by Dee Ernst
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHEN CARMELLA TOLD US THE time and place to meet her for wedding-dress shopping, I had a few concerns. First, it involved driving into Brooklyn. I didn’t want to do that, but taking public transportation was out of the question because, as anyone who’s tried to take a bus or subway from the easily accessible Port Authority building in Manhattan will tell you—you can’t get there from here. At least, not without a local Sherpa to guide you on the way.
So we drove. Miranda, Aunt Lily, and I set off bright and early Saturday morning armed with a GPS, a MapQuest printout, and an old-fashioned street map.
My other worry was the shop itself. It was called Dressed to Kill. Not only did the name throw me off just a little, but also I imagined a thick, battered door with a peephole, where you had to know the secret knock and password to enter. Then you’d follow a one-eyed mute (with a limp) to the showroom, where all the dresses would have had the labels removed.
I was surprised—and relieved—to find Dressed to Kill was a simple storefront in a crowded strip mall. Sadly, under the name of the shop was the tag line “Formal Fashion to Knock ’Em Dead.”
Lily got out of the car, took a long look, then shook her head. “Subtle.”
Miranda frowned. “What?” She was still rather clueless about Vincent and the other DeMatrianos, and I was very grateful.
We entered the shop, and I must say it was impressive. There were a dozen mannequins standing around, all beautifully dressed in bridal and ball gowns, including a stunning cocktail dress in royal purple that I immediately wanted for myself.
Carmella came out of the back all smiles. Hug-hug, kiss-kiss. A few seconds later, a tall woman in a plain black dress appeared, hands held prayer-like to her lips.
“Ladies,” Carmella said, “this is Coco Zipperelli.”
Coco was a striking woman—big, dark eyes, high cheekbones. And her jet-black hair was swept up off her face in a pompadour. Not an Elvis Presley look. Think Lyle Lovett, 1986.
“Welcome,” she murmured. “Any client of Carmella’s gets my personal attention. Now, who are the brides?”
Miranda and Lily both beamed. Coco clapped her hands together. “Perfect. Now tell me what you think you want; then I’ll tell you what you really want.”
Aunt Lily wanted tea length, with a tulle skirt, in the color of spring. Maybe that new orchid color? I had to admit it made sense. Since her fashion metamorphosis, I could see her in something vibrant and playful.
Coco raised her eyebrows. “Radiant Orchid? Yes, that would work well for you. It’s a great color for your skin tone.” She scurried over and pulled out a beautiful dress, not quite the style Lily wanted, but the color was amazing. There was a tall brass coatrack in the middle of the room, and she hung the dress on it. “Or maybe a bit deeper? A bit more hyacinth? Or how about Vivid Violet?” She found two more dresses and hung them up as well.
Lily frowned. “What’s the difference, exactly?”
A small cloud passed over Coco’s face. “Well, this is the precise color of grape juice in a clear glass, with the sunlight reflecting off the ice cubes. This is a bit pinker, almost as though some red wine—a merlot, actually—was mixed in with the grape juice. And this last dress here is about fifty-fifty wine and juice. Subtle, I admit, but very important.”
Lily took a deep breath and glanced over at Carmella, who was hanging on Coco’s every word.
“Anything in this general grape family,” Lily said at last. “At my age I have no patience for nuance.”
I glanced at Miranda, who was trying very hard to keep a straight face. Thank God, she only wanted white.
Coco looked disappointed, but squared her shoulders as she turned to Miranda, who whipped out her cell phone and proceeded to show Coco a complete slide show. Coco was looking over Miranda’s shoulder, shaking her head at some photos, nodding at others. Finally, after a few minutes of intense whispering and pointing, Coco nodded. “Fine. I can totally understand your style. Now, do you want white-white, like a flat, snow white? Or maybe something with a bit of shine, like a frosted ice cube? Of course, we could always go with the lovely white of antique lace.”
Miranda cleared her throat. “I’ll leave that to you.”
Smart girl.
