The Dream Dress

by Janice Thompson

  Again with the God talk. Seemed like Bella inserted it into just about every conversation. Made me feel like she half expected the Almighty to chime in with his thoughts on the matter. I glanced at her chair just out of curiosity. Nope. Empty.

  “I have one more thing to add to my Cinderella theory. After that we’ll walk away from this conversation and talk about our bride-to-be here.” She gestured to Scarlet, who offered a little “don’t worry about me” look.

  Me, on the other hand? I definitely wanted to stop talking about this foolishness and focus on the bride, the real reason for my visit today.

  “I think you’re like Cinderella in all of the ways that matter.” Bella leaned against the desk.

  This certainly got my attention. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, she was always kind and thoughtful to people, even when they were rude to her. You’re one of the kindest people I know.” Bella crossed her arms.

  “You think so?”

  “Of course.”

  “Ooo, and she’s industrious,” Hannah added. “A hard worker. I’ve never met anyone as hardworking as you.”

  “Please.” I gestured to Bella. “We’re sitting in the office of the hardest-working woman I’ve ever known.” I now spoke directly to Bella. “Between the wedding facility and the kids, you’re going around the clock.”

  “Well, maybe I’ve got a Cinderella complex too.” She gave a little shrug. “Mostly, though, I think you’re like Cinderella because you’re so patient. You’re willing to wait on God’s perfect timing.”

  Ugh. She had to go there.

  “Trust me, I’m not patient.” I didn’t mean for the words to come out through clenched teeth, but they did.

  “Of course you are. When you’re designing a dress, when you’re meticulously seaming and reseaming a gown for a bride, when you’re analyzing the length of a hem.”

  “When you drive to a wedding facility at the last minute to fix a bridesmaid’s dress that’s too big,” Scarlet chimed in. “Like you did for me at Hannah’s wedding.”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “All of this requires extreme patience.” Bella gave me a knowing look. “And think about when you’re sewing a dress together. You cut out the pieces and work them together one at a time. Patiently. You don’t actually see the whole dress until it’s done, right?”

  “Right.”

  “That’s patience. In your mind’s eye you see it, but in the real world it’s just a hope. A dream.”

  Scarlet, the dramatic one, lit into the song from Cinderella after that, the one about a dream being a wish your heart makes. With a smile, she took to dancing across the floor with a pretend partner. Pretend for a moment, at least. Hannah eventually joined her, and before long Bella and I were laughing. Until Scarlet stopped cold and glanced down at my wrist.

  “Um, you do know you’re wearing a pincushion on your wrist, right?” She laughed.

  “O-oh.” I glanced down at my left wrist and sighed. “It’s a part of me. Kind of like a growth. I can’t seem to shake it.”

  “I like it on you,” Bella said. “Nice accessory.”

  Should I tell her that I’d almost bathed with the goofy thing on a few times? Nah.

  “I’m probably the only girl I know who has fallen asleep with a pincushion on her wrist,” I explained.

  “No way.” Bella’s lips parted in surprise at this announcement. “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah.” I chuckled as a memory overtook me. “Happened just the other night, actually. I woke up in the morning with pins all over the bed.”

  “Well, just pull it off before Prince Charming comes along,” Scarlet said as she started dancing once again. “You don’t want to accidentally stab him before the wedding night, you know.”

  “Or on the wedding night,” Hannah added. She brought her hand up to stifle her giggles. “That would be really awkward!”

  We all got the giggles after that.

  I thought about Bella’s little speech on patience long after we parted ways that afternoon. Come to think of it, I did spend much of my time waiting. It didn’t really bother me to move slowly with a project—to get every little detail right. Maybe waiting wasn’t such a big deal for me after all. And if I didn’t mind waiting to piece together a gown, maybe waiting to see my dreams come to pass wouldn’t be so tough either.

  Ginger Rogers had waited, hadn’t she? Sure. Maybe that was why her journey resonated with me so much. It wasn’t just the whole dancing backwards thing, it was the “I’ll hang on for the ride and eventually see my dreams come true” part as well.

