The Grace Kelly Dress Read online

  “I know,” Rocky said. “I was at the hospital with her.”

  “Well, she went to her internist, too, just to make sure everything checked out.”

  “Was it a panic attack?” Drew asked. Rocky shot him a look. Do not encourage her, it said. We’ve spent enough time on Amanda, it said. Eat your damn omelet so we can get out of here, it said.

  “They don’t think it was.” Joan motioned to a nearby waiter for a refill on her coffee. Rocky motioned for a refill on her mimosa. There was not enough champagne in all of Fairfield County to get her through this brunch. And then, sotto voce, Joan said: “I think it was just the shock of seeing Sloan again.”

  “She tore that poor girl’s heart out,” Rocky said, matter-of-factly, downing her mimosa just as fast as it had been poured. “Twice.”

  “I don’t think that’s fair,” Joan said, shaking her head, as if trying to get the bad sentiments about Amanda right out of her brain. “That’s not a fair assessment at all.”

  “I would have liked to have met Sloan,” Drew piped in. “You know, after hearing all of the stories.”

  Rocky shot Drew another look. Do not feed the animals, it said. He carefully sipped his water; he knew he’d be hearing an earful about this later. “It is a fair assessment. Sloan was madly in love with her and Amanda literally ripped her heart right out of her chest.”

  “I doubt it was literal, babe,” Drew said, laughter in his voice.

  “What did you just say?” Rocky said, through clenched teeth.

  Drew threw his hand up and ordered a Bloody Mary from a passing waiter. “Nothing,” he said. And then, under his breath: “I mean, you can’t literally rip someone’s heart out of their chest. And even if you could, then they’d be dead.”

  “I, for one, think it’s great that Amanda saw Sloan again,” Joan said. “Maybe they’ll get back together. I really liked Sloan.”

  “You only liked her because she actually got Amanda to settle down,” Rocky said. And then quickly added: “For nine months. A record.”

  “That’s not the only reason that I liked her.” Joan brushed something nonexistent off her nose.

  “You only liked Sloan because she’s the only woman Amanda ever dated who actually wanted to get married.”

  “Not true.”

  “And I don’t think it bodes well for a future relationship if the moment you see a person, it causes you to literally lose consciousness.”

  “See, now, that’s how you use literally correctly,” Drew said, and grabbed one of the scones from the center of the table. Rocky turned towards Drew and glared at him. He smiled back, lips parted, mouth full of chocolate chip scone, and Rocky couldn’t help but laugh. This is the kind of person you marry—someone who loves the worst parts of you, someone who knows how to make you laugh even when you’re mad as hell.

  “Maybe it’s all part of their cute story,” Joan said, waving her hand around for dramatic effect. “After all, I’ve noticed that you delight in telling people that you and Drew were hate at first sight.”

  “I do not delight in telling them that,” Rocky said. “Every freaking vendor asks me how I met Drew. Do you want me to lie?”

  “Don’t say freaking,” Joan said to Rocky. And then to Drew: “Are you aware that your intended tells everyone that it was hate at first sight?”

  “I’ve heard the story,” Drew said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I think it’s cute.”

  “It’s not cute.”

  “Can we just talk about something else here?” Rocky asked. Her mimosa was refilled. She downed it again. “Anything else? Surely there is something else to talk about.”

  “Ah, our bride and groom!” Rocky heard a voice call out from over her shoulder. She spun around and saw the club’s mâitre d’ approaching their table.

  “What did you do?” Rocky asked her mother. Joan shrugged in response, feigning innocence.

  “I’d love to give you a tour of our ballroom,” the mâitre d’ said, more to Drew than to Rocky. “I think it’s the perfect venue for your upcoming nuptials.”

  “Don’t look at me,” Drew said, his hands up as if in surrender. He pointed to Rocky. “Rocky’s the one planning the wedding.”

  Rocky had desperately wanted to change the conversation. But this was not what she had in mind.

