by Amanda Tru
At ten o’clock, Lara bolted from the restaurant with promises to return in half an hour. “Just do the closing routine. I’ve got to see Brenna for a bit.”
With that, she raced across the square, never more grateful for “Sabbath” and Preston’s absence than that Friday night, and squeezed through the narrow gate leading into the courtyard behind the stores in the center of Piccadilly Square. Up the stairs to the apartment over The Curio & Garret, Lara stood there, hands on knees, panting for several seconds before she caught her breath enough to rap on the door.
That’s it. I’m taking up jogging again. Honesty forced her to revise. I’m taking up jogging… now.
Lauren answered the door and scowled at her. “Did you run here?”
“Yes.” Truth told it came out more like a gasped, “Yeash.”
“In heels?”
This time, Lara could only manage a nod.
Lauren stepped back and waved her in. “Brenna! She’s here. And you owe me another Miss Silver mystery. It’s definitely an emergency.” To Lara, she added, “Brenna said you probably second-guessed the bridesmaid dresses, but I said it was bigger than that.”
“If you tell me that horrible woman ruined your dress because you wanted the bow off the butt—”
“Oooh…” Lauren leaned against the entry wall, arms folded over her chest and one foot pressed against the wall behind her. “She called a woman horrible and used the word butt. This’ll be good.”
“Lauren, go read your book. You’ll get another one tomorrow, so you might as well finish—”
“I want—”
“Go!”
Lauren went—but not before she flung back enough synonyms to make a thesaurus jealous. “Spoilsport! Killjoy!” She winked at Lara from the hallway entrance. “Malcontent!”
Brenna growled before calling back, “That’s an A+ in vocabulary, but you still have to shut the door.”
“Double-crossing, double-dealing, shyster! I only agreed to going to read my book!”
“You didn’t agree to anything, and those words are weak. No extra points.” Brenna rolled her eyes in a perfect imitation of Lauren’s exaggerations. “Can you believe her? How can I give her more than an A+, anyway?”
Then, as if there hadn’t been that quick, dramatic comedy act as a prelude to the discussion, Brenna led her to the kitchen, plopped her down, and began making a cup of chamomile tea. “Spill it, Lara.” With a wink, she added, “And I don’t appreciate you having a name so similar to my sister’s. Do you know how often I almost add that ‘N’ to your name?”
“I hear that all over town these days. Even Ty said something the other day.”
“You’re not spilling.”
“You derailed the spill into a different ditch with your diversionary commentary.”
Brenna eyed her with a look that would have quelled a little sister. “Fine. A+ to you, too. Now, what had you calling weepy just a few hours ago.”
“I had to cancel my dress.”
She’d done it without a single tear—before, during, and after the call. But just admitting it aloud sent one tear after another spilling down her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I already flipped out on Ty and now…”
Brenna did what Ty couldn’t. She came around to Lara’s chair, dragged her from it, and pulled her into a hug that said everything Lara needed to hear. You’re going to be okay. I’m sorry. That stinks. Tell me about it.
So without Brenna saying a word, Lara told the whole story. “He called as I was dressing for work and apologized. He said he didn’t realize I was buying a dress for me in Crossroads. He just had it on his calendar to make sure I’d made an appointment to get the dress altered for me. He didn’t even realize he hadn’t told me about it. He tried to say he had, but I shot that down. He did not.”
“Of course, he didn’t. You wouldn’t have bought another dress if there was any chance you were going to have to wear this one. So what does it look like?”
“I find out on Monday. It’s probably gorgeous but…”
Brenna held her tighter. “But it’s not yours.”
Lara stepped back when the kettle began whistling. “It’s not mine,” she repeated. “I really loved mine.”
She waited for it—the words that everyone would probably say when they heard it—the words even Ty had said. But they didn’t come. Instead of, “You don’t have to wear it, you know,” Brenna just set down the teacup and reached for a delicate bowl. “Sugar?”
I love you. I’m so glad you’re my friend.
