A Few Pecans Short of a Pie

by Molly Harper

  “Are you sure you wanna shop here, honey?” Tootie asked. “It looks awful fancy.”

  “We have an appointment. And I’ve been saving up, Aunt Tootie. It will be fine.”

  “I just don’t see how you’re going to get a better deal here than at the Bridal Barn,” Leslie said. “And you know my dress is still available if you want to wear it. Lucille Bodine is a real dab hand with alterations.”

  Margot pursed her lips. “Aunt Leslie, you’re about eight inches shorter than me. I don’t think anyone is that good at alterations.”

  “And you promised I could use your wedding dress this Halloween for my evil ghost-bride costume,” Frankie added.

  Leslie frowned. “Oh, yeah, I did say that.”

  A text message popped up on Margot’s phone. It was from Frankie and read, I’ve got your back.

  Margot texted back a gif of Leslie Knope pointing and yelling, “THANK YOU.”

  “Everything okay, hon?” Tootie asked.

  “Oh, sure, it was just a reminder text for the appointment,” Margot said, smiling. “Everybody ready?”

  The group cheered and they spilled out of the van like fire ants in a flood. The mall was a labyrinth of carefully cultivated high-end shops interspersed with leather couches, potted palms, sunglasses kiosks, and quarter-fed carousels. The air smelled faintly of gardenias.

  “Well, this is . . . cozy,” Leslie said with a sniff as they approached the glass doors of Juno’s Designs.

  “This store has the largest selection of maternity bridal dresses in this end of the state. It’s the best hope I have of finding a flattering dress that doesn’t look like I’m smuggling a beach ball.”

  The moment she walked through the door, she was grateful she hadn’t brought the girls with her to the appointment. As well-behaved as they were, this place would have made them lose their ever-loving minds. It was basically a grown-up Disney store, with enormous display rooms of big white princess gowns, veils, and all manner of jewelry, strategically lit so every rhinestone sparkled to advantage. The walls and floors were done in subtle shades of ivory and gold so as not to compete with the silken splendor of the bridal gowns. Hell, Margot was having a hard time not tearing across the room and shoving a tiara on her head.

  Their assigned bridal consultant, Brooke, met their party at the door with a tray full of champagne glasses. She was tall, willowy, and olive-skinned, wearing a sleek black designer dress—the silhouette of which, frankly, made Margot twitch a little with jealousy. And her accent was all peaches and smoky bourbon, the voice you wanted to hear saying grace because her prayers alone could make the food taste divine. “Hello, McCready family. Welcome to Juno’s, where we celebrate every bride’s inner goddess! We have a selection of dresses in the second salon, chosen based on your appointment survey. And we hope that we can make this the most enjoyable shopping experience possible.”

  “Thank you. We’re really looking forward to it,” Margot said, glancing toward her family. Marianne was already nose-deep in her champagne flute, and Frankie was eyeing a pair of Swarovski-encrusted Keds near the shoe display. But Tootie was frowning deeply and glaring at what had to be a five-figure voluminous sequined ball gown on a mannequin, set high on a pedestal, where it could be admired but not touched. Aunt Leslie was clutching her handbag to her chest like someone was going to snatch her wallet and charge a Badgley Mischka gown to her credit card. They did not look like they were enjoying this at all.

  “Would you like a glass of champagne?” Brooke asked her aunts.

  “It’s ten in the morning,” Tootie said, her brow furrowing.

  “A mimosa?” Brooke offered. “To tide you over until after lunch?”

  “How long do you expect this appointment to last?” Tootie asked dryly.

  “Maybe some sparkling water,” Brooke offered, her smile never faltering.

  “I’ll just have some tap water,” Leslie said.

  Margot was more than a little confused by Tootie and Leslie’s attitude. They usually weren’t this defensive about “big city” restaurants or shops. Was it just because this visit was about the wedding? Because Margot was rejecting their wedding dresses to choose her own? She didn’t think it was the champagne making them uncomfortable. Leslie’s family made moonshine so strong it could be used to strip boat engines.

