The Grace Kelly Dress Read online

  Rose didn’t know how to respond. She’d given every ounce of her being to Robert. When she worked on the dress for Diana, she was really putting all of her love into it. Everything she felt for Robert was in that dress. And now they both were gone. The dress. And the man.

  “Now, let’s go forget our problems at the cinema,” Julien said. He put his arm around Rose’s shoulders, and Charles put his arm around the other side as they approached the box office.

  After the movie, Julien and Charles saw Rose home. She walked into the boarding house and found her next-door neighbor Marion waiting for her in the entryway. She pointed to a vase filled with red roses. “Another one,” she said, and handed Rose the card.

  But Rose didn’t need the card to know who the roses were from. Each card was the same: “Roses for my Rose. I need to see you.”

  Rose picked a flower out of the vase and brought it to her face. Her fingertips felt the soft skin of its petals. It never ceased to amaze her how smooth the rose’s petals could be, how sharp its thorns. She took a deep breath, letting the beautiful fragrance fill her body. She closed her eyes and thought of Robert. What was he doing at that moment? Was he with his fiancée? Did his heart ache for her as her heart ached for him?

  She opened her eyes and threw the flowers in the trash.

  Sixty-Seven

  The bride

  Brooklyn, 2020

  The number eight is said to signify resurrection and regeneration. Some people say the number eight means that an angel is communicating with you, and others say it stands for achievement and success in life.

  Some tattoos were easy. Rocky’s second tattoo, angel wings to commemorate her father, had been an easy one. Top of her right foot. Her third tattoo, the zip code of Stanford, had been hard. (What if she moved off campus to another zip code?) Right ankle.

  Some were ill-advised: the small Google logo that she got on her left shoulder after accepting the job right out of college. That one was covered up by tattoo number five: a drawing of the Brooklyn Bridge. Her home.

  There were tattoos she treasured most: the infinity symbol, her first, right hip. The logo of her company—a small black cat for Kitten Games—etched on the inside of her right wrist. Drew’s name on the inside of her right arm. Easy.

  Her eighth tattoo was hard. How do you mark an occasion like your wedding? It seemed so important, so momentous. There were so many components to wedding planning, so much tension to work through.

  Rocky had considered doing the date of her wedding. But after seeing Greta’s tattoo, there was no way she’d ever mark her body with numbers again. She had considered doing her initials alongside Drew’s, but that seemed too similar to the tattoo of Drew’s name she’d gotten on the day they moved in together—he had a matching one on his own arm. She wanted something different, something that was meaningful.

  “You want me to tattoo a duck?” Jimmy, Rocky’s favorite tattoo artist, asked now.

  “It’s a wild goose, actually,” Rocky said. “It’s a Korean wedding tradition.”

  “I thought he was Jewish?” Jimmy went over the sketch with his fingers, getting a feel for the design.

  “He was born in South Korea. He was adopted by a Jewish family.”

  “So, what’s with the ducks?” Jimmy readied his instruments.

  “They’re wild geese,” Rocky repeated. “Not ducks. It’s traditional that before the wedding, the groom gifts the bride’s mother a wild goose.”

  “To eat?”

  “No,” Rocky said. “To symbolize harmony and structure. Geese mate for life.”

  “Man, that’s beautiful,” Jimmy said, and stopped what he was doing for a brief moment. “So, this one’s for Drew?”

  “It’s for Drew. It’s for the birth mother he never got the chance to meet. It’s for my mother, too.”

  “So, I guess that means we won’t be doing another cover-up job in a few years, huh?”

  “Nope.” Rocky took off her jacket. The tattoo would sit at the nape of her neck.

  “Then, let’s get started.” He laid the paper over Rocky’s skin and paused. “Isn’t this going to show when you wear your wedding dress?”

  “Yes,” Rocky said, relaxing herself into a comfortable position. Seven tattoos in, she knew that you needed to keep yourself still and quiet while the artist did his work.

  “That’s the idea.”