When sleep refused to come, Ty did the only thing that had ever worked. He climbed from his bed, knelt at the side, and brought folded hands to his forehead. He prayed.
The prayers, however, missed the somnolence memo and did absolutely nothing to lull him into slumber. If anything, he became more awake, more agitated, and more broken with every word spoken.
“Fine. I confess it, Lord. I’m in love with another man’s fiancée.”
How that could be, he didn’t know. Ty then made the mistake of trying to retrace relational steps to discern how he’d gotten off the path of minister and congregant to friend… and finally, to love of his life. Only I could do something so stupid.
The self-examination, he assumed, would end somewhere after the counseling sessions began. They didn’t. The further back he prodded into his emotional memory bank, the more uncomfortable he became. But I was so excited to do this wedding… how could it be before that?
Still, his heart and mind settled on the moment a young woman with gorgeous hair, a silly, pointed nose, and an even more pointed chin walked into his church and stood mesmerized at the back. She thought I didn’t remember that day. She was right. I remembered her that day, but I didn’t remember hoping she was single… hoping she was as interesting inside as her entire demeanor seemed to be…
Despair seldom offers health-giving sleep, so Ty went back to prayer. He prayed until the pain in his knees kept him more awake than his swirling thoughts. At that point, he pulled out his phone.
If this dress of hers has been in the St. James family for years, then there should be records of it. Maybe the Rockland Chronicle has its archives online.
Wedding announcements had their own section of the archives. Of course, to access said archives, Ty had to pay a yearly fee of thirty bucks. Fine print told him he had fourteen days to request a refund. If I find nothing, I get to request. Otherwise, I’ll deal.
St. James. With such a prominent family by the name, he’d imagined it easy to find the dress. Simply look at a bunch of pictures until he’d seen the same one a few times and he’d be done. If only…
The search brought up thousands of returns. Halfway through the first page, he realized that this was due to the name James. He tried “St. James” and managed to get that number cut into the high hundreds. The search continued.
Twenty minutes in, he realized he’d found it. Depending on the size or shape of the bride, the dress did take on slight differences, but the dress was beautiful, and Lara would look amazing in it.
Who do you think you’re kidding? She’d look amazing in anything. I should recuse myself from this wedding. Can preachers do that? Recuse? There’s got to be some way…
An article from the sixties told about the dress—it had been seventy-five years old then, and the tenth bride was about to wear it. After reading, Ty swiped the screen to the next and saw an engagement announcement for Preston St. James IV and Monica Eddington.
“The fiancée…” There was a picture, but even enlarging, Ty couldn’t be sure. He jumped up and ran barefooted down the hill from the parsonage to his office. His feet protested as he rubbed them with paper towels while the desktop monitor warmed and the computer booted.
This time, he went straight to Google and typed in Preston St. James and Monica Eddington. The article popped up—free for anyone who knew how or what to search for. Ty nearly requested a refund right then on principle. Instead, he stared at the large, quarter-page engagement anno
uncement. Preston St. James beamed a plastic, fashion doll smile while his lovely fiancée smiled back at Ty with a pointy nose, an even pointier chin, and eyes that looked like they’d been Photoshopped from Lara’s portrait.
Aside from the darker hair—amber, he suspected—the woman looked almost identical to Lara Priest. Ty zoomed in a bit more and stared at every bit of the woman’s face.
No one would deny it. Lara was a dead-ringer for Monica Eddington, and that unfortunate idiom was too literal. A few clicks of the mouse, a few strokes on the keyboard and confirmation appeared on the screen. Monica Eddington was dead—murdered in her apartment just over three years earlier.
Ty zoomed in the picture one last time, looking for all differences he could find. Lara’s eyes might be slightly wider set—maybe. Her forehead could be higher. Then again, it could be the hairstyle. They weren’t exactly alike. Similar build, both had slender fingers and— Ty froze.
There, on Monica Eddington’s left ring finger sat Lara’s oversized engagement ring.