  “Of course,” Brooke said, offering Margot her own glass with a little white bow. “Margot, a glass of sparkling cider for you?”

  “Thank you,” Margot said, accepting the glass as Brooke led them into the salon. It looked like a luxurious living room with a huge ivory raw silk couch for the relatives to sit on while Margot tried on dresses. The opposite wall was basically a bay of mirrors, angled to reflect her from every side. Brooke motioned for the nonbrides to sit and showed Margot the elegant A-line dress she’d put on a dress form at the end of the couch. Margot didn’t trust a strapless, considering the unpredictability of her new body, so she’d asked for something with spaghetti straps, an empire waist, and subtle beading at the cleavage. In general, she hated maternity clothes with empire waists, but frankly, if there was any chance of deemphasizing her belly in the wedding photos, it was an empire waist with an A-line skirt of gauzy ivory material. Brooke had sent her a photo of this dress before the appointment, and Margot had been hopeful that she would have that indefinable “bridal” feeling when she tried it on, but now that she saw it in person, she wasn’t really blown away by it. It didn’t feel like her.

  Just stay positive, stop being the depressive bride from every Lifetime movie with “Wedding” in the title, she told herself.

  This dress could look amazing when she tried it on. And it shouldn’t surprise her that a dress didn’t fit her personal style when she was basing the choice on her changing body and not her preferences.

  “So you will be trying on this dress in your size, I just wanted to make sure it matched the specifications we discussed in your e-mails,” Brooke said.

  “It’s awfully . . . dull,” Leslie said, frowning at the off-white. “What about something a few shades lighter?”

  “I don’t think I want to wear white.” Margot sighed. “With my complexion, anything brighter than eggshell is just going to wash me out.”

  Frankie nodded. “And the baby bump kind of ruins the virgin-bride illusion.”

  Margot scratched her nose with her middle finger. Marianne clutched imaginary pearls at her throat, making her pregnant cousin snort.

  “It’s not that,” Leslie said, blushing. “I just don’t know if I like it. We never would have gone to a church wedding with those little bitty straps back in my day.”

  “It’s not really about whether we like it, Mama, it’s about whether Margot likes it.”

  “And there’s no lace,” Leslie objected. “How are you going to have a wedding dress with no lace?”

  “Well, Leslie, just let the girl try it on,” Tootie said, sitting down on the couch with her glass of water. “Come on, have a seat. Go on, honey. See what you can find.”

  Brooke led a slightly deflated Margot down the silent corridor lined with numbered doors. Honestly, the setup, with its restful turquoise walls and ivory doors, reminded her of a hotel corridor. Margot did wonder at the change of paint scheme in this hallway—was it meant to calm brides as they stormed back to their dressing rooms in dresses rejected by their mothers-in-law?

  Margot opened a door to a spacious little suite complete with a chaise lounge and vanity table. A maternity ivory silk robe hung on a hook on the wall. And the first dress hung in a clear plastic garment bag next to it.

  Brooke gave her a kind smile. “You just change out of those clothes and let me know when you need help climbing into the dress.”

  “I will, thanks.”

  Brooke closed the door with a soft click. Margot chewed her lip and considered the room. Now that her last pair of slacks didn’t fit anymore, she’d worn a pair of black yoga pants with a roomy blouse and a pair of comfortable low heels, h
oping to pass them off as real pants. She stripped out of her bra and turned toward the mirror, gasping at her reflection.

  She had largely avoided full-length mirrors until this morning, and she barely recognized her body. She stepped closer to look at herself. She loved what her body was doing, but the way she looked right now? It wasn’t the belly. She sort of loved her belly. She liked watching the curve of it grow and the way that sometimes when the baby kicked, she could see it nudge against her skin. But the rest of the “aesthetic” aspects of pregnancy . . . pretty much sucked. She didn’t know how she was swelling up so much when the bulk of her diet was sweet tea and toast. She had varicose veins for the first time in her life. Her boobs looked like something out of a German opera. She always looked sweaty and red-cheeked. (The “glow” was a lie.)

  Oh, and her feet and legs were beginning to swell, something she hadn’t noticed until now. She thunked her forehead against the mirror. “Dammit.”

