- THE SEVENTY-FIVE-DOLLAR BLUE DRESS
- The zipper of the blue polyester dress caught on a loose thread near the waist.
- My mother stood perfectly still in the center of my small Chicago apartment, holding her breath so I could work the metal slide free without tearing the synthetic fabric.
- “I think it just needs a little tug, Clara,” she murmured, smoothing the stiff material over her hips.
- She had paid seventy-five dollars for it on the clearance rack at Carson Pirie Scott.
- It was a bright, clean cobalt blue, but the polyester had that slight synthetic sheen that did not quite mimic silk, even in the soft morning light.
- “There,” I said, finally backing away to look at her.
- I adjusted the comb of my wedding veil where it sat on the small vanity desk.
- The lace was light, but the humidity rising from the pavement outside already made the fabric cling to the back of my neck.
- My mother turned slowly in front of the full-length mirror, her fingers smoothing her skirt over and over.
- Her hands, worn rough from decades of helping my father in his Blue Island shop, looked incredibly pale against the blue fabric.
- “Do you think the color is too loud for Lake Forest?” she asked, her voice dropping to a soft, reassuring murmur.
- “I wanted to look nice for Ethan’s family.”
- “You look beautiful, Mom,” I said.
- “I just do not want them thinking we did not try,” she said, looking down at her sensible black low heels.
- I reached up to adjust my glasses, catching my reflection in the glass of a framed print on the wall.
- The white silk of my own gown felt heavy, a physical weight that seemed to anchor me to the hardwood floor.
- We had to leave in twenty minutes to make the drive up to the Sterling estate.
- My father was already downstairs waiting in their dented sedan, warming up the engine so the air conditioning would have a chance to kick in.
- “They are going to love you,” I said, though the words felt dry in my mouth.
- My mother did not answer.
- She only nodded and reached for her small vinyl purse on the counter.
- The Lake Forest air smelled of damp cut grass and expensive catering by the time we arrived.
- Ethan was standing near the edge of the stone terrace, looking out over the fifty round tables set up under the white canvas pavilion.
- He looked remarkably handsome in his tailored dark suit, though he was spinning his gold signet ring around his finger, a habit he only fell into when his mind was elsewhere.
- I walked up behind him, holding the skirt of my gown to keep it off the damp stone tiles.
- “Ethan,” I said.
- He turned and smiled, his face softening, though the nervous movement of his hand on his signet ring did not stop.
- He reached out to take my fingers in his.
- “You look incredible, Clara,” he said in that smooth, quiet voice he used when we were alone.
- “My mother is already looking for the photographer.”
- “I was just looking at the seating chart by the entrance,” I said, pulling my hand back slightly to adjust my glasses.
- “My parents are at table forty-eight, all the way at the back near the catering tents.”
- Ethan looked down at his ring, spinning it twice before he answered.
- “It is probably just a catering mistake, Clara.
- The coordinator handled the layout.”
- “Your mother hand-delivered the final seating chart to the printer on Wednesday,” I said.
- “I am sure she did not mean anything by it,” he said, stepping closer to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
- “It is a massive guest list, and we have a lot of investors to coordinate.”
- “They are the parents of the bride.
- They should be near the front.”
- “Let me talk to the coordinator after the ceremony,” Ethan said, his voice hushed and reassuring.
- “We can fix it before dinner, I promise.”
- A server walked past us carrying a silver tray loaded with empty crystal champagne flutes, the glass clinking softly.
- “Who authorized the change?” I asked.
- Ethan did not answer.