Finally Coco turned to me. “And you, Mona. I saw you eyeing that deep lilac.”
“For what?” I asked.
“Mother of the bride? Unless, of course, you want a more traditional taupe or gray.”
I glanced at Carmella. She was wearing wine-colored skinny jeans, black heels, a clingy knit tunic in black and wine, and a camel hair swing coat.
I turned to Coco. “Size ten.”
Coco nodded, grabbed all the dresses, then hurried toward the back of the shop. “Lottie,” she barked as she turned a corner.
We sat in comfortable wing chairs, listening to chamber music, and waited. A squat woman, also in black, hurried out, locked the door, then turned the sign from Open to Closed. Then she lowered the shades.
Lily leaned over and whispered, “Should we be worried?”
“Only if Lottie pulls out a machine gun,” I whispered back.
Lily smirked.
Carmella smiled at the woman. “Thanks, Lottie. Coffee?”
“Sure. Ennybuddy else want some?” Lottie, to my complete delight, had the voice of a merchant marine. If only she had a half-lit cigarette hanging from her lower lip…
Miranda asked for bottled water, Lily for herbal tea. I declined and watched Lottie shuffle away.
Carmella had whipped out her notebook. “Lily, you first. I confirmed Bishop Micheline, and catering is set. Tents are ordered. All the rental pieces are confirmed: chairs, tables, and linens. Daddy picked a band, and he’s taking care of security.”
Of course he was.
“Randi,” Carmella continued, “I found three spots, all in Bergen County. If you can make time to see them tomorrow, we can get a contract. All three places were, or still are, private homes.”
Wait—first of all, she was calling my daughter Randi? And a private home? Still a private home? Was she muscling innocent people out of their houses?
I cleared my throat. “Private homes?”
Carmella nodded. “WestWind House is the best. All the ground-floor rooms are public and beautiful, and they let you use the kitchen. The other two are your basic conversions, but they aren’t quite up to WestWind as far as style goes.” Carmella smiled and patted Miranda’s knee. “And I know how much style means to you, Randi.”
I knew the WestWind House, high on a hill overlooking the best part of the New York City skyline. I never realized it had public rooms.
She went back to her notebook. “The caterer your mom suggested is good for your date, and so is the deejay. As you know, David and his family have belonged to the same church forever, and the pastor there is thrilled to marry you both. Now, the big question—do you want a rabbi as well?”
Miranda frowned. “What for?”
“The ceremony,” I said. “After all, even though we aren’t as religious as David and his family, you may want to bring some Jewish tradition into your marriage ceremony.”
Miranda blinked. “Hello? Have you met me?”
Carmella made a notation. “Forget the rabbi.”
Lottie reappeared pushing a sleek bar cart in front of her. She parked it in front of us, then retreated.
Carmella served as hostess, and we waited some more. “Thanks again for a terrific Thanksgiving,” Carmella said. “Trev had a blast with your girls.”
I forced a smile. “The pleasure was all mine. Welcome to the family.”
Lily sipped her tea. “I imagine Christmas will be a little more complicated,” she said. “Vincent said something about Aruba.”
“Yes,” Carmella said. “We spend Christmas week at Dad’s villa down there. He flies in the whole family from wherever, and we have a whole week to catch up. The weather is perfect, and we have our own private beach.”
> “Sounds lovely,” I said, inwardly breathing a sigh of relief.
“It sure does,” Miranda said, a little wistfully.
“It is. Listen, Randi, why don’t I ask Dad about letting you and David use the place for your honeymoon? It’s always staffed, but empty most of the time. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. You’d have the whole place to yourself.”
I sat up. “I was going to give the kids a trip to Paris for their honeymoon.”
Miranda jerked her head around. “You were?”
My shoulders slumped. “As a surprise, yes.”
I could see my daughter was torn. Paris had always been on her to-do list. But a week alone in a seaside villa with hot and cold running staff and a private beach?
Carmella waved a hand. “No hurry to decide. Talk to David. Ah, she’s back.”