  But what about waiting for love? What was the point in that?

  Then again, Bella had waited, and she’d found D.J.

  Hannah had waited, and she’d found Drew.

  Scarlet had waited, and she’d found Armando.

  Okay, maybe waiting for Mr. Right to come along worked for some girls. And maybe God—aka Prince Charming—would help with the loneliness in the meantime. Again, for some girls. But what about girls like me? Seemed like all of my waiting just got me one thing: more time alone in the closet.

  Carefree

  I like making a piece of string into something I can wear.

  Author unknown

  I awoke early on Sunday morning in a completely different frame of mind. Instead of rushing to jump out of bed, I rested comfortably and reflected on yesterday’s conversation with the ladies at Club Wed. When I closed my eyes, I could almost see an image of Prince Charming. The God version.

  Very odd . . . for me, anyway. Maybe others sensed the Almighty’s presence, but I rarely claimed to feel it like I did today. With my eyes closed, I could see him, hand extended, ushering me into the ballroom. Asking me to dance.

  What a lovely Fred and Ginger–like image.

  It stayed with me as I grabbed a bagel, penciled a quick note to Mama and Mimi Carmen, and slipped out the back door. It lingered as I drove from our little house to West Beach several miles away. Something—or someone—was calling me away today. Calling me to be alone. To just . . . be.

  Minutes later, I sat at the water’s edge, staring out over the vast expanse of the Gulf of Mexico. I watched, transfixed, as the waves lapped the shore. As I observed their repetitive pattern, how they left lovely etchings in the sand, I reached for my sketchpad. Something about the ripples put me in mind of a dress design.

  Before long I’d sketched the most beautiful fairy-tale-like gown complete with a fitted waist, one my bride-to-be was sure to adore. One that didn’t look like a giant marshmallow but would easily sweep her away to a sweet fairy-tale kingdom.

  After shoving my sketchbook back into my bag, I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of the waves. They inspired me once again, and I found new ideas flowing. I pulled the sketchbook back out and added the finishing touches to the dress, the rhythm of my pencil against the paper as soothing as the sound of the water gracing the shoreline.

  Afterward I sat alone with my thoughts, thinking about my life. In spite of my whining about the lack of a father, I had to admit God had given me a pretty great family. Where would I be without Mimi Carmen? Sure, she was a challenge at times. Half Spanish diva, half buttercream frosting. But I loved her with an undying love.

  And Mama? I’d never known a harder worker. Other than myself, anyway. Okay, and Bella. But Mama proved her love by getting out of bed every day and trudging off to a job that blessed others. And she did it all for little pay.

  Between the two of us, we got it done, didn’t we? Sure.

  God had blessed me with some amazing friends of late too. No complaints in that department, especially when it came to the ones in the wedding biz. Bella. Scarlet. Hannah. They all gave me the encouragement I needed and somehow kept me grounded. Kitty too, for that matter. It felt good to know I’d grown enough in my skills to hang out with people like Bella. The more I got to know her, the more I realized how crazy I was about her—not in a “she can further my career”
sort of way, but in more of a “wow, she’s successful and still normal” way.

  Just . . . be.

  Jordan’s words flooded back over me, and I found myself gazing out over the water again. Maybe he had something there.

  I took in the beauty of the scene before me, but my heart seemed to capture more than what could be seen with the eyes or heard with the ears. Utter stillness, interrupted by a seagull overhead. The soft rhythm of my heartbeat, dancing in tune to the gentle motion of the water.

  I closed my eyes and felt that same sensation I’d noticed earlier in my bedroom. Some would call it a presence, I supposed. To me, it just felt like . . . like a lovely cloud sweeping down over me and cocooning me in a gentle embrace.

  That cozy feeling remained as I sat and listened to the waves lap against the shore. It sang in a chorus with the seagulls and whispered in my ear through a conch shell. It danced along the water’s edge in graceful lines and blew soft against my cheek in the morning wind.

