“Nonsense. I’m sure it’s lovely. Do you have a picture?”
I glance sideways at her, thrown off kilter by the fact that she’s actually being soothing. “Um, sure.” I pull out my phone and call up the photographs we’d taken in Paris, both of Phillipe’s sketch and of the basted-together version that I wore for the initial fitting. Just seeing it makes me smile. It has a fitted bodice with a low neckline that reveals a hint of cleavage. The sleeves are slim and hug my arms. The skirt is not a traditional princess style, but is instead sleek in the front and over my hips, showing off my curves. The back has a modified bustle that supports a train.
The neckline and the hem and the lower line of the bodice are embroidered with tiny flowers accented with pearls, giving the pure white dress a touch of the whimsical. I think it’s an exceptional dress, and I cannot wait for Damien to see me in it.
I glance over at my mother, expecting to see approval in her eyes. I should have known better.
“Well,” she says with a sniff, “I suppose this is to be expected, considering your choice of flowers and cake.”
“I—” I snap my mouth shut. I have no idea what to say. No idea what insult to hurl that will cut her as deeply as she is cutting me, each word like a new wound.
All I want is one tiny crumb from my mother. Approval, compassion, respect. But there is nothing there, and there never has been.
And yet I have been foolish enough to let that flame of hope keep burning. God, I’m an idiot.
I turn away so as to not let her see that my eyes are bright with tears.
“A longer train,” she says. “And a fuller skirt. This is one of the few times you can completely hide those hips, Nichole. You should take advantage of it.”
I cringe, wanting to scream at her that just because I’m no longer a size four does not mean that I have to start wearing caftans. I’m young, I’m healthy, I’m pretty, and if she’s too goddamn stupid to see that—
My wild thoughts are interrupted by the door to the back room bursting open and a tall red-haired woman hurrying in.
“Nikki,” she says, holding out her hand. “I’m Alyssa.”
I start to hold my hand out as well, only to discover that I’ve clenched it so tight that I’ve left indentations from my nails in my palms. I flex it, then extend it to her. “Is there a problem?”
“I’m afraid so,” she says. “This is terribly embarrassing, but your dress is missing.”
“Missing,” I repeat stupidly.
“We hope it’s just a clerical error in customs, and we’re doing everything we can.” I halfway tune her out, still stuck on that one word: missing. My dress is missing, and my wedding is Saturday. Tomorrow.
“… have been other shops with items missing …”
What the hell am I going to do? This is my dress. My wedding dress. I mean, I can’t just run to Target.
“… customs or the shipper, but we’re looking into it, and …”
And it’s not even just a wedding dress. It’s the dress I bought during my trip to Europe with Damien. It’s the dress we bought during our days and nights in Paris. The dress made by the designer who assured Damien that he would go faint with awe when he saw me in the gown. This is not a dress I can lose, nor is it a dress I can replace, and I can feel the panic, the anger, the futility rising inside me.
One goddamn thing after another, and I can’t even lash out. Because it’s not this poor girl’s fault—hell, she’s mortified, too. But everything is just piling on: the photographer and the music and the flowers. Those goddamned flowers that my mother has been talking about for the last hour.
“Ms. Fairchild?” Alyssa says, her voice ripe with concern. Her fingers brush over my arm, and I use the touch as an anchor to draw me out of my thoughts and back to reality. “Ms. Fairchild, are you okay?”