Coco turned the corner, pulling a clothing rack behind her. Lottie appeared in the rear, pushing for all she was worth. A long sheet covered the rack.
“Here we are,” Coco announced, and with a magician’s flourish, pulled the sheet away.
I had been expecting a row of white, but that wasn’t what I saw. My purple—excuse me, deep lilac—dress was in front, followed by bright and subtle colors, fading into ivory and finally white.
She held out the purple dress. “We’ll start with you, Mona.” She pulled the first three dresses off the cart. “Take these to the dressing room, and try them on. The brides and I need to discuss. Let Lottie help you.” I followed Lottie. The dressing room was about the size of my bedroom at home, with a few comfortable chairs, plenty of empty hangers, and a three-way mirror. I didn’t need much help getting undressed—after all, I was in black pants, a gray sweater, and ballet flats. She did help me with the purple dress. Then she pulled a pair of black heels that almost fit out of a dresser, and combed my hair up in a messy but quite sexy bun that looked perfect for a wedding.
When I walked out, everyone stopped talking. Carmella’s eyebrows shot up.
“Wow, Mom, you look amazing.”
The mirror in the showroom was bigger, and the light was better, and Miranda was right; the dress fit like a glove. It pushed my boobs back up to where they used to sit before gravity became my enemy and outlined my butt just right. The heels made me appear taller, and the updo gave the illusion of a long and graceful neck. I tried not to look too smug.
Coco sighed happily. “That’s made for you. Now, how about something for Lily’s day? You’re matron of honor, right?” She looked at me critically. “Forget any of the colors. You won’t be able to compete with Lily. But you might be able to get away with ivory. Try on the one that looks like white satin seen through a glass of very expensive champagne.”
I went back into the dressing room. “White filtered through champagne?”
Lottie was grinning broadly, showing coffee-stained teeth. “Coco is a bit of a nutcase when it comes to color.”
“So I noticed.”
“It makes me crazy, but she knows what works. You’d be surprised how the slightest variation in white can change the way a woman looks,” she said, unzipping the purple dress.
“Really?”
“Her real name is Henrietta,” Lottie went on. “Can you imagine? Who names their kid Henrietta?”
This from a woman named Lottie.
“She and Carmella go way back. They went to high school together or something. Carmella is kind of a tramp.”
“Ah…”
“So is Coco. They go trolling for men together. You’d be surprised how many men go for a woman with a pimp’s haircut.”
“This is all very interesting, but how do you know I’m not a good friend of Carmella’s?” I asked, by way of conversation.
“She don’t got no friends. She got clients and men she sleeps with.” Lottie slipped the ivory dress over my head, careful of the updo. She handed me ivory slingbacks.
I went out again, twirling like Loretta Young in front of the mirror. The dress looked lovely, loose and draped on the top, hugging my hips, and floating down to my knees.
“Perfect,” Lily declared. “Simple, classic. We’ll need to get you some killer shoes.”
“Aunt Lily, aren’t you the one who’s supposed to be in ivory?”
“Not ivory,” Coco corrected gently.
“Right. Filtered champagne?”
Coco sighed.
Lily smiled. “No, Mona. I’m going to be in something way more spectacular. Don’t worry. No one is going to confuse you for the bride.”
Coco was smiling. “I think you’re done. You can walk out right now with both of those—they’re a great fit. We could alter this one, if you like—a bit tighter around the hips, maybe. Here, let me—”
“No,” I interrupted. “The hips are fine. I don’t think anything has to be altered.”
Coco shrugged. “Whatever you say. Now we can work on our two brides. Unless, of course, you’re in the market for a wedding dress as well? I have a great discount if you buy three.”
I shook my head. How many people walked in here and bought three wedding dresses? “No, thanks, Coco. When it’s my time, I’ll probably just run off and elope.” I turned away from the mirror and looked Carmella straight in the eye.
I went back with Lottie, who eased me out of the dress and handed me my clothes.
“You could get married in either of these dresses,” she said. “If getting married was something you were thinking about doing. Just saying.”
