The Grace Kelly Dress

by Brenda Janowitz

  Rocky slipped off her motorcycle boots and socks and pressed her feet to the hardwood floor of her office. It was something her therapist had taught her—not her childhood therapist, and not the one from college, but the therapist she saw now, the one she started seeing when she moved to New York—to begin each day barefoot, grounded. Of course, it was better to do this exercise on the actual ground, on grass or sand or soil, but Rocky liked the idea of doing it in her office. As she walked her open-concept work space, she would do her daily meditation, bringing herself to the present, readying herself for the day. On particularly stressful days she’d keep her shoes off the entire day, trying to bring her energy back to where she started, trying to soothe herself through mindfulness.

  Today, she only needed a few minutes. Rocky sat down at her desk, positioned at the back of the loft, underneath an enormous wood sign with the logo for her company—a small black cat over the words Kitten Games. Drew had commissioned a local artist to make the sign, pyrography on reclaimed wood.

  Rocky sipped her green tea as she opened her laptop, got her boots back on. She pulled up her calendar and checked her schedule—not bad. Meeting at ten, one of the creatives pitching a new video game, and then an informal Board of Directors meeting at one. Her grandmother would have to Skype in from Paris, where she was helping her uncle recover from a hip replacement surgery. Rocky loved having her grandmother on her company’s Board. Her grandmother was smarter than she gave herself credit for, and was always adept at troubleshooting.

  Rocky often thought that if her grandmother had been born in a different time (her time, that is), she would have been the CEO of her own company, just like Rocky. But Grand-mère did her one better, becoming the company’s angel investor when Rocky couldn’t get funding for her app.

  Rocky set an intention for the day—peace—and watched as her office filled up with employees. Her employees. She met with each and every prospective hire before giving a job offer. She knew every staff member by name, from her CFO, a classmate from Stanford, to the interns who cycled in and out each semester, to the cleaning crew who came in at eleven each night.

  After her 10 a.m. meeting, her phone pinged. Rocky checked her Apple Watch. It was an email from her mother, subject line: Wedding! Rocky felt her heart rate jump, her face heat up. She took a deep breath in, two, three, four, and out, two, three, four. Out loud, she reminded herself of today’s intention: peace. Without opening it, she clicked the tiny button on her Apple Watch that read Delete and went on with her day.

  Eight

  The mother of the bride, as a bride herself

  Long Island, 1982

  Joanie had a ritual: each time she entered the Delta Epsilon Gamma Chapter Room, her sorority’s meeting space, she would walk directly to the back wall. It was filled with framed composites, collections of photographs of every girl who was active in the chapter that year. There were composites going back to the 1960s, when the chapter was first established at NYCU, but there was only one picture that Joanie wanted to see. The composite picture of the Delta House from 1979. The last year her sister was alive.

  Her eyes would go directly to Michele’s picture, and in that moment, it felt more sacred than visiting her grave. Some days, she would talk to her sister in her mind. Tell her what was going on in her life.

  Tonight, the room was dark, illuminated only by candlelight. But Joanie knew exactly where the picture was, even in the dark. She took her place in front of her sister’s composite.

  Joanie looked around the room at the faces of her sisters, standing in a circle. All there for the Candle Lighting ceremony. All there to find out which sister was engaged. The sorority tradition that would mark her engagement to Matthew. A lit candle would be passed around the circle, and when it came to Joanie, she would blow it out, letting her sisters know that her single days were over. Standing in front of her sister’s photograph, it felt like Michele was right there with her.

  Debbie stood to her right, then Jenny, and Missy stood on her left. As the candle traveled the circle, Debbie grabbed Joanie’s hand and gave it a squeeze. One of the seniors coughed loudly as she held the candle, and the girls all held their breath—would the candle go out? There was no protocol in the Delta Handbook for a Candle Ceremony going awry in quite that manner. But the girls had nothing to fear: the candle stayed alight, and continued to make its way around the room. Finally, the candle passed to Debbie’s hand. She held it still for a moment, reflecting on the solemnity of the occasion, and then handed the candle to Joanie. “I’m so happy for you,” she quietly said.

  Joanie blew out the candle.

  The room erupted into a chorus of “Congratulations!” and “I knew it was you!” Sisters lined up to catch a glimpse of Joanie’s engagement ring, her two-carat pear-shaped diamond on a gold band. She took the ring off her necklace, where she’d been wearing it for safekeeping, and put it back onto her finger, where it belonged.

  “We’re not done yet,” the sorority president said, trying to re-gain order over the room. The Pledge Master took out another box of candles, and had the pledges hand them out to the sisters.

  The sisters formed a circle again, now each holding a candle, and Joanie stepped into the middle to begin the next part of the ceremony. She was to walk around the circle and blow out the candles of the sisters who would serve as her bridesmaids. She began with her Big Sister in the sorority, a junior named Chrissy, and then blew out the candles of six other friends from her pledge class. Then, making her way to her best friends, smiling as they stood in front of Michele’s picture, she blew out the candles of Jenny and Missy. Saving the best for last, she stopped at Debbie.

