The Grace Kelly Dress

by Brenda Janowitz

“You’re not even engaged.”

  Amanda shrugged. “I could be engaged tomorrow.”

  “To who, exactly?”

  “To whom.”

  “To whom?”

  “Anyone I want,” Amanda said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You’re making it sound like it’s hard to find someone. Taking the New York State bar exam, now, that was hard. Finding someone? Not hard.”

  And Rocky had to laugh. Sure, her sister was being ridiculous, but it was also true. Amanda never had trouble meeting people. She’d probably find someone and fall in love at her and Drew’s wedding. Amanda was particularly good at meeting people at weddings.

  She’d met Poppy at her work friend’s destination wedding in Mexico (after the ceremony, it was so hot they’d all changed into bikinis and Amanda was always at her best when she was flaunting her figure in a barely-there black string two-piece). She’d met Amy at a college friend’s civil union downtown (the after-ceremony celebration dinner only lasted two hours, but she dated Amy for three months after that). And she’d met Sloan—oh, poor, sad Sloan—at their cousin Josh’s wedding four years ago. (So many tequila shots. Amanda had woken up next to Sloan and from that point on, that they were an item was just a given, living together for nine months, a personal record for Amanda.)

  “Turn right here, the bakery is a few blocks that way.”

  “Sure,” Amanda said. “I need some sugar to lighten my mood. Who could be mad with a mouth full of wedding cake?”

  Rocky knew of the tradition where the bride smashes wedding cake into the groom’s face, after they’ve cut the cake at the wedding. She wondered if there was a similar tradition of the bride smashing a sample of the wedding cake into the maid of honor’s face at the tasting.

  “Must you always make everything about you, Amanda? Can anything ever be about me for just a moment?”

  They walked into the bakery, and fifteen minutes later, Amanda fainted.

  Seventeen

  The mother of the bride, as a bride herself

  Long Island, 1982

  The ghost of her sister surrounded her, enveloped her. She could tell her parents felt it too as they all lingered by the front of the Star Smith gallery, seemingly afraid to walk in. The invite Joanie had thrown away wasn’t just any art gallery opening. It was for a group show where Michele’s work would be exhibited, curated by one of her former NYCU professors, who’d found Joanie on campus and asked why they hadn’t responded to the invite he’d sent.

  “Let’s find Michele’s stuff,” Matthew said, grabbing Joanie’s hand and pulling her into the exhibit.

  Joanie slowly followed. The gallery felt like something out of a movie: a vast space, with fourteen-foot-high shockingly white walls and seemingly no ceiling, pipes and beams completely exposed. The entrance had floor-to-ceiling windows, which enabled you to see everything inside before you even walked in. Every guest looked like they’d come off the runway of a fashion show, and Joanie held on tightly to Matthew’s arm as they made their way in. Waiters circled them with glasses of champagne, filled perilously high.

  Joanie could hear the sound of her heels clicking on the hard concrete floor. Some of the pieces were enormous sculptures, hovering over her head, and some took up the space of entire walls and looked more like graffiti than art. Joanie walked farther, and when she saw what she was looking for, she didn’t need to look at the description. She knew that it had been created by Michele.

  On an enormous canvas, she’d printed a map of New York. It was overlaid with something that looked like papier-mâché—delicate, drenched in bold colors—like if it wasn’t handled properly, it could tear. And then, over that, were other objects. Items that Joanie had recognized as Michele’s—a pink scarf she’d once worn in a grade school production of Bye Bye Birdie, an old Barbie doll with most of its hair cut off, and a box of matches from a local Italian restaurant they used to go to all the time as kids. Michele’s work was unbelievable, indescribable. Joanie had never seen anything like it. Looking at it made her head swirl—she felt it deep in her bones. It was the story of Michele. The story of her life.

  “I don’t understand,” Matthew said. “What is it?”

  “These are all things that belonged to her.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “It’s complicated,” Joanie said, losing herself in the art for a moment. Then: “And beautiful.”

