Chapter 2

TWO

MAY 2019

Tuesday

"There's something not right…"

Tori studied the sleek white gown hanging in the center of her workroom—or, more accurately, the walk-in closet behind the showroom of Deirdre's Home Decor, where she worked during the day as store manager. Narrowing her eyes and resting her hands on her waist, she circled the dress form, taking in each of the gown's parts one by one: the strapless neckline, the shirring on the bodice, the layered folds along the hip, the ankle-length hem, and the small train that puddled on the floor.

"I think it's perfect," Brianna, the store's part-time sales associate, said, and she crossed her arms over her chest for emphasis. Tori gave her a sideways look. A student in college majoring in fashion merchandising, Brianna was endearingly puppy-like: raring to chime in, desperate to learn, eager to please. Her eyes always looked intent behind thick tortoiseshell glasses and beneath long, dark-brown bangs.

But she was wrong, Tori thought, shaking her head. She scowled, knowing she'd never be able to leave for the evening if she didn't figure out what was off. Positioned once again in front of the dress, she tilted her head and walked backward, one slow step at a time, now viewing the garment as a whole instead of as individual parts. She tapped her bottom teeth with her index finger and pictured the bride she was designing for. That didn't always work, of course. The dress had to stand on its own, no matter who wore it. But sometimes thinking about the bride helped.

She turned to Brianna. "It's the hemline," she said, her tone triumphant, as though she'd found the answer to a seemingly unsolvable math equation.

Brianna's eyes widened. "But it's a normal hemline."

"Exactly," Tori said. "It makes the whole shape of the dress… too predictable. And Sheree is so sophisticated, she told me she wanted something a little edgy and unexpected. An asymmetrical hemline, that's what it needs. With a gentle drape from knee to ankle. It'll play off the straight neckline and be a dramatic counterpoint to the softer style of her hair. And the sheen of the fabric will enhance the surprise of the design as she walks down the aisle. That's the answer."

"Oh, wow!" Brianna enthused. "You're so right. How do you do it?"

Tori chuckled and walked over to pat her arm. Brianna was like a younger sister. Or even a daughter. Well, not quite a daughter—if Tori had a daughter Brianna's age, that would mean that she'd given birth when she was fifteen. But sometimes Brianna seemed barely older than Tori's actual daughter, Molly, who'd turned eleven a few weeks ago.

"It's so cool, watching you work," Brianna added, tousling her bangs with her fingertips. "When is Sheree coming back? I can't wait to see the look on her face when she sees it."

"I'll give her a call this week." Tori unbuttoned the dress and transferred it from the form to a hanger. "Now that I know what I want to do, it won't take long. I'll bring it home and work on it a bit tonight."

"Tonight?" Brianna asked. "Isn't tonight the big anniversary dinner?"

Tori took a sharp breath, embarrassed that she'd forgotten. Then she rolled her eyes. "So I'll do it tomorrow. And by the way, it's not a big deal. It's just dinner."

Brianna fetched a garment bag from a nearby shelf. "Jeremy seemed to think it was an important anniversary. He was so cute, the way he came here last week with that huge chocolate wrapped in gold foil… so fun, shaped like the number five…"

Tori left her to her musings and went through the arched doorway and into the main part of the shop, which was crowded with slender maple writing desks, golden-oak farmhouse dining tables, tall distressed-walnut curio cabinets, and other vintage pieces of furniture, some dating back more than one hundred years. Deirdre, the owner, had a great eye for home furnishings. She spent most of each year traveling around the country, finding beautiful items at antique shows and estate sales that she'd have shipped to the store—which was why she needed a full-time manager. Deirdre loved that Tori designed wedding gowns on the side, and was happy to let her use the store's huge closet as a workroom and meet with clients in the showroom before and after store hours. And Tori was lucky that Brianna felt she had so much to teach her. She was happy to pay Brianna for an hour or two of work each week as a fashion assistant, scheduling appointments and ordering fabrics and supplies.

Walking toward the front of the store, Tori rounded her back and stretched her arms forward, feeling the strong, late-afternoon sunshine as it streamed through the plate glass window that abutted the sidewalk. The warmth bathed her arms, which peeked out from her sleeveless navy-blue sheath dress and glowed like toasted marshmallow. Clasping her hands beneath her chin, she gazed at the empty storefront across the street. It had formerly been a sneaker shop but now it was empty. She could almost see the sign she'd been dreaming of atop the front door: Tori's Originals . She longed to open her own dress shop, where she could create one-of-a-kind wedding gowns and carry formal dresses by emerging designers. She wanted to give talented people a way to shine, a place where they could take risks as they honed their technique and vision and developed their clientele. Everyone needed a platform. Everyone deserved to feel wanted somewhere. She'd been socking away money for years now, but still couldn't bring herself to take the plunge.

Behind her, Brianna approached with the garment bag that held the wedding gown, and she draped it over an upholstered armchair on the sales floor. "Wow, this is filling up fast," she said and Tori turned to see her pointing toward a waist-high white carton tucked into a corner that was overflowing with garments. "I'll inventory this batch and put them in my car so I can stop by the shelter in the morning to drop them off."