  When her school friends got married, they went on juice cleanses in the months before the ceremony so they were as fit and photogenic as possible. And she was getting married just when she felt the most unattractive she ever had. Yet another part of this wedding that hadn’t been in her plans. Which was sort of devastating for someone who literally made her living planning events. All the things she’d pictured for her wedding as a little girl were blown away by a swelling belly and loving, but overbearing, relatives.

  “Margot, how’s it coming?”

  “Um, just a second.” She reached into her shoulder bag to pull out the strapless maternity bra she’d ordered off the Internet. She turned her back to the mirror, because no one needed to see themselves naked and wrestling into a five-hook bra.

  She stepped into the dress as carefully as possible and called for Brooke to come in. Brooke turned her and zipped her up. For the first time in weeks, a garment zipped easily over her stomach, which was sort of worth the swollen feet discovery. Brooke fastened a few clips to the back of the gown to fit it a little closer to her form.

  “Hey, Brooke, as much as I’d appreciate some tailoring, I don’t know how much bigger I’m going to get before the wedding. We haven’t set the date yet.”

  “Good point,” Brooke conceded, taking off the clips. “Now, don’t look until you get out to the salon, okay?”

  Brooke nudged her gently out of the dressing room and toward the salon. “The lighting and the mirrors in there are much more flattering and I want you to see yourself in the best light.”

  “If that was the case, you probably should have taken the full-length mirror out of the naked space.”

  “Right?” Brooke whispered, looking around as if she was trying to avoid being overheard. “That has never made sense to me. Why would you start off an already emotionally fraught appointment with full-on, unfiltered nudity?”

  Margot pursed her lips. “I like you, Brooke.”

  Brooke snickered as they entered the salon. The gasps and aws Margot expected from her family were not forthcoming. While Marianne was smiling sweetly and Frankie was filming her entrance on her phone and giving a thumbs-up, Leslie and Tootie were silently studying her, their heads tilted at matching angles.

  “I think it looks just darling on you,” Marianne told her as Margot turned to the mirrors. She smiled, but there was no wow there. The ivory made her skin look rosy instead of ruddy, and the A-line skirt made her look curvy, instead of lumpy. It was a perfectly nice dress, but it didn’t give her any sort of special feeling. Maybe that was something people on bridal reality shows made up?

  “I don’t think it does much for you,” Tootie said. “It definitely doesn’t look bad. You’re still pretty as a speckled pup, but there’s not a lot of va-va-voom there.”

  “Lack of va-va-voom,” Margot said, nodding. “Got it.”

  “How do you feel about it, Margot?” Tootie asked.

  “Eh.”

  “ ‘Eh’ is a very common response, especially with the first dress,” Brooke promised her. “Don’t panic because you’re not getting that bridal feeling.”

  “You are really good at this,” Margot told her.

  “It’s the job,” Brooke said, grinning.

  “I think you’re not getting that ‘bridal feeling’ because of the lace,” Leslie insisted. “It’s just not a wedding dress without lace.”

  “Mama, there’s a reason I’m wearing your dress as a Halloween costume,” Frankie said kindly. She looked to Margot and, with no subtlety, shook her head. Leslie smacked her arm.

  “I can see you, you know,” Leslie grumbled. “You’re in a room with nothing but mirrors.”

  Frankie cackled. Margot pointed at her, looking like a modern version of Miss Havisham. “You’re laughing because you’ve forgotten your turn could come in a few years.”

  Frankie shrugged it off. “I’m eloping.”

  “Don’t you dare!” Leslie told her. “I will track you down and tan your butt.”

  “I’m just kidding, Mama. I think I’d like to get married on the dock over at Eric’s place. And no offense to your store, Miss Brooke, because it is amazing, but I’ve already designed my dress, which will be embroidered with ‘one ring to rule them all’ around the hem in Sindarin.”

  “Well, that could be . . . all right, I suppose,” Leslie said, chewing her lip.

  “Really?” Margot said. “I guess I never figured you for the marriage type. Then again, I never really considered myself the marriage type, so I guess you never know.”