  A delicious shiver worked its way over me as the sensation continued. After a few moments, I could deny it no longer. This moment—this holy moment—was a special gift, one I needed with every fiber of my being. How had I lived on Galveston Island so long without experiencing this kind of moment at the shore?

  After lingering in the stillness for a few more moments, I thought about Scarlet’s invitation to visit her church. Something quickened inside of me, and I felt myself wondering about the possibilities. A quick glance at my cell phone revealed the time—9:55. The service started in twenty minutes.

  An internal argument began at once. Why would I bother going to church? Hadn’t Jordan encouraged me to get outdoors? Spend time with God in nature?

  Still, the idea wouldn’t leave me alone. Besides, I really needed to show Scarlet the new sketch and talk about fabrics. Sounded like as good an excuse as any to go to church.

  After a couple of moments of wrestling it through, I rose and brushed the sand from my backside. I hadn’t exactly dressed for church, but maybe they wouldn’t mind my jeans and T-shirt. These days people paid little attention to such things, right?

  I climbed back into my old car and glanced down at the passenger seat, realizing the side mirror still sat there. Oh well. I would have to deal with that later. Right now I needed to double-check my appearance, so I gave my reflection a quick glance in the rearview mirror.

  Ugh. I reached into my bag for my brush and pulled it through my hair, working out the tangles the wind had caused. After a few strokes, I pulled up the sides of my hair, fastening them in place with a clip I found in the bottom of my purse. Two minutes later I’d added mascara and lipstick to my otherwise blank slate of a face and was on my way.

  To church. For the first time in . . . what? Ten years? Surely things hadn’t changed that much in ten years’ time, right?

  A few minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot and observed the people around me—young, old, and in between. Thank goodness many of them wore casual clothes, so I relaxed about my attire.

  My car sputtered to a stop, drawing the attention of a slightly rotund older fellow with a jolly smile and thinning hair. He approached with a concerned look on his face.

  “If you need a mechanic, I’ve got a pretty good eye for engines. Sounds like this one’s needing a little TLC, but I’ll be glad to take a look if you need me to. Just name your time.”

  “Oh no. I appreciate the offer, but it’s not really necessary. Sometimes it just does that.”

  He gave me a funny look. “If you change your mind, look me up. I offer discounted rates for church members, but if that doesn’t work for you, I might just be willing to give it a look, no charge.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Why not?” He shrugged. “I’m blessed to be a blessing.”

  Okay then. Maybe things had changed over the past ten years.

  I made my way through the crowd of people into the church, where—after being officially greeted by at least ten or twelve overwelcoming people—I managed to snag a seat on the back pew. I didn’t remember much about church life, but I did remember that the back pew was the place to be in case you needed a clean getaway.

  Oh! Getaway! I sent Mama a quick “I’m in church” text and shoved my phone in my purse. Just as the music kicked in—Wait . . . they have drums and guitars in churches now? What happened to pipe organs?—Scarlet took notice of me.

  “You’re here!” She plopped down into the spot next to me.

  “I’m here.”

  “Well, there’s no way you’re sitting all the way back here by yourself. C’mon.” She extended a hand and led me to the front row—Really? The very front row?—where her fiancé Armando greeted me with a smile.

  I took my seat and tried to appear invisible. It worked pretty well until Scarlet’s father, now in full preacher mode, asked all visitors to stand.

  Was he kidding?

  Scarlet nudged me, and I somehow rose to my feet and gave a funky little wave. It didn’t help that I was the only visitor. And the sermon that followed really made me sweat. Forgiveness? Seriously? He had to speak on forgiveness?

  The service carried on, but I could hardly get my heart to slow its beat.

  By the time the band played the last worship song, I had to conclude Scarlet’s church was pretty cool. Well, all but that “Visitors, please stand!” part. And the shaky feeling I got whenever her dad mentioned forgiving those who’d hurt you.

