The Grace Kelly Dress Read online

  “Okay, be back soon.”

  The car pulled away and Rocky walked slowly towards her father. She placed the flowers down at his grave and said: “Hi, Dad.”

  Fourteen

  The mother of the bride, as a bride herself

  Long Island, 1982

  Joanie leaned her head against Matthew’s chest. She loved how he was the perfect height for her—even in the heels she was wearing, her body fit perfectly against his. In high school, she’d dated a guy who was shorter than her and she’d had nowhere to rest her head when they slow-danced.

  The Theta house was filled to the brim with hay bales and leaves of every color for the Fall Formal. Joanie had borrowed a black velvet dress and double strand of pearls from her mother. The dress was strapless, which at home had made her feel so adult, but at the Theta house with the windows opened, she felt freezing cold in the November air. She burrowed closer to Matthew for warmth.

  “Should this be our wedding song?” Matthew asked, holding Joanie tight.

  “‘Endless Love’?”

  “Well, it makes sense. You’re my endless love.”

  Joanie hadn’t given much thought to their wedding song. In fact, she hadn’t given much thought to wedding planning at all. Her mother was handling most of the planning on her own. She’d picked the date—Labor Day, a long weekend that would give their out-of-town family time to travel. She’d gotten the venue, her country club, and created the guest list, three hundred of their closest friends and family. She’d even taken care of the music, a fourteen-piece band that had a harp player for the ceremony. All Joanie had really cared about was the wedding dress. Oh, the dress.

  Matthew sang quietly into Joanie’s ear, and she felt his breath travel up her spine. “I have the record in my room. Wanna go listen?”

  “We’re listening to it now.” And then, grasping his meaning: “Oh, yeah. Let’s go.”

  Upstairs. Matthew’s hands: everywhere. His lips: trailing down from her mouth to her neck to her collarbone. She fell back onto his bed and he pushed up the bottom of her dress.

  “Wait,” she said, and sat upright.

  “Okay, I’ll wait right here,” Matthew said, his hands frozen between her thighs.

  “I mean it, wait.”

  “All we do is wait.” Matthew sighed and rolled over onto his back. “Let’s try not waiting for once and see what happens.”

  “I’m serious,” Joanie said. “I’m not ready.”

  “Okay,” Matthew said. “I understand. We’ll wait until you’re ready.”

  Joanie kissed him. “Thank you.”

  “When, exactly, do you think you’ll be ready?” He turned his head towards her and offered a sweet smile.

  “Won’t it be special if we wait for our wedding night?”

  “Our wedding isn’t until after the summer. Labor Day weekend,” Matthew said, and Joanie regarded him. Then, cupping Joanie’s face in his hands: “Yes, that would be special. Should we go back downstairs to the party?”

  “No, let’s just stay here for a while.”

  “I know you want to dance with your sisters.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Liar.”

  But Matthew was right: Joanie was lying to him. She wanted to be downstairs, dancing with her sisters. Half of the Delta House was there for the formal, including seven of her bridesmaids.

  “I did put in a song request with the DJ. It wouldn’t be right if I wasn’t down there when it came on.”

  The door flung open. “They’re playing ‘Don’t You Want Me, Baby’! We are legally obligated to go downstairs and dance.”

  “Debbie,” Matthew said, “you can’t just barge in. What if we were—doing something?”

  “You weren’t, were you?”

  “No.”

  Debbie grabbed Joanie’s hand and they ran down to the dance floor.

  “You know there’s a line of girls who want to have sex with your fiancé, right?” Debbie asked as she shimmied close. “When are you going to give it up?”

  “Keep your voice down!”

  “No one can hear me. And besides, I’m right.”

  “I happen to take it more seriously than you do. And I don’t think that there’s anything wrong with that.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with it,” Debbie said, bumping her hip into Joanie’s, “but I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  “That’s not going to happen.” Joanie looked over to the bar, where Matthew stood, surrounded by five different women. Where were their dates?

  “You’re getting married. Don’t you want to sample the merchandise before you commit to buying?”

  “I’ve sampled enough.”

  “Not as much as me,” Debbie said, a devilish look in her eye.

  “No,” Joanie conceded, smiling widely at her friend. “Not as much as you.”

  “If you can’t have fun in college, when can you have fun?”

  “I have fun,” Joanie said, just as the DJ cued up “We Are Family” by Sister Sledge. Missy stood next to the DJ with a microphone: “Delta sisters, get your asses on the dance floor!”

  Debbie grabbed Joanie’s hands as the floor filled with sorority sisters, ready to dance to the Delta House anthem.

  The photographer approached. “Joanie, can I get a picture of you and your sweetheart?”

  Joanie threw her arm around Debbie’s neck and posed. “Say cheese!”

  Debbie smiled brightly as the flash went off. Then, turning to Joanie: “I think he meant your fiancé.”

  Fifteen

  The seamstress

  Paris, 1958

  “Stop!” he called after her. “Please don’t go!”

  “I’m sorry, Julien,” Rose said, as she flew down the stairs. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You cannot say no,” he called, as he jumped down the steps and stood next to Rose. “You simply cannot.”