Tori nodded. Eight years ago when she'd started as store manager, she'd convinced Deirdre that they should collect gently used women's professional clothing to donate to shelters in the area.

"If you don't need me for anything else, I'll be heading out," Brianna said. "I have a date tonight. Seems like a nice guy. He's in tech."

"So, maybe a super-sophisticated one-shoulder look?"

"I'm thinking mermaid, with a V-neck…"

Tori nodded her approval. It was a running joke: whenever Brianna had a date with someone new, she liked to imagine the style of her wedding gown.

"And what about you, Tori?" Brianna said.

"What about me what?"

"What about… I mean, where are you and Jeremy having dinner?"

"Chez Pierre. On the water."

"Oh, Chez Pierre!" She tilted her head. "So many people I know have gotten engaged there. Sooo romantic! Don't you think there's even a chance he might be surprising you with a ring tonight?"

Tori shook her head as she went to the front counter to shut down the store's computer for the day. "He knows better."

Brianna looked at her doubtfully, her eyebrows converging. "You really don't want him to ask—not now, not ever? You never designed a wedding gown and thought, ‘Gee, I'd like to wear this'?"

"Nope."

"How can that be? Don't you love him?"

Tori sighed. They'd been through this before. Maybe it was strange for someone who felt the way she did to design wedding gowns. But her creativity, her passion, had to do with fabrics and textures, structure and line, closures and trim, and harmony and shape. The interplay of tiny buttons with long, luscious trains or a plunging neckline with a full, luxurious skirt. It had nothing to do with marriage.

"Okay, okay, I'll shut up. I'm going," Brianna said and picked up the carton of used clothing.

"Have a nice evening. Have fun," Tori said and watched her leave.

Then she walked back to the window. The sun had dropped even lower in the sky and now seemed merely inches above the empty storefront across the street. It wasn't that she didn't believe in love. No, love was the best part of her life. She loved Molly, her daughter, and she loved Marilene, her grandmother, who lived with them in their cozy house on the other side of town. She had loved her parents, who were taken from her way too soon.

And she loved Jeremy. Utterly loved him. He was an amazing person. Kind and considerate, romantic, smart and funny. And talented. There was little she enjoyed more than stopping in at Danny's Pub, the local spot where Jeremy and his band played for kicks on Tuesday nights, and seeing him up there on the stage. She loved when he glanced out toward the tables and spotted her, and suddenly he looked happy—a warm, enveloping type of happy. She loved his large, pale-blue eyes set deeply below his broad forehead and his tousled, caramel-brown hair, and his smile, which was always so real, so genuine. Even after five years together, she still felt that tingle of infatuation when his eyes locked with hers. At moments like that, she knew she wanted him in her life forever.

She just didn't want to marry him.

There was a clamor at the door as Molly bounded in, still wearing her leotard and tights from ballet class, her feet in sneakers. Marilene walked in behind her, favoring her right leg.

"Mom! You are not going to believe it. We're doing Alice in Wonderland for the recital—that's exactly what I was hoping for," Molly said, sounding as though she were planning the town's next budget. Wisps of her honey-colored hair had escaped from her ballet bun and gathered around her forehead and temples, and Tori could see the glistening of sweat beads around her nose. The students worked very hard when they reached Level Four.

"I think I have a shot at being cast as Alice, although I could be the Queen of Hearts," she continued. "Except that Melissa is probably better for that because she's taller. I could be the white rabbit, I guess, although that's a comical part, and I'm not that kind of dancer. And Charlie is a really funny kid, he could make it work. So if I were Mademoiselle Diana, I'd put Melissa as the queen, Charlie as the rabbit, which leaves me as Alice, unless she thinks I could be dance captain and lead the group dancers, which could make sense, because I can help the others learn, but it's not what I want?—"

"Hello, Mom, here's your hug. Did you have a nice day?" Tori said.

Molly came closer and wrapped her arms around Tori's waist, and Tori drew her close. Molly had grown a lot this year and her face had become more angular, her cheeks not nearly as round as they used to be. Tori was proud of her daughter, who was a smart and motivated fifth grader. But she did miss the little girl Molly had been as recently as… as last week, it seemed.

"She has the whole cast worked out," Marilene said, chuckling. "She even asked to stop on the way here to buy a notebook so she could write out her plan to give her teacher."

"I want to help with my ideas," Molly said. "So it can all be decided soon. I hate when things are so unsure. I like to know where I stand."

Tori kissed the top of her head. She had been thinking the same thing, when she'd been looking across the street, imagining the store she wanted to open. Like mother, like daughter. "I know the feeling," she murmured.

"Molly, sweetie, we can talk more about this later," Marilene said. "Your mom has to get home and get ready for her big dinner. I said just a quick hello because I've been starving myself all day so I can enjoy my fill of pizza?—"

"Can I just look in the back and see the new ribbons with the zigzag edges? Brianna told me they were coming this morning for a dress you're working on, and I wanted one for my hair?—"

"Okay, go, but just for a minute," Tori said. "Marilene's right, you need to get dinner soon so you can do your homework before it gets too late."