  After church I called Mama to let her know that I would be joining Scarlet’s family for lunch at Casey’s Seafood on the seawall. Scarlet’s father, it turned out, was quite the character. He kept us laughing every step of the way.

  About halfway into the meal, Scarlet leaned my way and whispered, “You have to forgive him, you know.”

  “Forgive him?” I felt a nervous flutter in my stomach. “You mean, your dad? For making me stand up in church in front of everyone like a goober?”

  “No, you goof. I’m talking about Demetri. You have to forgive him for not seeing your gifts. And for thinking of himself above you.”

  “Well, I—”

  “I’m right. Admit it.” She took a nibble of her fish. “If you don’t let go of this frustration, it’s going to eat you alive. Ask me how I know.” She lit into a story about the animosity she’d once felt against her aunt Wilhelmina, going on and on about how it nearly destroyed her psyche.

  “Anyway, it’s not good to put up walls,” she said. “And forgiving him—even when it doesn’t make sense—is the best gift you can give yourself.”

  Now she’d lost me entirely. How could forgiving someone else be considered a gift to myself? That made no sense at all.

  At this point she reached for her phone to look up the calories in her grilled fish, and before long we were talking about dieting. Thank goodness.

  When the meal ended, Scarlet walked me to my car, and I pulled out my sketchpad. She took one look at this morning’s sketch and her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Gabi, it’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. You really listened to me. I can tell.”

  “I thought you might like it.”

  “I can’t wait to see it done up. What sort of fabric will you use?”

  “What do you like?”

  She shrugged. “Ask me anything about cakes—flavors, decoration, fondant, frosting—and I’d have an answer. But I don’t know fabrics like you do.”

  “We should meet up—maybe Tuesday after work—at the fabric store. Sound good?”

  “Perfect.”

  We made arrangements to do that, and I filled her in on the store’s whereabouts. As I climbed into my car, Scarlet remained at my door, so I knew she must have something else on her mind. I rolled down the window—well, I tried to. Turned out the handle didn’t work again, so I had to open the door.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” She shrugged. “I’m just still thinking about my dad’s sermon on forgiveness.”

  Ugh. I thoug
ht we were done with that.

  “I’ve decided that holding someone in unforgiveness hurts you worse than it hurts them,” Scarlet said. “Keeps you bound up on the inside.”

  “I-I guess.” My hands began to tremble, so I steadied them on the steering wheel.

  “I heard a story once about a woman who was abused as a child,” she said. “It was horrible. Her parents had physically abused her to the point where she almost lost her life. She now speaks to women across the country. About forgiveness, I mean.”

  “You’re saying she forgave the people who beat her?”

  “She did. But here’s the real kicker—she said that forgiveness is like a key that opens a prison cell.”

  In that moment, I had a little vision of my dad locked in a prison cell. I stood outside, holding the key in my hand. He stared at me through the bars.

  “Not to say that you control the other person’s actions,” Scarlet went on. “But you get the idea. You can unlock the door with that key you’re holding, and the person who really gets freed up is you. You don’t have to dwell on the pain anymore. You release it to God.”

  “Um, okay.” So, I was the one in the cell, not my dad? Interesting. Still, I couldn’t quite figure out how to go about releasing something to the Almighty, though it sounded lovely in theory.

  “He’s the keeper of all keys.” She grinned, then turned and gave me a little wave. “Think on that.”

  I thought on it, all right—all the way from the restaurant to my house. When I arrived at home, Mama quizzed me on my church experience. Mimi Carmen turned up her nose at the drums-in-church part, commenting that the pope probably wouldn’t approve of such a thing, but I told her I rather liked it.

  Afterward Mama followed me into my workroom and took a seat on the chair in front of the sewing machine. She seemed to have something on her mind. After a couple of moments of awkward silence, she spoke up. “I’ve given some thought to going back to church myself. What do you think?”

  “I think . . . it’s good.”

  “I’ve spent a lot of years working myself to death. And the only friends I have are my co-workers. Might do me good to get out and meet people.”