On a side street, near Boutique Row in Rockland, Lara found the studio where she needed to be for her dress fitting appointment. The unassuming black door had a brass knocker with a small plate below. Please let yourself in. She did.
A small anteroom held a few comfortable-looking chairs. In one corner, a woman with her hair pulled into the tightest bun imaginable sat behind a small writing table, a sharp, number two pencil tucked behind one ear. Her smile stretched for a full second before dropping from sight. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes… for Lara Priest? I need to—”
“Yes, Isabel is waiting for you. Go on through.” With a sweep of her hand that befitted a game show hostess, the woman gestured to a pair of French doors at one end of the room. Sheers blocked the view of the interior.
When Lara stepped through the doorway, her breath caught. Tall plants—almost trees lined the room, and at one end, a curved wall of large glass panes let in delicious light. A small, round dais stood in the center of that light. “Hello?”
A woman seemed to explode from behind a potted palm of some kind. “Hello! Lara, right? I’m Isabel. Your dress is waiting in the room just there…” The woman’s hand waved in a circle that meant “there” could be anywhere. However, with only one door other than the one she’d used to enter, Lara decided it must be the one.
“Do I just put it on?”
“Yes, yes. I’ll be waiting.” Her eyes took in every inch of Lara, and she nodded. “I think the last alterations I did will be almost perfect. It shouldn’t need much at all.”
That caught her interest. “Oh, you’ve altered it before? When was that?”
“Three years ago.”
Understanding gripped her gut as she opened the door and saw the dress hanging there. Three years. So, Preston’s last fiancée. She was expected to wear the dress, too. Ugh.
Tears threatened to form as she undressed and slipped into the gown. Just as she realized she couldn’t do up the back, Isabel’s voice reached her. “Don’t worry about trying to button it. I’ll do that when I see what we need.”
Still fighting back tears, Lara stepped from the room. An enormous mirror opposite the changing room door showed the dress in all its romantic beauty—and it was beautiful. “Wow.”
“Isn’t it amazing? So well preserved, too. We had to replace a few of the organdy roses, but they used silk, and it lasts forever if properly cared for.”
I wish they’d used… muslin or whatever rots if you look at it. Wool. The moths could have it.
The buttons closed with little effort on Isabel’s part. One at the top strained, and the woman sighed. “I’ll have to replace this loop. I thought I could get away with not doing it last time, but I should have. It’s literally hanging on by a thread. One of the brides must have been a sweater.”
For just a moment, Lara pictured a chunky but squishy woman made of cashmere. Then Isabel’s meaning became clear. Oh, a perspirer.
The dress was just a bit too long—even with dress shoes. Isabel steered her through the room and onto the dais to stare. She called it “observing,” but Lara now thought she knew what a cow felt like at auction.
“What about heels—one more inch is all it would need…”
“I’m not risking tripping over something and ripping this dress. The family would never forgive me.”
A mental image of Miss Stella’s shock, Mr. St. James’s sternness, Preston’s closed-off coldness, and a grandmother who danced a jig for reasons Lara didn’t want to imagine flooded her and produced a shudder. “Nope. I want flats. Maybe ballet slippers—they grip.”
The woman’s sigh almost changed Lara’s mind, but nearly stepping back on the train reasserted her conviction. “Not. Happening.” To soften those words, she added, “Sorry.”
“If you’re clumsy like that, it’s best not to ruin an heirloom—especially one with such history. It’s priceless. One of the Fillmore brides wore this dress when she married Herbert St. James back in the twenties.”
I don’t even want to know how you know this. I guess it would be interesting, and maybe later I’ll care, but right now, the less I know about this dress I want to hate and don’t, the better.
Miss Stella entered with a soft knock. “How’s it going?”
Why wasn’t I told you were coming?
“Oh, look at her! Oh, Lara, you’re so beautiful. It’s just perfect, Isabel. We’ll need higher heels, of course.” To Lara, she added, “You should have brought the shoes you’d wear so we could be sure it’s just right.”