  Sixty-Eight

  The mother of the bride, as a bride herself

  Long Island, 1982

  A pall had been cast over the entire week.

  The start of the semester had been difficult—stops and starts, characterized by deep bouts of sadness, but this week was worse than anything that had come before. And there had been a lot.

  First, it had been the Theta house Back to School Party, when she bumped into Matthew, still the president of his fraternity. Joanie tried to say hello, as she imagined a mature adult might, but Matthew simply looked at her and acted as if he’d never seen her before. This was a man she’d been engaged to, a man she’d promised her life to, and there he was, pretending they’d never once before met. Joanie felt like she’d been knocked off her feet.

  Then, in Psych 305: she walked into the lecture hall, excited to see old friends gathered together, but Matthew’s friends acted like they didn’t know her. No one to sit with, she was banished to the back of the lecture hall where she had trouble hearing the professor over the din of the students who were only there to socialize, and not to actually learn from the class.

  And finally, at the Student Union: when she’d walked in to see Matthew cozied up in a booth with one of her sorority sisters. Apparently, they were already an item.

  But this weekend she would go home. It felt only right, to be home in her mother’s house, after something so tragic had happened. On Monday, Grace Kelly had been in a car accident, and died the following day. Joanie would be home on Long Island in time to watch the televised memorial service, laying to rest the legend, along with the rest of the world.

  Her mother had been distraught all week. Grace Kelly had been such a large part of her life—wearing a wedding dress based on Princess Grace’s iconic gown had changed her life irrevocably.

  The dress hadn’t yet changed Joanie’s life, but it would one day. Five years after her broken engagement, Joanie would find herself engaged once again. Six years after her broken engagement, she would wear the dress.

  It would not be love at first sight. It would not be hate at first sight. It would be tentative and slow. She would fall in love gradually. She would fall in love not based on what he looked like, or who he was, or what family he came from, but the sum of all of those things, or perhaps none of them at all. It would be because he was handsome and kind and smart. It would be because he came from a lovely family and he wanted the sort of family life that Joanie wanted, too. It would be a love based on mutual respect and understanding. It would be because he was a good man, the sort of man you could count on, and he would see the same things in her. It would be because she was ready for it. They would agree on where to get the best bagels in the city, they would disagree on whether milk chocolate or white chocolate was better, and they would compromise on all the rest.

  It would not be love at first sight like what her mother had experienced. It would not be hate at first sight, like what her own daughter would eventually experience. It would simply be love. And it would be all her own.

  Joanie would have the big wedding she’d always dreamed of. (And she would get the fairy-tale Princess Diana sleeves she’d always wanted, too.) And on her wedding day, her mother would remind her: “To wear a custom-designed Madame Michel wedding dress is to guarantee a happy marriage.” And it would.

  * * *

  It was a beautiful day in Monaco for the funeral. How could the weather be so lovely when the day was so awful? Joanie wondered. It didn’t s
eem fair. Didn’t seem right.

  Joanie and her mother were perched on the couch, watching the funeral procession. When Prince Rainier appeared, flanked by his children, Birdie burst out crying. Joanie wasn’t far behind. They held hands as they watched, supporting each other through their sadness, entwined.

  “Those poor children,” Birdie said, her eyes not leaving the television screen.

  “I can’t imagine losing you,” Joanie said, glued to what was unfolding. “I can’t imagine what Stephanie must be feeling right now.”

  “All fairy tales come to an end,” Birdie said through tearful eyes.

  “Why do they have to?” Joanie wondered out loud.

  “Because fairy tales aren’t real.”

  “You’re right,” Joanie said. “Oh, but they’re beautiful to think about, aren’t they?”

  “Princess Grace herself said, ‘The idea of my life as a fairy tale is itself a fairy tale,’” Birdie said. She looked over at her daughter, still transfixed by the images on the screen. “In time you will find something real, something true.”

  And Joanie would. She just didn’t know it yet.