  “I love it.”

  Joanie didn’t necessarily understand her sister’s work, but it felt like she had her sister back for a moment, like her sister was still with her. She reached out to touch the pink scarf, and a security guard materialized.

  “You can’t touch the art.”

  “Oh, it’s okay,” Matthew said. “Her sister made this.”

  “You can’t touch the art.”

  “I’m sorry,” Joanie said, leading Matthew away, farther into the exhibit. “It won’t happen again.”

  They caught a glimpse of Joanie’s parents, staring at a piece of art they’d later purchase and hang in their living room: a freehand painting of the French flag, colors vivid and bright, with a photograph overlaid in the center—their wedding picture—covered in a blush of pink overlay so that her parents looked ethereal, soft, perfect. Joanie thought of what her wedding picture with Matthew might look like, and squeezed his hand.

  “There’s a bar set up in the back,” Matthew said. “Drinks?”

  “Soda, please.”

  “Your wish is my command.” He offered a dopey smile as he walked off. Joanie watched as he walked away.

  “Michele?” a stranger with a massive black mohawk said, grabbing Joanie’s arm and spinning her around.

  “Excuse me?”

  The girl’s eyes were lined in black kohl and her lips were bloodred. Her ears had tiny silver hoops climbing all the way to the top, too many piercings to count. Even her nose was pierced.

  “Oh, shit,” the girl said, using her fingers to smooth the top of her mohawk into shape. “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

  “My dead sister?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head.

  “It’s okay.”

  “So, you’re the little sister,” she said tentatively. “Not Michele.”

  “How do you know I’m not Michele?” Joanie asked defiantly. The girl looked back at her, sadness covering her face. She remembered. She remembered that her friend was dead.

  “I’m sorry. I just got confused for a second. Being around so much of Michele’s work, it’s doing something to me.”

  “Me too. I’m Joan,” she said, extending her hand. “Everyone calls me Joanie.”

  “I’m Melinda. Everyone calls me Mel.”

  “Are you an artist, too? Are you showing tonight?”

  “Yeah, that’s how I knew your sister,” Mel explained. She regarded Joanie. “God, you look so much like her.”

  “I know,” Joanie said. “Everyone says we had the same face. But, luckily, I don’t have the same heart.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know, because of the heart attack. We have the same face, but thankfully, I don’t also have the bad heart.”

  “Heart attack?”

  “Yeah,” Joanie said, her words coming out slowly. “That’s how she died. She had a heart attack.”

  Mel regarded her. She furrowed her brow: “But your sister didn’t die of a heart attack.”

  Eighteen

  The seamstress

  Paris, 1958

  “You must be Rose,” Mademoiselle Laurent said.

  “Please, have a seat.” Rose directed her to sit down, just as Julien had instructed. They’d gone over it repeatedly, as if choreographing a dance: what Madame would have said in greeting, how she would begin the meeting, how she would end it. Rose knew exac
tly what to do. Madame might not have chosen Rose as her protégé, but she would still make her memory proud.

  “I’m Diana,” she said. “I don’t think we met the last time I was here.”

  “Lovely to make your acquaintance,” Rose said.

  “I was disappointed when Julien phoned to tell us that Madame would be in Monaco today,” she said. The edges of her lips turned down into an impossibly sweet pout.

  “I—I’m sorry,” Rose stammered, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Julien approaching.

  “Yes, we were so sorry about the scheduling,” Julien said fluidly, “but sometimes these things cannot be helped. When Madame learned that her favorite silk merchant would be in Monaco today, she could not pass up the chance to see him. And your dress will be the better for it.”

  Mademoiselle Laurent smiled broadly at Julien, and when he held out the chair for her, she sat down. Rose marveled at how Julien could lie so easily. Her entire body felt hot, she only hoped it did not show on her face.

  Rose looked up to the loft, to where she used to do her sewing, and saw the girls diligently working. So consumed had they been over the gossip about Rose and Julien that they weren’t surprised when Rose had been selected as Madame’s protégé. Jealous, yes. But not surprised. And they believed Julien when he told them that Madame would be traveling to unearth new fabrics. Believed every word.