Molly took off for the workroom, and Tori walked over to give her grandmother a hug. "Hi, Mar," she said. She'd never called her grandmother Grandma or Nana, anything like that. Molly didn't either. Her grandmother had always preferred to be Mar, because she said "Grandma" felt too limiting. Marilene took pride in being her own person. Plus, she'd always thought the word "Grandma" made her sound old, and she didn't want people to think of her that way. In her smart capris and cap-sleeve blouse, and with her short silvery-blonde bob, she looked nowhere near eighty-eight years old.

"Hi, darling," Marilene said. Though she was Italian by birth and had what Tori believed was a beautiful Italian last name, Ciani , she had come to New York decades ago and lost nearly all of her accent. All that was left was a slightly throaty and elongated way of pronouncing vowels, which Tori found deliciously elegant.

"What time is Jeremy coming to get you?" she asked.

"Seven."

"That's only an hour from now. You've got to go home and get dressed."

"I will. It won't take me that long."

"But it's a special dinner. A big anniversary, he told me. And Chez Pierre! I think maybe…"

"Oh no, first Brianna and now you?" Tori went to pull her bag out from the bottom drawer of a nearby cabinet. "I left the mail over there," she said, pointing to a small stack on an antique bookcase, aiming to change the subject.

"Thank you, love," Marilene said as she headed that way. A bookkeeper who'd had a thriving business for decades, Marilene still kept the books for a few retailers on the block, including Tori's boss.

"Honestly, I don't know why you don't do all this online, the way the rest of the world does," Tori said.

"Because there's something satisfying about writing a check," Marilene said absentmindedly as she thumbed through the envelopes. "Something you barely did, something Molly will never know…

"And say," she added. "This isn't all bills. Here's something for you. A postcard from Italy it seems. With a picture of a wedding dress, and… oh my…"

"Italy?" Tori walked over to look at the note on the oversized card. She guessed immediately who had sent it: Kelly Danforth, a graphic designer who had come to Tori to design her wedding dress but had been ambivalent about every silhouette Tori had proposed. After their last meeting, Kelly had embarked on a three-month vacation to Europe and had promised to send Tori any interesting ideas she came up with. She'd warned Tori that she would probably use regular mail, as she was going to remote locations without good internet service.

Tori read what Kelly had written:

Tori, I know you're not going to believe it, but I have found the perfect design for my wedding dress! We took a day trip to Parissi Island, this tiny place in the Mediterranean. Wedding gowns were the furthest thing on my mind, but they have a museum in this old castle, and it has displays from the 1940s including the beautiful wedding gown on the other side of this card. It was designed and sewn by this woman, Giulia something, who once lived here. Look at the little pink buttons, they're actually pebbles sourced on this very island!

Her curiosity piqued even more at the mention of the 1940s—she loved 1940s fashion—Tori turned the postcard over. On the back was a photo of a wedding dress on a pedestal, shown from the front and back. Tori was impressed. Ambivalent as Kelly usually was, her enthusiasm here was well-placed. It was a stunning dress.

Stunning in so many ways, even in this small picture, Tori thought as she studied it closely. The bodice was covered in hundreds of tiny glittering beads, and the scalloped neckline and sleeves featured lace appliqué. The skirt seemed to be constructed of layers upon layers of fine tulle, and the hemline and train were subtly scalloped, mirroring the neckline and adding a satisfying note of balance. The back had a slender column of tiny buttons—no, pebbles, according to Kelly—that shone with a faint, opalescent pink hue. She couldn't help but marvel at the thoughtfully rendered piece and wonder who the designer was and how long it had taken to make.

"So interesting," Tori said to Marilene, as she reread Kelly's words. "She's on some island in Italy and there's a museum there, and this dress is on display. She's right, it's quite beautiful?—"

Glancing up, she stopped speaking mid-sentence. Her grandmother looked distressed. Her hand was pressed against her mouth, and the color had drained out of her face.

"What's the matter?" Tori asked.

"W…what?" Marilene's voice trembled.

"Come sit down." Tori took her arm. "Is your hip bothering you? I noticed you were limping a bit when you came in, and now you look pale?—"

"I most certainly do not!" Marilene shook off Tori's hand. "Or if I do, it's from hunger. I need to eat, and you need to change." She looked in the direction of the workroom. "Molly!" she called, more harshly than Tori would have expected. "Molly, please! Let's get to the restaurant! Hurry up now!"

Molly came back from the workroom, holding a spool of white ribbon, and Tori nodded that she could take it home. Marilene was already at the door, and Molly waved to Tori and trotted after her.

Tori followed them out of the shop and watched them from behind. Marilene hadn't even said goodbye or told her to have a nice time at dinner.

Something was wrong, she thought as she went back into the shop to close up for the night. Marilene's face had turned so white. And it couldn't have been because she was hungry; that kind of paleness doesn't happen in a split second. No, she thought. Marilene's color had drained when she saw the mail.

It had turned white because of the postcard.

But why?