  Sixty-Nine

  The seamstress

  Paris, 1958

  “But, Mademoiselle,” the man said, “that would be impossible.”

  “Then you don’t have to cancel the order,” Rose reasoned. “Just stop sending the flowers.”

  “I cannot,” the florist said, his hands up, as if in surrender. “Monsieur Laurent has placed a standing order. I must comply with his wishes.”

  “I don’t want the roses,” Rose said, slowly, articulating each word, and the florist looked confused. After all, what woman would not want dozens of lush red roses? Rose didn’t know how to get through to him. How could she explain to this man that her heart was broken, that she needed to forget about Robert, that the roses only served to remind her of him, over and over again?

  “I cannot stop sending the roses until Monsieur Laurent tells me to stop. The Laurents are good customers of mine. I could not possibly risk making them angry.”

  This was something Rose could understand. After all, hadn’t she been in a similar position? The atelier was dying, and Rose would do anything to keep it afloat. So, how could she fault the florist, a man who, like her, simply wanted to protect his business? She, too, had been careful to keep the Laurents happy for the sake of her business.

  Rose offered an alternative: “You don’t have to cancel the order. What if you simply sent the roses somewhere else? Perhaps to the hospital, to cheer up the sick and elderly?”

  “I must comply with Monsieur Laurent’s orders,” he said. “If I do not fill the order properly, they will know.”

  “The flowers are being sent to me,” Rose pled. “How could they possibly know?”

  And then, as if to prove his point, the bell rang out to signal the arrival of a client, and when Rose looked over at the door, she saw Diana. The florist greeted Diana warmly and Rose looked around the store, searching for a back door so that she could leave discreetly without being seen. But it was no use. Diana saw her immediately, as if she’d known that Rose would be there all along.

  “My dear Rose,” she said warmly. “It’s lovely to see you.”

  “It’s lovely to see you, too,” Rose said. “I was just leaving.”

  “Rose,” Diana asked, as if she simply could not help herself. “Have you been enjoying the roses?”

  “Yes. Or rather, no,” Rose said, struggling to compose herself. She straightened her spine and kept her voice strong. “I cannot accept the roses. In fact, that is the reason that I am here today. I came here to cancel the standing order.”

  “Madame, I can assure you, I explained to this lovely mademoiselle that I would not cancel an order placed by your brother,” the florist said, piping in.

  “Didn’t you find them lovely?” Diana looked hurt, her brow furrowed. She put her hand to Rose’s shoulder, as if the act of her touch would make Rose tell the truth.

  “Of course they are—”

  “He thought roses would be so perfect,” Diana said, seemingly lost in thought. “And I couldn’t help but agree, especially after I saw the rose detail you had added to my wedding dress. I’m so sorry the roses weren’t to your liking.”

  “It’s not that I don’t like them. I love them. Or rather, they’re beautiful. I simply cannot accept them. Not when he is promised to another.”

  “You are a good person,” Diana said, a sense of understanding washing over her face. Her expression softened, her eyes crinkled as she spoke. “You have a good heart. This is why we are friends. I can see why my brother is so fond of you.”

  “Thank you,” Rose said, and looked down at her hands, folded in front of her.

  “My brother would be so fortunate to end up with a girl like you.”

  “His fiancée is a very lucky girl,” Rose said quietly, still unable to meet Diana’s gaze.

  “Why, he called off his engagement weeks ago,” Diana said, looking puzzled. “Didn’t he tell you?”

  Seventy

  The bride

  Brooklyn, 2020

  The first time Rocky walked into the wedding salon she’d felt out of place, like she didn’t fit in. Like she didn’t belong. But being back, creating the dress that truly belonged to her, had changed that. Now, when she heard the little chime that signaled her arrival for the dress appointment, she didn’t feel fear. She felt only joy.

  Rocky smiled as her mother said hello to everyone in the shop, introducing her own mother, Rocky’s grandmother, around. Something had changed between Rocky and Joan, something had shifted. Rocky couldn’t put her finger on it, couldn’t describe it to Drew, really, when he asked, but she felt it. Something was different. Something good.

