If You Only Knew
Page 17
Adam cried when he saw Rachel in the church on their wedding day—it wasn’t just the dress, which, trust me, was amazing, a modified A-line satin and French lace with a sweetheart neckline and delicate capped sleeves. He kept his sense of humor through the infertility years, and he brought Rachel flowers twice a week all through her pregnancy.
He’s also a really good dad, though perhaps not as good as Rachel thinks he is... He’s a little too aware of the fact that he does more than some of his peers, but he’s content to let Rachel do the hard stuff, the getting-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night-when-someone-has-the-pukes stuff, the grocery-shopping-with-all-three-of-them-at-once stuff. But he’s there, and he loves them, and he does contribute. And let’s face it. Rachel loves being a stay-at-home mom.
I call Rachel just before I leave the house. “Oh, hey,” she says. “Just a minute, okay? Charlotte, honey, I have to take this, okay? Can you please give that to Daddy? Thank you, sweetheart.” There’s a pause, and I hear a door close. “Hi,” she says.
“How are things today?” I ask.
“Well, I showed him the picture,” she whispers, “and he was really confused and then he got upset that I thought...you know. He has no idea who sent it. But he was really nice about it.”
“Nice about what?”
“About me thinking that maybe he...strayed.”
I press my lips together. “Hmm.”
“So we’re good. I think this is just a case of a mistaken phone number. I just feel really bad for what I thought.”
“Rach, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to think your husband is having an affair when Private Number sends him a crotch shot,” I say. “I hope he got that.”
“No, no, he did,” Rachel says. “We’re past it. Actually, we’re just leaving for church, so I have to run, okay? Listen, I’m so sorry about yesterday. I really wanted to help you get settled. I just freaked out.”
“It’s really okay. You deserved to freak out.” I pause. “And I’m glad things aren’t what they seem.”
Except I smell a rat. Leo, a total stranger, smelled a rat. Yes, yes, there’s a chance Adam is telling the truth.
But my gut is telling me he’s not.
“He’s a great husband,” Rachel says. “And you know how the girls adore him.”
“Yeah. I do. You go, hon. I have to run down to the city with a dress.”
“Okay. Hey, tell your friend thanks for me. I’m so embarrassed.”
“My friend?”
“Leo.”
“Oh, right. Okay, have a good day. Talk to you later.”
If Adam is cheating on my sister, I will rip off his testicles. Through his throat.
I pick up the dress and my purse and head outside. Leo is lying on his lounge chair, eyes closed, dog by his side, bottle of beer in his hand. “Hi,” I say. “A little early for drinking, isn’t it?”
“It sure is, Mom,” he says, taking a swig without opening his eyes. The dog lifts his head and growls at me.
“My sister wanted me to say thanks.”
“She’s welcome.”
“And thank you from me, too. You were very nice.”
“No problem. I excel at catching women when they faint.” He scratches behind Loki’s ear, and the dog makes a guttural sound.
There’s something arresting about Leo’s face. Angular and a little thin, unshaven. Despite his easy words, there are two lines between his eyebrows. He looks up at me.
“No eye-fucking,” he says.
“Because you’re gay?” I suggest.
“Only where you’re concerned, darling.” He winks, and though I’ve just been rather brilliantly insulted, I can’t help a smile. “Are you going to the prom?” he asks, gesturing with the beer bottle at the dress bag.
“No.” Placing the dress carefully on the backseat, I secure the hanger onto the hook. “I’m a wedding dress designer.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“That’s a real job? I mean, they all kind of look alike, don’t they?”
“Have a nice day,” I say, 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.
He’s also a really good dad, though perhaps not as good as Rachel thinks he is... He’s a little too aware of the fact that he does more than some of his peers, but he’s content to let Rachel do the hard stuff, the getting-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night-when-someone-has-the-pukes stuff, the grocery-shopping-with-all-three-of-them-at-once stuff. But he’s there, and he loves them, and he does contribute. And let’s face it. Rachel loves being a stay-at-home mom.
I call Rachel just before I leave the house. “Oh, hey,” she says. “Just a minute, okay? Charlotte, honey, I have to take this, okay? Can you please give that to Daddy? Thank you, sweetheart.” There’s a pause, and I hear a door close. “Hi,” she says.
“How are things today?” I ask.
“Well, I showed him the picture,” she whispers, “and he was really confused and then he got upset that I thought...you know. He has no idea who sent it. But he was really nice about it.”
“Nice about what?”
“About me thinking that maybe he...strayed.”
I press my lips together. “Hmm.”
“So we’re good. I think this is just a case of a mistaken phone number. I just feel really bad for what I thought.”
“Rach, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to think your husband is having an affair when Private Number sends him a crotch shot,” I say. “I hope he got that.”
“No, no, he did,” Rachel says. “We’re past it. Actually, we’re just leaving for church, so I have to run, okay? Listen, I’m so sorry about yesterday. I really wanted to help you get settled. I just freaked out.”
“It’s really okay. You deserved to freak out.” I pause. “And I’m glad things aren’t what they seem.”
Except I smell a rat. Leo, a total stranger, smelled a rat. Yes, yes, there’s a chance Adam is telling the truth.
But my gut is telling me he’s not.
“He’s a great husband,” Rachel says. “And you know how the girls adore him.”
“Yeah. I do. You go, hon. I have to run down to the city with a dress.”
“Okay. Hey, tell your friend thanks for me. I’m so embarrassed.”
“My friend?”
“Leo.”
“Oh, right. Okay, have a good day. Talk to you later.”
If Adam is cheating on my sister, I will rip off his testicles. Through his throat.
I pick up the dress and my purse and head outside. Leo is lying on his lounge chair, eyes closed, dog by his side, bottle of beer in his hand. “Hi,” I say. “A little early for drinking, isn’t it?”
“It sure is, Mom,” he says, taking a swig without opening his eyes. The dog lifts his head and growls at me.
“My sister wanted me to say thanks.”
“She’s welcome.”
“And thank you from me, too. You were very nice.”
“No problem. I excel at catching women when they faint.” He scratches behind Loki’s ear, and the dog makes a guttural sound.
There’s something arresting about Leo’s face. Angular and a little thin, unshaven. Despite his easy words, there are two lines between his eyebrows. He looks up at me.
“No eye-fucking,” he says.
“Because you’re gay?” I suggest.
“Only where you’re concerned, darling.” He winks, and though I’ve just been rather brilliantly insulted, I can’t help a smile. “Are you going to the prom?” he asks, gesturing with the beer bottle at the dress bag.
“No.” Placing the dress carefully on the backseat, I secure the hanger onto the hook. “I’m a wedding dress designer.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“That’s a real job? I mean, they all kind of look alike, don’t they?”
“Have a nice day,” I say, 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.