“I—”
“She is wearing ballet slippers—to ensure the best protection for the dress. It’s very considerate of her. I’ll remove the length I added last time, and it will be perfect.”
And you just became an ally. “I had no idea what the dress looked like, Miss Stella. I couldn’t have chosen anything else if I wanted to. It could have looked awful.”
“Classic pumps look good with everything, but your ballet slipper idea is an excellent one.” Miss Stella turned to Isabel and asked, “What other alterations will be required?”
“Just a new button loop. The top one has frayed to almost nothing. She and Miss Ed—”
“Excellent!” Miss Stella held out a hand to help Lara down from the small dais. “Let’s get you out of that, and we’ll go have tea.”
She should have protested—argued. Tea was the last thing she wanted. Later, as they sat at the little table in the tearoom and Miss Stella strongly hinted that salmon and chocolate cake weren’t really necessary to a lovely wedding reception, she kicked herself—figuratively and literally.
Lauren burst through his office door, informed him that Lara was crying in the chapel, and dashed away again. That girl…
Still, he rushed out the door in time to see Lauren disappear down Church Street. Hands stuffed in his pockets, Ty shuffled with steps that would have earned him a scolding from his mother. He could hear her as if she shouted in his ear with each step. Pick up your feet. Walk with purpose. You’re a son of the King! Princes don’t slouch, and they don’t shuffle.
Monday’s rainstorm had scrubbed every bit of New Cheltenham. The last traces of snow that had lingered in dark, shaded corners—gone. Tuesday’s sun had dried out all but the deepest puddles and the lowest places. In the wake of the year’s late Resurrection Remembrance, the world looked fresh, clean, and new—like a soul after Jesus did His life-giving cleansing.
All that beauty disappeared the moment he entered the side door of the chapel and saw Lara kneeling before one of the windowsills, a lily spray where she’d placed rose sprays just the week before. Crying. Lauren hadn’t exaggerated. With hands over her face, her shoulders shook, and occasional sniffs and gasps told him she was a few seconds from sobs.
Call it a man-failing, but Ty didn’t do sobs—not if he could help it. He knelt beside her, one arm around her shoulder, and pleaded for pastoral thoughts before he prayed. “Lord, we ask fo
r wisdom and comfort…” No other words would come. Everything he could think of to pray would only be a lie.
After the longest pause, he whispered an amen and moved back to the pew—the distance almost an order, but whether from his heart or the Lord, Ty didn’t know. He suspected both.
Lara rocked back and sat cross-legged, still staring. “I hate them.”
“You can say no, you know. You don’t have to have lilies just because they’re a practical color.”
Her silence could have meant anything from just not having thought of that yet to furious that he would even suggest it. Ty waited. Lara sat—almost eerily still. Waiting. Just when he would have asked if she was all right, Lara whispered, “That’s just it. I can’t. Every time I have something I really want with this wedding, it’s gone. First the food, then the flowers, then the dress—almost my shoes. Now his mom doesn’t want the chocolate cake or the salmon. So, I have to have lilies.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she looked up at him. “I hate lilies now. I feel like I’m being strangled by traditions and things I don’t even understand. Can’t I have just one thing in my own wedding that I chose?”
He shouldn’t have asked, but he did. “What about your veil?”
“It was just a super long piece of tulle to attach to the back of my hair—came with the dress. That would look stupid with this dress.” She looked at him, wiping at her eyes with the effectiveness of a toddler wiping his nose. “I’ll end up with one of those mantilla styles or something. Gross.”
“Would you like me to talk to him? Maybe I could say something in a way a guy could understand.”
Lara rose, gave the lilies a malevolent glare—who knew you could feel malevolent toward flowers?—and turned to go. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“What about his pastor? From one minister to another?”
She paused. “Maybe…” But a second later, she turned. “No, I don’t think that’s wise. Thanks, Ty. I knew I’d feel better if I saw you, but I wasn’t going to let myself come down and bug you. You’re the best.”