  Rocky walked into the back office, embraced Greta warmly and introduced her to her beloved Grand-mère. The dress, the one that her grandmother and mother had both walked down the aisle in, was set up in pieces on three separate mannequins in the shop. It was strange to see it deconstructed like that—after all, any other time that Rocky had visited the dress shop, it had been put together as one dress.

  Rocky saw that her grandmother had the same reaction. She stood silently before the dress in pieces, as if in prayer.

  “Are you ready?” Greta asked.

  “I can’t wait,” Rocky said.

  And with that, Greta revealed the final sketch of the dress. It reflected what she and Rocky had discussed, but somehow seeing all of the ideas down on paper, drawn so beautifully that the picture itself looked like a work of art, made Rocky lose her breath. She examined it more closely. The bodice was completely transformed, as Greta had suggested. The big Princess Diana sleeves had been removed, but the original sleeves didn’t make the cut, either. Now sleeveless with the edges rough and unfinished, it had a sexy, modern edge to it. It was fresher, and completely new. Completely Rocky.

  The cummerbund remained, but in place of the skirt, there were those palazzo pants Greta dreamed up on the fly. Only these pants were now a more refined version of what Greta had first sketched. They almost looked like the original skirt, if you weren’t looking closely enough.

  But all three women were.

  Down each side of the pants was a single stripe, done in white silk. A subtle nod to tuxedo pants. But it was more than just a simple design detail. Rocky looked over at the elegant white dinner jacket that Rocky’s father wore to his own wedding, draped over a mannequin. She turned to Greta, who smiled. Then, she looked to Joan and shrugged. “You were right. His tuxedo belongs on the dress.”

  “The sketch is absolutely beautiful,” Joan said. And then, to Greta: “You’ve done a masterful job.”

  “I really love it,” Rocky said, tears now brimming in her eyes. “Thank you.”

  “How are you planning to handle detaching the
bodice and underbodice from the slip?” Rocky’s grandmother asked, putting her glasses on, leaning in.

  Greta looked up, her face full of surprise and delight. “I see we have someone who knows a little something about Grace Kelly’s wedding dress. Well, what you don’t know is that the bodice and skirt waistband can be detached with these snaps.” Greta pointed to the snaps, smiling.

  “I do know that,” Grand-mère said, walking over to the mannequin which held the bodice and the attached skirt support and slip. “But aren’t you going to use the skirt support in order to give the pants volume? How else will you create the look of the skirt?”

  “Yes, I was puzzling over that,” Greta said thoughtfully. “I was thinking of using a thicker silk faille on the pants to give it the structure I need. Possibly with some boning, depending on how we do in the fittings.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t work.” Grand-mère ran her fingers along the ruffles with Valenciennes lace. “The only way to get the volume that you need on the pants is to use the skirt support. You will have to detach the slip that’s attached underneath very carefully, stitch by stitch.”

  “That seems impossible,” Greta said, kneeling down on the floor to examine the dress from underneath.

  “It is possible. Just very difficult.”

  “Aha,” Greta said, under her breath, as she seemed to find what Rocky’s grandmother was describing. “But tell me, how on earth do you know so much about dress construction?”

  “Simple, my dear,” Grand-mère said. “I didn’t just wear the dress. I made it.”

  Seventy-One

  The seamstress

  Paris, 1958

  “Did you know that Grace Kelly wanted to elope?”

  His voice punctured the silence that filled the atelier. Julien and Rose both looked up from their task for the day—they had been wordlessly packing up boxes all morning, the atelier having delivered its last dress. There were no new orders coming in, and the books had gone completely into the red. The atelier had closed its doors the day before, sent all of the seamstresses home. Julien had done everything in his power to keep his aunt’s business afloat, but still, it was not enough. Nothing they had done had been enough. Her legacy, it seemed, would die along with her.