  “Would you excuse me for a moment?” Rocky got up from the table and rushed to the bathroom. It was her best trick for cocktail parties and weddings—when you want to avoid an awkward social interaction, retreat to the bathroom. She’d been doing it since she was thirteen years old, always the odd man out at the countless bar and bat mitzvahs she got invited to. Rocky ducked into the last bathroom stall and sat down, head in her hands.

  A country club wedding. That was the farthest thing from what Rocky wanted. A traditional ceremony, only Rocky didn’t have a father to walk her down the aisle. She needed something that was more like her—less traditional, less of a reminder that her dad wasn’t there to give her away.

  “It’s lovely for Joan, don’t you think?” Rocky held her breath. Two women had walked into the bathroom and they were talking about her mother.

  “Oh, I think it’s wonderful. And she deserves something nice, doesn’t she? Poor Joan.”

  “I just hope the wedding is here at the club so we don’t have to drive all the way into Brooklyn.”

  Both women laughed. “Oh, I know. But maybe Joan’s daughter has someone nice for your Chelsea to meet? Is she still single?”

  A pause: “Yes.”

  “Weddings are great places to meet someone!”

  “Well, Chelsea won’t be invited. The girls haven’t been friends since they were little.”

  “Joan’s younger daughter is a strange one, isn’t she?”

  “Has been since she was little.”

  “Well, Joan is over the moon that she’ll be wearing her wedding dress. That’s special, isn’t it?”

  “It really is. I wish I had saved my wedding dress. Did you save yours?”

  “I did, but with two sons...”

  “I, for one, am happy for Joan. All she has in her life are those girls. To be honored like that on her daughter’s wedding day? I couldn’t think of anything more wonderful.”

  “Let’s go over and say hello. I think the fiancé is a venture capitalist. Maybe there’s someone in his office for your Chelsea?”

  Rocky heard the door close and waited a few moments to make sure she was alone. She closed her eyes and tried to think what her father would say.

  Seems you’re in a bit of a pickle, she imagined him telling her.

  Indeed.

  Well, Kitten, you can either wear the dress or tell your mother you won’t wear it. But you need to do something. Can’t walk down the aisle naked.

  I can’t break Mom’s heart, Rocky imagined herself saying back to her dad. She could almost see his kind eyes staring back at her. I just can’t.

  Then you wear the dress, I suppose. Can you do that?

  Rocky didn’t know.

  She opened her eyes and found herself alone in the bathroom. She walked out to the sink, splashed some water onto her face. She looked at herself in the mirror. It was decided. Her mother cared about the wedding dress. Rocky did not. Rocky didn’t really care much about what she wore down the aisle, as long as Drew was standing at the end of it. She would make her mother happy. She would wear the dress.

  Twenty

  The mother of the bride, as a bride herself

  Long Island, 1982

  “We’re heading out in a few minutes,” Joanie’s mother said, poking her head into her daughter’s room.

  “You look beautiful,” Joanie said. Her mother did a little spin in the doorway—she wore a navy Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress and gold wedge sandals. Delicate gold jewelry and a small gold clutch. She was dres
sed perfectly for the holiday party at the country club. Fashion had always been her mother’s strong suit.

  “Enjoy yourself in the city tonight,” her mother said, and gave her a kiss goodbye.

  Joanie examined her mother closely. Had everything changed? Had the way she looked at her mother changed? After Mel told Joanie that Michele didn’t die of a heart attack, Joanie had pressed her for more information. But Mel quickly backtracked, clamming up and saying that she’d made a mistake. Who was lying—Mel or Joanie’s mother?

  She would find out that night. She was going back to the gallery to see Mel again. This time, Mel would tell her the truth.

  * * *

  Being at the gallery by herself felt different. The security blanket of her parents and her fiancé gone, Joanie felt untethered, unsure of herself. For starters, her outfit was all wrong. Joanie thought that shopping in her sister’s closet would have ensured that she’d be dressed the part for a gallery opening in SoHo, but she had put the pieces together all wrong. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling glass wall of the gallery. The black short-sleeved button-down that had looked so edgy in Michele’s closet somehow looked like her usual preppy white shirts, only dipped in another color. And the black cigarette pants that Joanie was sure screamed hip and downtown looked anything but. She had thought she was Audrey Hepburn in Funny Face, all hip and cool, but she now realized that she was actually Audrey in Roman Holiday, a princess pretending to be someone else.