  The tea was poured, and the meeting began.

  “So,” Rose said, remembering what Julien taught her, how Madame started every dress consultation, “how did you meet your fiancé?”

  “It was love at first sight,” Mademoiselle Laurent said, smiling, looking off in the distance as if she were in a dream.

  “Love at first sight?” Rose asked, laughter in her voice. Julien threw her a stern look, and she brought her napkin to her lips, as if she had been coughing, not laughing.

  “Yes. It was my dear friend Gabrielle’s birthday party,” Mademoiselle Laurent said. “We were gathered at her house for a party and I saw him from across the room. I was standing in the corner, surrounded by my friends, and when I looked up, I saw Bertram walk into the party. In that moment, our eyes met, and it was as if I’d known him my entire life. He walked straight across the room, took my hand, and asked me to dance. I didn’t even know his name.”

  Rose smiled, thinking of the moving pictures she liked to see at the theater, an indulgence she allowed herself once a month. Love at first sight. Just like when William Holden sees Audrey Hepburn for the first time, upon her return home from Paris in Sabrina.

  It was a lovely idea. Perfect for the movies. But she didn’t believe it actually happened in real life.

  Rose passed Mademoiselle Laurent the sketches Madame had created after their first meeting. But Mademoiselle Laurent gently rejected each and every one. An elbow-length sleeve? Mademoiselle Laurent was horrified. No cummerbund? Mademoiselle Laurent looked offended. A shorter train so that the bride might dance at her reception without a bustle? Mademoiselle Laurent wouldn’t hear of it.

  Rose was in disbelief. She thought that everything Madame had sketched was above reproach. After all, she was the master.

  “What else do you have?” Mademoiselle Laurent asked.

  Rose didn’t know how to respond. Julien had assured her that the meeting would be short—Rose would show Mademoiselle Laurent the sketches, and Mademoiselle Laurent would pick her favorite parts from each one. From there, Rose would draw a sketch that incorporated all of these ideas and create the dress from there.

  This was not something they had planned for—Rose carefully sipped her tea as she considered what to do next.

  “I rather like the sleeve on your dress,” Mademoiselle Laurent said.

  Rose hesitated. It was as if her breath was caught in her throat. Was Mademoiselle Laurent asking for a bracelet length sleeve? Rose could easily sketch that. But how dare she change the design work of the great Madame Michel? What would Madame think? She could hear Madame’s disapproving voice in her head: No, no, dear child. That simply would not do.

  But then Rose remembered—Madame was no longer there.

  Her fingers moving quickly, Rose sketched out a dress and passed the paper to Mademoiselle Laurent. Bracelet sleeves, a higher neckline, button details down the back instead of the front, and a delicate lace border on the bottom. Mademoiselle Laurent looked carefully at the sketch. The edges of her lips curled ever so slightly, and her face lit up.

  “Why, it’s perfect.”

  Rose was so relieved that her eyes teared. She looked over to Julien and he beamed with approval.

  The door to the atelier opened, and as Rose turned, she was blinded by the afternoon sun streaming through the windows. She saw his silhouette first: tall, impossibly tall, and trim, like Paul Newman. As he got closer, his eyes caught Rose’s eyes. She froze, unable to look away. He looked at her like he knew her, like they’d met before. But Rose had never seen this man before. Surely, if they’d met previously, she’d have remembered.

  A small smile played on the man’s lips as Julien shook his hand to greet him. “I am Robert Laurent,” he said. “I’m here to walk my sister home. If, of course, you have concluded your work for the day.”

  “I think we’re ready,” Mademoiselle Laurent said, looking to Rose for confirmation.

  “Of course,” Rose said. “Let me see you out.”

