurent that Diana was her friend. But it was the truth. Diana wouldn’t break her heart, because Rose knew she felt the same way about her.

  It was only later, when Rose was in bed, unable to sleep that night, that she realized how she misspoke: all that talk about roses for Rose. How she had made the dress her own. How she’d created the dress that she would be proud to wear herself. Nonsense, all of it. Madame Laurent may have been polite in response, but Rose had forgotten herself. Had forgotten her place. She was merely the hired help. The dress was Diana’s. It did not belong to her.

  Fifty-Five

  The bride

  Brooklyn, 2020

  “I think I have to say goodbye to you.”

  Rocky couldn’t be sure if she’d said the words aloud, or just in her head. She felt unsettled, unmoored, since the fight with her mother. Grand-mère repeatedly insisted that Rocky call her mother, that the only way out was through, but Rocky hadn’t yet gotten the courage to do it. She couldn’t have another tough conversation that left her mother in tears. She just couldn’t.

  Rocky closed her eyes as she sat still on the stone bench across from her father’s gravestone. She took a deep breath in, two, three, four, and out, two, three, four.

  When she opened her eyes, she visualized her father sitting next to her: handsome in the tailored suit he wore to work each day, his eyes bright and not yet crinkled with age; he would never get old enough for them to crinkle with age. He wore the infectious smile that was his trademark. Whenever people spoke of her father, they always spoke of his ever-present smile.

  It was the smile that had been there for her when she broke her leg at four years old, jumping off the couch. It was the smile that had been there for her when she was afraid to walk into the elementary school building on the first day of kindergarten. Amanda had rushed ahead, eager to see her school friends after the long summer break, but her father stayed by her side, waiting until Rocky was ready to walk in by herself. It was the smile that had been there for her when she learned how to swim, how to ride a bike, how to fly a kite. And now she had to let go.

  I don’t think that’s true, Kitten, she imagined her father saying to her.

  “I’ve made a mess of things with Mom. I’ve been awful to her, and all she wants to do is help. I have no idea how to be close to her, and it’s because I’m holding on to you.”

  Is that really the problem?

  Rocky looked down at her feet. She kicked the dirt with her motorcycle boot, and watched as it formed a tiny cloud before settling back down onto the ground again.

  “Isn’t it?”

  I’m a part of you, Kitten, he said. And you’re a part of me. I’m always going to be there. Always going to be in your heart. You don’t have to let go of me just to get closer to her. Love makes us stronger, bigger. The heart expands with love. There isn’t a finite amount.

  Rocky wiped a tear from her eye. Her father was right. She knew what she had to do.

  Fifty-Six

  The mother of the bride, as a bride herself

  Long Island, 1982

  “Why don’t you come with me to the beach club today?” her mother suggested. “It’s too hot to go into the city.”

  “I think I’ll just stay home today,” Joanie told Birdie. “Rest up a bit. I have a migraine.”

  “You don’t get migraines,” Birdie said knowingly.

  “My head...”

  “I’m glad you decided to move back home for the summer.”

  “Me too.”

  “There were so many parties at the end of the semester. And then final exams. And...the engagement. Rest is a good idea. What could be more relaxing than a day at the beach?”

  “I’m just too tired,” Joanie said. “I’m sorry.” She could barely look up to meet her mother’s eyes. She felt such profound shame over what she had done; she was unsure if she’d ever be able to look her mother in the eyes again.

  “You know, you look like you could use a little sunshine and salt water,” Birdie said. “Whenever I feel worn out, just the feel of the sand between my toes can bring me back to life.”

  Joanie burst into tears. She couldn’t lie to her mother any longer.

  “Oh, honey,” her mother said. “If you really don’t want to go, you don’t have to. I just thought you could use some fresh air after all the time you’ve been spending in the city.”

  “It’s not that,” Joanie said, the truth spilling out of her like a fountain. “I’ve made a huge mess out of everything.”

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nbsp; Her mother walked over and enveloped her daughter in a warm hug. She held on tightly, rubbing her daughter’s back. “Whatever has been done can be undone.”

  “It can’t. I don’t know what to do,” Joanie said through her tears. “I don’t even know who I am.”

  “I know who you are,” her mother said. “You are my daughter. You are the love of my life, and your father’s life, too. You are smart and beautiful and kind. Being your mother has been the greatest source of pride in my life.”

  “I’ve made so many mistakes.” Joanie couldn’t stop the tears from falling. It felt as if they might never stop. Her chest heaved as her mother held her close.

  “Nothing is irrevocable,” her mother said, kissing the top of her head.

  “Isn’t it?” Joanie asked. If only you knew what I did, Joanie thought. You might not feel the same.

  “I will love you no matter what,” her mother said. “No matter what.”

  “If you knew what I did...”

  “No matter what,” her mother said, loosening her grip. She held Joanie by her arms and wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “I broke off our engagement.”

  “I know, honey.”

  The tears came full force, once again. “But you don’t know why. I slept with someone, Mom. Another guy. It’s horrible, I know. But I was so upset about Michele, about Mel, and it’s like I wasn’t even myself.”

  “Oh, honey,” her mother said, grabbing her in for another hug. “My goodness. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

  “It didn’t even mean anything.”

  “Sex can be complicated,” her mother said. “But it’s just sex.”

  “That’s so French of you,” Joanie said, her tears giving way to laughter. “What sort of mother would say that to her daughter?”

  “Oh, I just mean that you don’t have to beat yourself up about it. I’m sure you wanted it to be different, but it wasn’t, and the next time will be different. Hopefully.”