  Joanie spun on her heel—the faster she found Mel, the faster she could leave—and smashed right into a man standing behind her.

  “My goodness!” she cried out as her drink flew out of her hand and spilled all over the person in front of her. “I’m so sorry!”

  “It’s cool,” the man said, laughing, and wiped the front of his ripped black T-shirt with a flick of his wrist. His arms were covered in black leather bracelets, all detailed with silver grommets of varying shapes and sizes, and he wore painted-on black leather jeans. “I was actually kind of hot, so thank you for cooling me down.”

  “I really am sorry,” Joanie said, and took the cocktail napkin wrapped around her drink and attempted to dry his shirt with it.

  “Nothing to be sorry about.” He grabbed her hand as it frantically dabbed at the spill. With their hands entwined, he looked up, and their eyes met. His eyes glowed violet—they weren’t blue, they were a definite shade of purple—and they seemed to be smiling at her. Joanie felt a jolt—a frisson of energy that went from her belly right up to her head, making her feel like she was outside of her body, looking down at herself.

  “I’m Jesse.”

  “Me too.”

  “Your name is Jesse?” he asked.

  “Oh, no,” Joanie said, laughing nervously. She felt her hands start to get hot, and she pulled hers away from his. “I’m—”

  “Who are you supposed to be?” a voice called out from over her shoulder. She spun around and saw another man, similarly attired in an old gray T-shirt, filled with holes, and ripped jeans. He looked like a clone of Jesse. A copy. But he wasn’t as handsome. His outfit wasn’t as cool. And his eyes? Just plain old brown.

  “Oh, hi, I’m Joan,” Joanie said, partially to him, partially to Jesse, trying to make her name sound more grown-up, cooler, by dropping the suffix. And then, to fill the empty space: “As in Joan Jett.”

  “More like Joan,” the other guy responded, now standing next to her, “as in Joanie Cunningham from Happy Days.”

  “Lay off her, Danny,” Jesse said, and playfully punched his arm.

  “Where’s Chachi?” the clone asked, smirking at her. Joanie furrowed her brow and turned to Jesse.

  Jesse threw his arm over her shoulder and whispered: “Ignore him. It’s what we all do.”

  “Who’s we?” Joanie asked.

  “We’re Dead Dream,” Danny said, as if it were obvious. But Joanie had no idea what he was referring to.

  “The band,” Jesse said, though it was more like a question. Joanie shrugged her shoulders.

  “You’ve never heard of us?” Danny asked. “Then why are you talking to this loser?” He pointed at Jesse.

  “I’m actually looking for my friend Mel. Have you seen her? She’s one of the artists exhibiting here tonight.”

  “My sister?” Jesse said, furrowing his brow. “You don’t look like the sort of girl who’s friends with my sister.”

  “Well, I am.”

  “Well, then, you just missed her. On Tuesdays at eight, she visits her friends Bill W. and Dr. Bob.”

  “Oh, I didn’t meet them.”

  Jesse stifled a laugh. “She’ll probably be at our show this weekend. We’re playing at the Rooster. You should come.”

  “Oh, I don’t—”

  “You have to come,” Jesse said. “Friday night at midnight. You can see your friend Mel. I’ll put your name on the list. You can walk right in. Don’t have to wait in line.”

  “That’s so nice,” Joanie said, feeling the weight of Jesse’s arm around her shoulders. “I’m not sure—”

  “Don’t break my heart,” Jesse said, leaning into her ear. Joanie could feel his sweet breath on her cheek, and she turned to look up at him.

  “We need to go,” Danny said, and Jesse’s arm flew off Joanie’s as he checked his watch.