  “Thank you for taking such good care of my sister,” Robert said. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  Rose looked up at him and got lost in his eyes, once again. Now that she was closer to him, she could see that they were a royal blue, striking and bold. His hair was a dark blond, as were his eyelashes. He crinkled the sides of his eyes, waiting for Rose to respond, but she could not speak.

  “This is Rose,” Mademoiselle Laurent said. “She’ll be helping Madame design my dress.”

  Rose shook her head in agreement, but again, no words came out of her mouth. She willed herself to speak, but she could not. She simply could not.

  “She’s incredibly talented,” Mademoiselle Laurent added.

  “Well, thank you, Rose,” Robert said. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” And with that, they left.

  “Thank you,” Rose whispered back, minutes too late.

  Love at first sight. Rose hadn’t believed her, hadn’t believed that such a thing could exist.

  But if love at first sight did not exist, what was this feeling in her chest, in her heart? This feeling that left her woozy, as if she were floating? If love at first sight did not exist, how could one explain how Rose felt she knew this man, knew him completely, even though they’d never met before?

  “Oh, dear child,” Julien said, walking over to Rose, whose feet were still firmly planted at the front door. “I know that look. You mustn’t fall in love with Robert Laurent. There’s something you don’t know about him.”

  Nineteen

  The bride

  Brooklyn, 2020

  “I think you could have been a little bit more understanding with your sister,” Joan said, and Rocky’s entire body tensed up. They were at Joan’s country club for Sunday brunch, so Rocky was already feeling out of her element. It was as if everyone there had gotten the memo about the dress code, except for Rocky. Weren’t Sunday brunches supposed to be casual? Whatever happened to casual? Her mother had specifically said that you could wear jeans for brunch at the club. Drew fit in seamlessly, knew the right thing to wear, with his expensive dark-wash jeans and Zegna button-down shirt. Rocky had the jeans part right, but it was as if she’d put the pieces together wrong. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat in her ripped jeans and silk camo blouse. Must they also discuss her sister?

  Of course everything was still about Amanda. Everything was always about Amanda. Even Rocky’s wedding planning.

  “I was very understanding,” Rocky said, her vo
ice clipped. “I called the ambulance.”

  “I don’t even understand what you were doing at that cake shop anyway,” her mother said. “We have an appointment with the best bakery in the city next week.”

  What Rocky heard was: This was your fault. If you hadn’t taken your sister to a bakery in Brooklyn, she would never have fainted and ended up with a concussion. Rocky didn’t respond. She put her fork into her omelet and carefully cut it into pieces. It was a trick her childhood therapist had taught her to manage her anger—focus on something small that you can do methodically as you come back to your breath. Breathe in, two, three, four, and out, two, three, four.

  A waiter came by with a coffee refill, but Rocky kept her eyes firmly planted on her plate.

  “How’s your omelet?” Joan asked.

  Rocky closed her eyes—why couldn’t her mother allow the silence to sit for even a second? Breathe in, two, three, four, and out, two, three, four.

  “Mine’s great,” Drew said, and made a big show of taking another big bite. “I’m so glad they had green peppers this week.”

  “I got the peppers, too,” Joan said, delighting in their similar tastes. Joan got along far better with Drew than she did with Rocky. Sometimes Rocky was left to wonder if Joan would rather have had Drew as her son than Rocky as her daughter.

  “What did you get, Rocky?” Joan asked, and Rocky looked down again at her omelet. She couldn’t remember what she’d put inside.

  “Rocky always gets the broccoli and mushroom,” Drew said, and he was right. Rocky was a creature of habit, though she wouldn’t admit it.

  “Yes, I did,” Rocky said, and struggled with what to say next. If she didn’t talk fast, her mother would bring the conversation back to—

  “Amanda’s feeling much better,” her mother said.

  “That’s good to hear,” Rocky said, her mouth full of food. Joan hated it when Rocky spoke with her mouth full, and Rocky liked doing it, simply to get a rise out of her.

  “Don’t speak with your—” Joan began, and then seemed to catch herself. “Yes, it is. The doctor wasn’t too concerned about it.”