  Frankie sipped her champagne. “Oh, no, I think that when you find the person you believe you should spend the rest of your life with, you should declare that in front of your friends and family in the most personal, romantic way possible.”

  Leslie got more than a little misty-eyed and patted Frankie’s arm. “Oh, sweetheart, that’s just beautiful.”

  “Aw, that’s sweet,” Margot said, feeling more than a little ashamed of her own slightly mercenary approach to wedding planning. “So why do you want to get married on Eric’s dock? That’s a little random.”

  “That’s the first place we had sex,” Frankie said, making Leslie spit her water back into her glass. “Well, the first place we had sex after we learned each other’s names.”

  Marianne grinned into her champagne flute while Tootie shrugged and said, “I’ve seen the boy. I can’t get mad at her for that.”

  Leslie mopped water from her chin.

  “But if Dad asks, it’s because we went stargazing out there or something, okay?”

  Leslie slapped her palm over her beet-red face. “Frankie, honey, I liked it before you started therapy, when we were less honest with each other.”

  Margot glanced to Brooke, as if she’d just realized this exchange was being witnessed by someone unfamiliar with Frankie’s unique sense of humor. “I’m so sorry.”

  Brooke said, “It’s not the raciest thing I’ve heard in an appointment. This is why we have private salons.”

  “So far, no one has gotten hit in the face, which makes it way classier than the Bridal Barn,” Margot said.

  “I’ve heard that about the Bridal Barn. Back on topic, if you want a lacier option, I have this lovely number right here,” Brooke said, holding up another A-line gown with a heavy lace overlay.

  “Yes!” Leslie thundered, making Tootie flinch. “Try on that one.”

  “All right, I’m trying that one,” Margot said, though there was no enthusiasm in her voice or body language.

  “Well, only if you think you’ll like it, hon,” Leslie added hastily.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Margot muttered, picking up the skirt and heading down the hall.

  She was starting to understand why the TLC show brides seemed so on edge by the end of the episode.

  A few minutes later, she stepped out of the dressing room wearing the much more formal eggshell gown with fitted lace sleeves that went to her wrists. The lace covered every inch of the bodice and then split over the satin underskirt.

&n
bsp; “Now, that is a wedding gown,” Leslie insisted. “I wish it was white, but I like this much more than that plain one.”

  Margot looked in the mirror, and again, while this was a perfectly nice dress, it just didn’t strike her as her dress. She gave Brooke the “eh” response, and so it went for five more dresses. All perfectly nice dresses in different silhouettes, but not her dress. And while Leslie looked much happier when Margot reentered the salon in a bright white tulle princess ball gown, she couldn’t help but notice Leslie was now holding a garment bag of her own, marked CLEARANCE.

  She wasn’t really considering the princess dress. She’d caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror of the dressing room, despite Brooke’s warning, and she looked like a weirdly shaped white parade float. Also, she wasn’t about to crow about it, but she’d been right, the bright white fabric made her look sallow and brought out the circles under her eyes.

  Leslie didn’t even spare a glance at the parade-float gown because she was shaking the clear plastic garment bag at her, squealing, “Look, honey, I found something that looks just like the wedding dress your mama wore when she married Stan.”

  Margot had never seen pictures from her parents’ wedding, but their marriage probably wasn’t one she needed to commemorate. Also, it happened in the eighties, so . . . she couldn’t imagine the style could be anything less than horrifying. How could she put this in a way that wouldn’t hurt Aunt Leslie’s feelings?

  But the best she could come up with was a weak “I don’t think so, Aunt Leslie.”

  “Oh, come on, I know Linda didn’t hold on to her wedding dress, but it would be so sweet to see you in something like she wore. Things didn’t work out with her and Stan, but they had a beautiful wedding, and you look so much like her. And it’s on sale! You can’t pass up a good sale! Just give it a try.”

  Brooke protested, “Generally, we like to keep the dress selection to the gowns that I pick out, just so the appointment is as productive as possible.”

  “Oh, it’s just one little dress. What could it hurt?” Leslie insisted, shaking the dress at Margot.