waving. Well, my middle finger waves. Leo laughs, and there it is again, that warm pressure in my chest.
* * *
“I WANT YOU to take all the rosettes off,” Kendall says.
We’re in the living room of her parents’ Upper West Side apartment, and I’m kneeling at her feet, my pincushion strapped to my wrist, taking the dress down from a size 00 to microscopic. It looks like her bones are about to slice through her skin.
“Your wedding is in six days, Kendall,” I say. “It’s a little late to change the design completely.”
“Look, I hate them, okay? Just lop them off or something.”
Being a custom wedding dress designer means one thing—the bride gets what the bride wants. We start the process, which takes a year on average, with the bride emailing me pictures of wedding dresses she loves. But there’s a reason she’s not getting one of those, and it’s either that she’s a hard size to fit, or she wants something completely unique.
Kendall wanted something unique. She sent me thirty-nine pictures of dresses she loved, from a minidress to a ball gown with twelve-foot train. I made her seventeen sketches, then, when she finally settled on one—the one festooned with beautiful, creamy rosettes—I ended up making twenty-two alterations to that sketch. Then, when she said she was deliriously happy with the design, I made the pattern. Cut the dress out of muslin and had her come in for a fitting. She wanted the dress changed again; not a problem, but from then on, it would cost her. A lot.
Alas, money was no object. Seven muslin dresses and thousands of dollars later, she signed a contract saying yes, I could proceed with the actual dress. A sleeveless sheath dress with a crisscrossing tulle bodice, a belt made from Swarovski crystals that tied in the back with a long, floating tulle sash and a skirt that made her appear as if she were rising from a giant pile of white silk roses, each of the 278 flowers made by the hand of yours truly. It’s pretty. Of course it is.
All told, the dress will cost almost twenty grand.
“If I cut off the rosettes,” I say patiently, “I’ll have to make another skirt.”
She doesn’t bother looking up from her phone, which chimes with a text. “Oh, Christ, you gotta be kidding me! Mom? Mom!” the blushing bride roars. “Ma! Where the hell are you? Now Linley doesn’t want to be in the wedding, either! Those bitches! How dare they bail on me!”
One wonders.
A half hour later, it’s decided that yes, Kendall will get another skirt, made from tulle to match the bodice, and a full skirt with a sweep train that will trail out six feet behind her. I request payment in full plus aggravation pay—I call it an emergency alteration fee—and wait as her poor mother writes me out a check.
“You’ve been wonderful,” the mom says. “Kendall, hasn’t Jenny been wonderful?”
“What?” Kendall says, dragging her eyes off the phone. Her thumbs continue to tap out her message. “Who’s Jenny? Oh. Yeah. Sure.”
“She’ll make a beautiful bride,” I tell the mom.
“You’re very kind,” she says. “I’ll refer you to all my friends.”
“I really appreciate that.”
Granted, I’m used to badly behaved brides. It can be a stressful time. But believe it or not, even women like Kendall can morph into a sweetheart on the big day. Not always, but sometimes. And happily, most of my brides are much nicer.
The lobby doorman holds the door for me. I stash the dress back in the car and stretch my lower back.
The sky has cleared, the cherry trees are in bloom and I decide to take a walk through Central Park. I love the happy noise of the throngs—kids laughing and yelling, the blur of languages I don’t speak, a homeless man wishing everyone a blessed day, the thunk of bass music from an area where kids are doing backflips, entertaining the tourists.
The city has been my home since I was eighteen, and though I’ve only lived in COH a day, I feel as if I’ve been away for weeks.
Central Park is truly the crown jewel of the city, with its curving trails, the statues and flower beds awash in red tulips and yellow daffodils. People are out in droves—runners and parents and nannies and students. A lot of babies are being aired out today. I would pick that one, I think, eyeing a beautiful little boy with bushy black hair and enormous eyes. Or maybe that little girl in the purple windbreaker and red plaid skirt.
There’s a man sitting on a bench, reading. An actual book, too, not a phone. I can’t quite make out the title, but that doesn’t matter. He’s blond and wears glasses, and he has a scarf around his neck, but it’s not dreadfully self-conscious. He seems to be about forty. No wedding ring. Nice face.
I consider talking to him. What to say, though? “Hi! Want to father some kids?” seems a little blunt. I glance around, hoping for inspiration.
Oh.
I seem to have wandered all the way across the park to the East Side. Two blocks from my old place. Owen’s place, rather. Paging Dr. Freud…
I could visit them. You know…for self-torment purposes, in case my bride wasn’t difficult enough. I could ask to smell Natalia’s head. Maybe put her in my purse, which would easily fit a baby. I actually look to judge the baby-capacity of my bag. Yep. It could work. I’d make sure to move my sewing scissors first.
I turn around and face the scarf-wearing reader. “Hi. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
He doesn’t look up. New Yorkers.
“What are you reading?” I ask more loudly.
He raises his eyes to me. “I’m sorry, were you talking to me?” he asks with a nice smile.
“I was just wondering what you were reading.”
He holds the book up. “Lord of the Rings. My third or fourth time, actually. I’m sort of a geek about it.”
My wedding dress looks like Arwen’s when she finally sees Aragorn again. (Yes, yes, I’m referencing the movie, not the book. Sue me.) My nieces are our tiny flower girls, and Rachel wears pale green as my matron of honor. Mom has a boyfriend and doesn’t sob about Dad. For a wedding gift, I give him a first-printing edition of LOTR, and—
And my fiancé’s boyfriend sits down and kisses him. “Hi, darling, sorry I’m late. Brought you a cappuccino, though.”
“Have a nice day,” I say, but they’re busy kissing.
It only takes me two minutes to get to Owen’s place. I still have the code to the building, but I buzz 15A just the same. “It’s Jenny,” I say, cringing a little.
“Jenny! How wonderful!” comes Ana-Sofia’s voice.
Five minutes later, I’m sitting in my former living room, holding my former husband’s child, accepting a cup of coffee from his current wife, who’s back in her regular clothes. It’s been thirteen days, after all. Why go through all that mushy belly stuff when you’re clearly on Darwin’s list of favorite children?
“Do you remember Jenny?” Owen asks, smiling down at his daughter. “She helped you into this world.”
“She’s incredibly beautiful,” I say honestly. Not a pore to be seen. Rosebud mouth, full, lovely cheeks. “She looks like—” you, I was about to say, but I clear my throat. “Like Ana-Sofia.” I smile at my replacement.
“Thank God for small favors,” Owen says, leaning over my shoulder to stroke his daughter’s cheek with one finger.
She doesn’t. She looks just like Owen, the same shock of black hair, the same sweet eyes, and I remember in a furnace-blast of embarrassment how I used to look at Owen when he was asleep and picture our children.
Funny how I didn’t think this was going to be so hard.