  “You’re the best friend a girl could ask for,” Joanie said.

  “I know, right?”

  Joanie blew out Debbie’s candle and they hugged. The lights came on and the sorority president approached Joanie. “You did it wrong. You don’t blow out the Maid of Honor’s candle. You bring her to the center of the circle and then she blows out her own candle. Now we have to do it again.”

  “We don’t have to do it again,” Debbie quickly said. “I know what I mean to Joanie and so does everyone else.”

  “But it’s tradition,” she said, as Debbie led her away to the other side of the room.

  Joanie knew what Debbie was telling her—that there would be no Maid of Honor at Joanie’s wedding. That role should have been filled by her sister. It would have been filled by her sister if not for a heart condition they knew nothing about.

  Joanie spun around to her sister’s picture. Would you be my Maid of Honor? she imagined herself asking.

  Of course I will, she imagined Michele saying back.

  “That was beautiful,” Jenny said, throwing her arm around Joanie’s shoulders. “You okay?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “We’re here if you need us,” Missy said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Now, let’s talk about who Matthew is choosing for his groomsmen. Because I think I would look really great walking down the aisle with Bradley Moore.”

  “I’ll see what I can do about that.” Joanie smiled at her friends.

  “So, who else is he choosing for his groomsmen?”

  Joanie opened her mouth to respond, and then quickly realized something: she had no idea.

  Nine

  The seamstress

  Paris, 1958

  There was no denying it—he was staring at her. Madame’s butler was staring at her. Rose put her head down, into her work. What could he possibly want? Was he still upset about finding her outside on the back stoop the other day?

  He was a short man, with a thin mustache and hair cropped closely to his head. His hair was so short, it could not even be parted. His clothing was always pressed perfectly, his shoes freshly shined. He was a man who took pride in his appearance.

  Rose had never spoken a
word to him before, in the four years she’d been working there. And he never spoke to any of the seamstresses in the loft.

  He spent most of his time by Madame’s side, working as her assistant, secretary, and confidant, tending to her every need. Cold as Madame was, they seemed to share a camaraderie, something that tied them together.

  Madame’s butler approached Rose’s workstation. He picked up a veil that Rose was embroidering and examined it closely. He placed it back down and then fingered a few of the sketches that Rose had done during her lunch break.

  “Have I done something wrong?” she asked him. Was it the sketches? Perhaps she shouldn’t have done them on her lunch break. She should never have left them out in the open. She should have thrown them away. After all, they were rough and unpolished.

  “On the contrary,” he said. “Your work is stunning. These sketches are beautiful.”

  Rose bowed her head. She didn’t want him to see how broadly she was smiling from the compliment—her aunt always said that pride was sinful.

  “You don’t seem to socialize with the other girls here.”

  “Is that a problem?” she asked, and he regarded her. “I take my work very seriously. I want to learn as much as I can from Madame.”

  “We appreciate that,” he said. “Madame appreciates that. Madame knows your value here. She has taken notice.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Would you be so kind as to follow me?”

  As the other seamstresses watched curiously, he led her to the stairwell. Rose paused before entering. She knew that Madame owned the entire building, but she had never left the first floor, where the atelier was housed.

  They climbed one flight of stairs, and then another. And then, still, another, until they were on the fourth floor. The door opened to a large parlor. Was this Madame’s private apartment? As she looked around, she saw photograph after photograph of Madame. On the walls. On the bookshelves. On the piano. Rose knew that she should not be there—she was certain that this was Madame’s apartment.

  The butler directed her through the parlor to another room. Madame’s bedroom? Rose immediately turned to leave.

  “I should not be here,” Rose said, making her way back towards the front door. It wasn’t proper. What would Madame think?

  “It’s all right. Madame is not here,” the butler explained.

  Rose knew he was trying to ease her mind, but it had the exact opposite effect.

  “I’m not that sort of girl,” Rose said quietly, her hand on the door handle.

  The butler laughed. “Oh, Rose, I can assure you, I am not that sort of man.” He perched himself on the edge of Madame’s windowsill and motioned her to sit down on the chaise longue in the opposite corner.

  Was Rose losing her job? She couldn’t bear the thought. She needed the weekly paycheck from Madame. Her savings were so small, so meager, she would only be able to survive for a few weeks without employment. And what atelier would hire her if they knew she’d been fired by Madame Michel? She would be marked. Unhireable. Sewing was the only thing Rose knew how to do.

  “Your work is impeccable,” the butler said. “Madame always thought that you were the most talented of all of her girls.”

  “Madame said that?” Rose asked, her eyes wide.

  “Your designs are modern and fresh,” he said, handing over the sketches from her workstation. She hadn’t even seen him take them.

  “I do those on my lunch breaks,” Rose quickly said. “Not during work hours.”

  “They’re very good. But we knew that already because we take note of what you wear every day. What you design for yourself. It’s very impressive.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You are very welcome,” he said, clasping his hands together. “Now, would you like to know why you are here?”