  They stood face-to-face on the landing between the second and third floors of Madame’s atelier. She was so close to her workstation, so close to the atelier, and all she wanted to do was go to her desk, put her head down, and get back to work. Rose wished she could forget everything Julien had just revealed to her: Madame’s death, the plan to keep the atelier alive, her role in creating Diana Laurent’s wedding dress. She would not do it.

  She could not do it.

  “You said it yourself,” she said to Julien. She found herself staring down at her shoes, unable to look him in the eye. “We would be pretending that I was the one chosen by Madame as her protégé. But that is a lie. She did not actually choose me.”

  “But I chose you. Is that not enough?”

  Rose did not know how to respond. Wasn’t the answer clear? No, it was not enough. Madame was the master. Madame’s was the only opinion that mattered. And Madame had not chosen her, had not thought she was good enough.

  “I see,” Julien said, and let out a long breath.

  “I think it would be best if you were to approach whichever girl is your second choice,” Rose said quietly. “Any girl would be lucky to have this opportunity.”

  “There is no second choice,” Julien said, looking into Rose’s eyes and placing his hand on her shoulder. “It is you. You are my choice. My only choice.”

  “Nicole is quite good,” Rose said, shrugging away Julien’s touch. “Have you seen the embroidery work she did on Mademoiselle Deon’s dress?”

  “I have seen it,” Julien said, nodding slowly. He regarded her. “No one else’s work compares to yours. Don’t you know that?”

  Rose shook her head furiously. The words simply would not come to her. She stood like that for a few moments, shaking her head, willing herself to speak. Her hands curled into balls as she tried to form a thought. And then, finally: “I can’t.”

  “You can.”


  “I wasn’t chosen by Madame,” Rose said quietly. She drew her arms around her body, hugging tightly.

  “She didn’t know she had to choose!” Julien said, his voice raised, louder than Rose had ever heard it before. He slammed a foot on the floor and then looked surprised that he had done it. That he had lost control, if even for a moment. Then, much softer, with his eyes to the floor: “She thought she had more time. She didn’t know she had to choose.”

  Rose took a small step back. Had she crossed a line? Had she gone too far? It felt like she had. After all, she hadn’t considered Julien’s feelings. He was mourning the sudden loss of his aunt, the only family he had left in the world, but also mourning life as it had been. It wasn’t so long ago that Rose was doing the very same thing. She knew how he felt: the fear, the loneliness, the uncertainty. The anger. When Rose’s aunt died, all she could think was: What will I do now?

  Neighbors came by in the days surrounding her aunt’s death, but after a couple of weeks, the visits stopped. No one checked on Rose. No one brought her food like they’d done in the days right after the funeral. Once she’d depleted the meals that had been left in the icebox, she realized how ill prepared she was for her future. How little thought she’d given to the next step in her life. How little thought her aunt had given to making sure she’d be taken care of. It was all up to Rose. And it felt impossible.

  “I’m so sorry,” Rose said, her voice barely a whisper.

  “Come with me,” Julien said, and spun around to return up the stairs. Rose was powerless to say no. She followed Julien back to Madame’s apartment, where he quickly disappeared into her bedroom. Rose stood out in the entryway, unsure of what to do.

  “I want to give you something,” Julien said, emerging from the bedroom with an orange box.

  “That’s not necessary,” Rose said, without thinking. Always having to rely on herself, she had a hard time accepting the kindness of others, and her first instinct was always to say no. Sometimes even before the words were fully out of the other person’s mouth.

  “I know it’s not necessary,” Julien said, crossing the room. “That’s why it’s a present.”

  “I couldn’t possibly,” Rose said, a flush taking over her face.

  “I haven’t even opened the box yet.” Laughter rose in his voice. “I have an entire apartment of my aunt’s things to take care of. I need to figure out which items I will keep, which items I will give to charity, and which items I want to gift to people who meant something to my aunt.”

  “I meant something to her?” Rose asked, furrowing her brow. She wondered if that was really true.

  Julien opened the box and Rose peered inside.

  “Go on,” he said, holding the box out.

  Rose touched one careful finger to the scarf inside. The silk was so incredibly soft, she immediately reached for the cotton work gloves she kept in her pocket, so that she wouldn’t damage the fabric.

  “It’s yours,” Julien said, removing the scarf from the box. “You can touch it. You’re not going to ruin it.”

  He held it up and Rose admired it. She recognized it as Hermès—bold, beautiful colors leaped off the silk twill, hand-stitched on the edges, so nearly perfect you’d swear a machine had made them. It had a bright yellow sun in the middle of an enormous circle, and the sun looked like he was sleeping. Each corner featured a different animal, and they corresponded to the symbols of the zodiac. Numbers and days and months swam around the inside of the circle, creating a calendar, with each zodiac sign represented. It was a piece that would never go out of style.

  Julien draped it over her shoulders. Rose fingered the edges, ever so slightly. “My aunt would have wanted you to have it,” he said. “This was her favorite one. Just as you were her favorite one in the atelier.”

  Rose admired her reflection in the full-length mirror on the other side of the room. “Thank you.”