Coco was calling her name. Lottie sighed and trotted back out. I finished getting dressed alone.
The purple dress shimmered. The ivory dress glowed.
Lottie was right.
I could be married in either of those two dresses.
Patricia Carmichael had moved from her rather grand twelve-room Victorian to an equally grand eight-room town house. Actually, two four-room town houses that she combined, because she wanted two guest rooms and a room for Letitia, her maid, who had been her live-in for almost fifteen years. She also wanted extra parking spaces, so she could keep both her cars and still have designated spots for her guests. It had taken almost a year for the renovations. Ben had done the kitchen and all four bathrooms, so I had seen pics of the project while it was still in progress. Her place was magazine-worthy. Of course.
I didn’t have to drive over—she was now right in the center of town, so I could walk there with Fred whenever I wanted. She called me when she got home from Boca, and Fred and I headed over early Tuesday morning, armed with corn muffins and a cell phone full of photos.
“I love your dresses,” Patricia said, staring into the phone and flipping through all the pictures. “The purple is perfect for you, and it fits like a dream. You don’t even have to fool with the hem. And the ivory? Very classy.”
“I know. I love them both. And look at Miranda.” My daughter had settled on a very traditional dress—no bias-cut or creative neckline. Simple white satin, off the shoulder, the train embroidered and embellished with seed pearls.
“Oh, Mona. She’s stunning.”
“I know. When she came out in it, we all got choked up. She needs a few alterations, but she’s buying off the rack, so it will be ready on time. Carmella has it all under control.”
Patricia was swiping my camera roll. “What kind of place sells stuff this beautiful off the rack?”
“Carmella’s kind of place. She takes all her brides there.”
Patricia was still looking at my phone, smiling until she came to my Thanksgiving Day pictures. “Is that Carmella?” she asked.
I nodded. “Yep.”
She gave me a very long, measured look. “Mona, should we be worried about Ben?”
My throat suddenly filled, and I felt tears. “I don’t know,” I blurted. Patricia knew all about Ben’s proposal, of course, as well as our decision to take a break. “I thought the whole get a little distance idea was fine, but he’s moving away a whole lot faster than I am.”
“Of course he is. You wounded him
, Mona. He wanted you to come rushing into his arms and say, ‘Yes, let’s get married,’ and you didn’t. Then you pooh-poohed his idea of love at first sight. Now, I’m with you on that one, but I can see his point. Everything he wanted for the two of you, everything he believed to be true, has been thrown back in his face. By you.”
I swallowed hard. “You’re right.”
“Yes, of course I’m right,” she said impatiently. “My being right was never an issue. What are you going to do about this?”
“I don’t know.” I related my feeble attempt to seduce him via designer underwear, and being the true friend that she was, she did not laugh or even roll her eyes.
She had made tea, and we were sitting in her beautifully decorated living room, sipping from fragile Lenox teacups. She looked at me intently. “Why don’t you want to marry Ben?”
I looked into my tea. “It’s not that I don’t want to marry Ben. I just don’t think I want to get married. To anyone. Ben and I had a terrific relationship before I went to LA—we had our own lives; we had our lives together; I was completely happy. So was he. I like my life just the way it is, Patricia. It’s so much better now than when I was married. Being single suits me. I feel freer and more in control. I have a great career, great friends, and my daughters are successfully making their own way. Except for Miranda, who may be making a huge mistake by marrying a total stranger, even if he is the best total stranger she’ll probably ever meet.”
“She and David are not strangers, Mona. They’re two young people who fell in love. What else do they need to know about each other?”
“Why can’t they just shack up, like all the other twenty-somethings in the world?”
“Because Ben believes in true love, Mona. And David is his father’s son.” She looked at me shrewdly over the rim of her teacup. “You and Brian did not have the only kind of marriage that’s possible, you know. There are other options. I should know; I’m still trying them out.”
“Yes, you are. Why is that?”
She smiled. “Because I believe in true love, too. And I’m willing to divorce as many men as it takes to find it.”