  Ten

  The bride

  Brooklyn 2020

  “I lied to my mother.”

  “Sometimes people lie to save the ones they love,” Drew told Rocky as he sat down next to her on the couch. He grabbed her hand. “Anyway, you’re not really lying to her. You just haven’t been able to tell her the truth. That’s different, right?”

  “It’s still lying.”

  “I suppose,” Drew said. “But aren’t there levels of lying? Like, a white lie being the most innocuous?”

  “A lie is a lie.”

  “Then tell her the truth,” Drew said.

  “I mean, she would completely freak out.”

  “So, white lie?” Drew regarded her.

  “White lie.” Rocky shook her head in agreement.

  “So, you’ll wear the dress?”

  “I work in tech,” Rocky said, getting up from the couch and pacing. “I like things that are new. She should know that.”

  “This isn’t like getting a new phone or computer. It’s our wedding. Weddings are steeped in tradition. I think it’s special that the dress belonged to your grandmother and your mother.”

  “I don’t have the same relationship with my mother that you do with yours.”

  “I know.”

  The silence felt heavy. Rocky didn’t know how to respond any more than she knew how to have a closer relationship with her mother. How to be honest with her mother. With her father, it had always been so easy. But her mother? Her mother was hard.

  Don’t let her appearance fool you—the buttery blond hair, always freshly styled, never a gray hair in sight, the gentle blue eyes, made up with only the slightest bit of mascara, bright and alert. She may have looked soft, angelic even, but Joan was formidable. She always got what she wanted. People usually didn’t realize it, though, because she was so busy making them feel comfortable, making them feel heard, making them feel important. She would smile widely and act as if she was easygoing and accommodating. But you don’t get a golf handicap of eight by being nice.

  “Let’s put a pin in that,” Rocky said as she walked back, sank into the couch, and turned on the television. “What do you want to order for dinner?” She opened her phone to the Seamless app and waited for Drew’s response.

  Drew didn’t answer. Rocky looked over to him and could have sworn he was sweating. But that couldn’t be right. Drew never sweat. Even after he ran a half marathon last year, he didn’t sweat. He was cool as a cucumber, always.

  “What is it?” Rocky asked, but Drew’s eyes didn’t leave his phone.

  “Nothing,” he said, almost under his breath.

  “Okay, so then, dinner?”

  “I was thinking of inviting my mother to the wedding,” he blurted out. And Rocky could see it: sweat on his brow. She squinted her eyes to be sure, but there it was. Beads of sweat. “Would that be weird?”

  “It would be weird if your mother wasn’t at the wedding,” Rocky said, examining every square inch of his face. What was she missing here? “She’s your mother.”

  “No, I don’t mean my mom-mom,” Drew said. He took a huge gulp of beer and continued: “I mean my birth mother from South Korea.”

  Rocky put her phone down. She turned off the TV. She opened her mouth, as if to say something, but instead just shook her head, looking for words. “I thought you didn’t know who your birth mother was?”

  “I didn’t. I don’t. It was a terrible idea,” Drew quickly said. He flipped the TV back on. “So, Indian? I kind of feel like tikka masala.”

  “I don’t think it’s a terrible idea,” Rocky said, taking the remote control and turning the TV off again. “I’m just processing. Give me a second here.” She rubbed her temples and closed her eyes. Then, opening them: “Trying to find your birth mother. I think your mom’s feelings—your mom-mom’s feelings—could get hurt. Have you talked to her about this?”

  “I haven’t talked to anyone about this.” He turned to face Rocky. “I’m talking to you about this.”
r />   Rocky put down her beer. “I had no idea you felt this way.”

  “Me neither,” Drew said, suddenly unable to meet Rocky’s eye. “Actually, that’s not true. I have thought about it. I think about it all the time.”

  “Since we got engaged?” Rocky asked, grabbing Drew’s hand.

  “Since I was born,” Drew said, releasing her grip and running his hands through his hair. “Since I knew I was adopted. Since forever.”

  “Oh, honey.”

  “Sorry,” Drew said, throwing his hands up and getting up from the couch. “I shouldn’t have laid this on you. We were talking about your grandmother’s wedding dress.”

  “I think this is a little more important than a stupid dress.” Rocky followed Drew into the bedroom. “Talk to me.”

  “Your grandmother’s legacy is important. Tradition is important.”

  “We can deal with that later. For now, your birth mother. How would we find her?” Rocky asked quietly. “Let’s talk this through.”

  “I already contacted the adoption agency.”

  “When?”

  “Three months ago.”

  “You’ve been doing this for three months and you didn’t say anything?” Her words poured out slowly, like the honey at the bottom of a jar. Drew always told her everything.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry. You know that I’m there for you no matter what, right?”

  “I know that.”

  “I have your name tattooed on my arm,” Rocky said, touching the spot where Drew’s name lived on her flesh. “You’re a part of me.”