  “She bought this scarf for herself with the profits from the first wedding dress she ever made.”

  “It’s a family heirloom, then.” Rose wanted to take the scarf off and give it back to Julien. How could she possibly accept such a present? But something was holding her back. It was as if the scarf already belonged to her, as if she knew that it was rightfully hers. But then, her aunt’s voice rang out in her head, telling her that she mustn’t accept such a gift. It wasn’t appropriate. “I cannot accept such a gift,” Rose said, even as the scarf stayed wrapped around her shoulders.

  “I want you to have it,” Julien said, his hands up, as if he couldn’t possibly take it back. “Simple as that.”

  Tears threatened to fall from her eyes. She wasn’t accustomed to such kindness. Such generosity. “I love it,” she finally said.

  “So, tell me, Rose,” Julien said, grasping her hands in his own. “Will you help me save the atelier?”

  Sixteen

  The bride

  Brooklyn, 2020

  “I’m basically in love with the dress,” Amanda said, as they walked. “Let’s go see it.”

  Rocky immediately regretted asking her sister to come with her for the cake tasting she’d set up on a whim. The real tasting would be next week, with her mother, at the Upper East Side bakery she had carefully selected. Rocky knew that. Of course she did. But a new bakery had popped up in her Brooklyn neighborhood a few weeks prior, so Rocky thought it would be fun to check it out. More casual. Less formal. More like Rocky. Less like her mom.

  “I don’t think you can see the dress without an appointment,” Rocky said. She raised her voice at the end, as if it were a question, but Rocky was certain. You needed an appointment to go see the dress.

  “Of course you can,” Amanda said. Amanda firmly believed that the rules in life didn’t apply to people like her. And they usually did not. Amanda was beautiful and sweet and had an infectious smile. Everywhere she went, men, women, and children alike all fell head over heels in love with her. Animals, too. It simply could not be helped. She had a Marilyn Monroe figure and Brigitte Bardot hair. Even when she was straight-faced, she seemed as if she were laughing, a deep, throaty, sexy laugh like she thought that you were the most fascinating person in the world. She gave off a glow that made everyone around her feel desired and alive; you could feel her presence in a room before you saw her. And she was smart, too, brilliant really, but not in a threatening way. She could speak just as easily about intersectionality in the feminist movement as she could about her favorite cast member of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. (Which, Rocky felt, had its own feminist problem, but people usually didn’t want to talk about that.)

  Amanda stopped walking and pulled out her phone and dialed. She held her perfectly manicured finger up to Rocky, as if to say: Watch me work my magic, this will only take one minute. Rocky looked up at the trees, changing color for the fall. It would be summer by the time she and Drew got married. Eight months away. Three seasons. She could hardly wait.

  “Oh, that’s okay,” Amanda said sweetly into the phone, though Rocky could tell she was mad as hell. “Next time, then.”

  “What did they say?” Rocky said as Amanda ended the call.

  “You can’t go in without an appointment.”

  Rocky tried not to gloat as they resumed walking towards the bakery. “Oh, really?” she asked, as calm and collected as she could muster.

  “Yes. How rude,” Amanda said, roughly throwing her phone into her Hermès Kelly bag, a gift their grandmother had bought her when she passed the New York State bar exam. “You’re the bride. She shouldn’t say no to you.”

  “She didn’t say no to me,” Rocky said, swinging her arms by her side. It really was one of those perfect New York days. “She said no to you.”

  “I just wanted to see you in it.” Amanda stopped at a crosswalk for the red light and pressed the button for the crosswalk furiously, over and over.

  “
That’s sweet,” Rocky said. The light changed and they crossed the street. Not looking her sister in the eye: “Can I tell you a secret?”

  “Of course.”

  “But it’s a secret.”

  “Yes,” Amanda said. “I gleaned that from when you said ‘Can I tell you a secret?’ thirty seconds ago.”

  “I mean, you can’t tell Mom.”

  “I wouldn’t tell Mom,” Amanda said, her lips thrust out like a petulant child. “I don’t run and tell Mom everything, you know.”

  “You totally do.”

  “I totally do not.”

  “You do.”

  “Are you planning to tell me or are you just torturing me about how often I call our mother?”

  Rocky took a deep breath. “I don’t really want to wear the dress.”

  Amanda regarded her sister. She opened her mouth as if to say something, and then looked up, as if the answer were in the sky. She turned to Rocky. “But it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  “I know that it’s beautiful,” Rocky said carefully. “I’m just not sure that it’s me.”

  “But you’re going to wear it, right?” Amanda said, reverently, as if she were discussing something religious, something sacred.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you trying to give Mom a heart attack?”

  “No, I am not trying to give Mom a heart attack.”

  “This is going to kill Grand-mère. You are literally going to kill our grandmother. She will have a heart attack and die. Her blood will be on your hands.”

  “I knew I shouldn’t have brought this up,” Rocky said. “Forget it, forget I even said anything.”

  Amanda stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, and threw her arms out. “I’ve got it. I have the solution. If you’d like,” Amanda said dramatically, as if she were offering her sister a kidney, “I’ll take the heat off and tell Mom that I’ll wear the dress.”