  “Yeah, we’ve gotta go,” Jesse said. “Joan-as-in-Joan-Jett, will I see you this weekend?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t mean to say yes. There was no way she’d be able to make it—her curfew would be up before the show even began, for starters. And even if she could convince her mother to allow her to stay out past midnight, she had no one to go with. She couldn’t take the Long Island Rail Road by herself after midnight. Not to mention the fact that she had no idea what the Rooster was, or where.

  But still, she had said yes. She was powerless to say anything else.

  Twenty-One

  The seamstress

  Paris, 1958

  Engaged. Robert Laurent was engaged.

  When Julien told her, Rose pretended that she didn’t care, that she barely even knew what he was going on about, but it wasn’t true. Of course it wasn’t true. In those few moments between Robert’s goodbye and Julien’s warning, Rose had already created an entire narrative for herself, for her life with this man.

  She would dress carefully the next time she saw him, setting her hair slowly the night before and wrapping it in a silk scarf so that it would look its best come morning. She would let Marion, the girl who lived in the room next to hers at the boarding house, apply her makeup. (Marion worked at Galeries Lafayette in the makeup department and was always inviting Rose to stop into the store for a makeover.) Then, she would pick out her favorite dress, one that Madame had approved of, and wear her best stockings and shoes. And then, her most prized possession: earrings that had belonged to her aunt, large pearl studs that brightened her face.

  Robert would see her and they would lock eyes. Rose would know, in that moment, that they were meant to be, and when he asked her to accompany him to a late supper, Rose would say yes. Even though it was last minute. Even though they’d just met. Even though she barely knew this man at all.

  And after dinner, he would walk her home slowly. He would want to savor every moment with Rose, and she, with him. When they arrived at her front door, he would gently kiss her hand, like a gentleman, and Rose would know—even though they hadn’t even kissed yet—that he was the man she would marry.

  But none of that was meant to be. He was engaged. Betrothed to another. So, on the day of Mademoiselle Laurent’s next appointment at the atelier, Rose did not wear her best dress. She did not take extra time to style her hair, and she did not take special care on her makeup. She convinced herself that it was just another day, like any other before it, and when Mademoiselle Laurent came in with her brother accompanyi
ng her, Rose barely looked his way.

  “Rose,” Robert said, walking over to her and gently taking her hand. “It’s lovely to see you.”

  “It’s lovely to be seen.” Rose imagined herself as the ingenue of one of the films she liked to see on Saturdays. Debbie Reynolds in Singing in the Rain. She smiled coyly, and then caught Julien gazing at her from the corner of her eye. She quickly took her hand from his and sat down at the worktable with Mademoiselle Laurent.

  “I was so sorry to hear that Madame would be traveling again today,” said Mademoiselle Laurent.

  “Yes,” Julien said, not even giving Rose a moment to respond. “When Madame heard about a new lace maker in Florence, she couldn’t resist the chance to meet him. And since lace will make up such a large part of your dress, well, there was simply no question.”

  “How wonderful,” Mademoiselle Laurent said, her eyes dancing with glee. “I can’t wait to see what she brings back.”

  “Ah, yes,” Julien said.

  Once again, Rose marveled at how Julien was so easily able to lie to Mademoiselle Laurent. It was as if he believed every word he was saying as gospel truth. It was as if he was used to deception, was comfortable with it. Rose, herself, couldn’t bear to lie. She hated the feeling she got in her chest when she wasn’t being completely honest. She knew this was why Julien took the lead in telling Mademoiselle Laurent about Madame—he didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable. Or perhaps it was simply because he didn’t want her to make a mistake and give up the ruse. Either way, Rose couldn’t imagine what was going on inside his head. Did he mind the subterfuge? Or was it all a game to him, like Cary Grant’s cat burglar in To Catch a Thief?

  Rose took a deep breath. She was nervous for the day. Nervous to see Robert again, knowing what she knew, but also nervous to show Mademoiselle Laurent her work. This was the first time that a bride would be looking at a wedding dress sketch she had designed. Rose had cleaned up the draft she had done on the fly during the first appointment and had created a final vision for the dress.